Chapter 7
Three weeks later, the high-profile criminal trial of Clara Vance commenced in lower Manhattan federal court. The courtroom was packed to absolute maximum capacity, surrounded by hundreds of reporters and television camera crews.
Arthur sat in the front row of the gallery, flanked by legal advisors and federal security personnel. He walked slowly using titanium forearm crutches, demonstrating the agonizing physical recovery from the poison Clara administered.
The lead federal prosecutor presented the damning toxicology reports, financial wire logs, and covert surveillance recordings. Jurors listened with expressions of deep disgust as Clara's cold, calculating voice echoed through the courtroom speakers.
She could be heard conspiring with her corrupt personal physician to increase Arthur's toxic dosage every single week. Clara sat at the defense table, looking pale and defeated in a standard orange jumpsuit, refusing to look at the gallery.
Her high-priced defense attorneys were entirely powerless against the impenetrable wall of digital and forensic evidence presented. The prosecution rested its case after establishing a direct, unbroken chain of premeditated financial and physical abuse.
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Arthur watched the proceedings with absolute, dead-calm composure, feeling no joy—only the cold satisfaction of justice. The American legal system was operating precisely as he had planned when he downloaded those encrypted files in the rain.
The fall of Clara Vance would serve as a permanent warning to anyone who dared cross an American titan.
