Chapter 7
The trial against Marge started three months later.
Every day, we sat in the courtroom, Ms. Lopez presenting evidence— the letters, Marge’s confession note, the embezzlement records, witness testimony from the hotel’s old accountants who’d suspected Marge for years.
Marge’s lawyer tried to paint her as a grieving sister who’d only wanted what was best for Arthur, who’d thought Clara was a bad influence.
He tried to say I’d manipulated Arthur, that I’d forged the letters, that I was only after the money.
He called me to the stand first.
I sat in the witness box, my hands folded tight in my lap, as he paced in front of me, his voice sharp.
“Miss Hale,” he said.
“Or should I say, whatever your real name is.
You showed up at Mr. Hale’s hotel out of nowhere, with a tattered piece of paper and a sad story.
Isn’t it true you’ve been arrested for theft before?
Isn’t it true you’ve been living on the streets because you’re a con artist?”
“Objection,” Ms. Lopez said.
“Badgering the witness.
And no, my client has never been arrested.
That’s a lie.”
The judge nodded.
“Sustained.
Watch it, Mr. Carter.”
Marge’s lawyer smiled, not apologetic at all.
“Fine.
Let’s talk about the night you showed up at the hotel.
You played a song.
You claimed it was written by Mr. Hale.
You told him you were his granddaughter.
And suddenly, you’re living in a penthouse, you’re set to inherit half a billion dollars.
That’s quite a coincidence, isn’t it?”
I looked him dead in the eye.
I wasn’t scared anymore.
I’d faced worse than a lawyer in a cheap suit.
“It’s not a coincidence,” I said.
“It’s the truth.
My mom made me promise to play that song for him.
I didn’t know he’d give me a home.
I didn’t even know he’d believe me.
I just kept my promise to my mom.”
“Your mom,” he scoffed.
“The woman who supposedly wrote all these letters.
Convenient that she’s dead, isn’t it?
She can’t confirm any of this.”
That hit a nerve.
My face got hot.
“She can’t confirm it because your client let her die without the medical care she could have had if Arthur had known she existed,” I said.
My voice was loud, sharp.
The courtroom went quiet.
“Marge stole thirty years from her.
She stole her dad, her home, her chance to get better.
And now you’re standing here, making jokes about her being dead?
You should be ashamed of yourself.”
Marge’s lawyer opened his mouth to say something, but nothing came out.
He looked over at the jury.
They were staring at him, their faces hard.
He sat down, defeated.
Ms. Lopez stood up, smiling a little.
“No further questions for the witness,” she said.
I stepped down from the stand, my legs a little shaky.
Arthur squeezed my hand as I sat next to him.
“Perfect,” he whispered.
“Absolutely perfect.”
The next day, Marge took the stand.
She tried to cry, to act like the victim, saying Arthur had always been unstable, that I’d brainwashed him with the song.
But Ms. Lopez was ready.
She played a recording the police had found, a phone call between Marge and her lawyer, where she’d admitted to hiding the letters, to embezzling the money, to planting the tabloid stories.
Marge’s face went white as the recording played.
The jury stared at her, disgusted.
When the recording ended, Ms. Lopez walked over to the stand.
“Ms. Hale,” she said.
“Did you or did you not hide Clara’s letters from your brother for thirty years?”
Marge was quiet for a long time.
Then she snapped.
All the fake crying vanished, replaced by the same cold rage I’d seen in the kitchen that first day.
“So what if I did?” she yelled.
“He was going to throw everything away for a baby!
A mistake!
I spent thirty years helping him build that hotel.
I deserved that money.
Not some ungrateful girl who got herself knocked up.
Not her little street rat daughter!”
The courtroom erupted.
The judge banged his gavel, yelling for order.
Marge was pulled off the stand, still screaming, as the jury watched, horrified.
The trial ended a week later.
The jury deliberated for only two hours.
They found Marge guilty on every count—forgery, embezzlement, defamation, emotional distress.
The judge sentenced her to ten years in prison, and ordered her to pay back every penny she’d stolen, plus millions in damages to Arthur and to the foundation.
As the guards led her away, she looked over at us, her eyes burning.
But I didn’t care.
I leaned my head on Arthur’s shoulder, and he put his arm around me.
It was over.
May you like
Justice was served.
Mom could finally rest.
