Chapter 12: The Arraignment and the Execution
Chapter 12: The Arraignment and the Execution
Six weeks after the attack in the hospital suite, the New York State Supreme Court was packed to capacity. The trial of The State of New York v. Isabella Rossi was projected to be the trial of the year, but it lasted less than twenty minutes.
Isabella was escorted into the courtroom through a private side entrance. The contrast between her appearance at the charity gala and her current state was shocking. Her designer crimson gown had been replaced by a coarse, oversized gray prison jumpsuit. Her hair was pulled back into a messy, unwashed ponytail, and the heavy layers of makeup that once masked her cold expression were completely gone, revealing pale, hollowed cheeks and dark circles under her eyes.
She scanned the courtroom, desperately searching for a familiar face, a friendly lawyer, or her father.
There was no one.
Her father was financially ruined and hiding from federal investigators. Her high-society friends had scrubbed every trace of their associations with her from social media.
In the front row of the gallery sat Khloe and Marcus Thorne. Khloe, fully recovered and glowing with quiet strength, stood tall next to Marcus, whose hand rested firmly on the small of her back. They didn't look at Isabella with hatred or anger; they looked at her with the cold, absolute indifference reserved for a discarded mistake.
"Does the defendant wish to change her plea?" Judge Harrison asked, his voice echoing through the silent, solemn courtroom.
Isabella’s court-appointed defense attorney swallowed hard, standing up and shuffling his papers. "Your Honor, after reviewing the unedited high-definition video evidence and consulting with my client, Ms. Rossi wishes to change her plea to guilty on all counts: attempted murder in the second degree and aggravated assault."
A low murmur rippled through the gallery.
Judge Harrison looked down from his elevated bench, his expression grave. He stared directly at Isabella, who stood trembling at the defense table.
"Ms. Rossi," the judge said sternly. "You walked into a private hospital suite, targeted an innocent, defenseless pregnant woman, and executed a violent, calculated assault that nearly cost two lives. Your actions showed a chilling disregard for human life."
Isabella opened her mouth, a desperate sob catching in her throat. "I... I was angry. I didn't mean—"
"Save it for your cell block," Judge Harrison interrupted coldly. "In accordance with the plea agreement and the overwhelming evidence provided, I sentence you to fifteen years in a maximum-security federal penitentiary, with no possibility of parole for the first twelve years. Take her away."
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Before Isabella could scream or liven her defense, two massive bailiffs stepped forward. They clamped heavy handcuffs around her wrists. As they dragged her away toward the back exit, Isabella caught one final glimpse of Khloe Thorne standing beside her billionaire husband, completely untouched, entirely victorious.
Isabella let out a shrill, hysterical cry as the heavy steel doors slammed shut behind her, sealing her fate in a concrete box for the next decade and a half.
