Chapter 18 - The Trial of Victor Hale
Victor Hale’s trial began eleven months after the canceled wedding.
By then Emily had turned eight.
She had lost two front teeth.
She had started soccer.
And she no longer slept with the hallway light on.
I considered that victory more important than anything happening in court.
Rebecca testified for three days.
Victor never looked away from her.
She described the forged evaluations.
The trust scheme.
The sedatives.
The plan to remove Emily.
Then prosecutors asked about Laura.
Rebecca’s voice nearly disappeared.
She admitted driving the Range Rover.
She admitted following Laura.
She admitted refusing Laura’s final request for help.
Then she described Victor reaching across the center console.
“He grabbed the steering wheel.”
“What happened?”
“The vehicle moved into Laura’s lane.”
“Did it make contact?”
“Yes.”
“What did you do?”
“I screamed.”
“What did Mr. Hale do?”
“He told me to keep driving.”
The courtroom became completely still.
“Did you?”
Rebecca looked toward me.
“Yes.”
That answer mattered.
She did not pretend she was innocent.
Marcus Doyle testified next.
Then Mallory.
Then federal accountants.
Then Laura’s recordings were played.
My wife’s voice filled the courtroom five years after her funeral.
Emily did not attend.
I refused to let Victor’s trial become another part of her childhood.
On the final day, prosecutors played Laura’s last archived message.
She had recorded it alone.
“If Michael ever hears this, tell him I’m sorry I kept so much from him.”
I closed my eyes.
“I thought I could protect our family by solving this first.”
Her voice trembled.
“I was wrong.”
Then she spoke about Emily.
“Tell Birdie her mother loved her bigger than the sky.”
I covered my face.
Laura used to say that every night.
Bigger than the sky.
The jury convicted Victor on nearly every major count.
The charges related to Laura’s death resulted in a conviction for conspiracy and felony involvement in the fatal crash.
Other financial convictions guaranteed he would spend most, if not all, of the rest of his life in prison.
When the verdict was read, Victor finally looked afraid.
Not angry.
Afraid.
Outside the courthouse, reporters surrounded me.
I had prepared no statement.
One reporter shouted.
“Mr. Grant, do you feel justice was done?”
I thought about Laura.
I thought about Rebecca.
I thought about a seven-year-old girl crying behind a chapel.
“Justice doesn’t bring people back.”
I said.
“But it can stop the people who hurt them from hurting someone else.”
Then I went home.
Emily ran toward me before I reached the front door.
“Did you win?”
I picked her up.
“It wasn’t exactly a game.”
“Did the good people win?”
I thought about that.
“Yes.”
She smiled.
“Good.”
Then she whispered.
“Mommy helped.”
I held her tighter.
May you like
“Yes.”
“She did.”
