Chapter 8 - The Trial of the Conspirators
Eight months later, the central ceremonial courtroom of the William K. Nakamura United States Courthouse in downtown Seattle was packed to absolute capacity.
Over three hundred journalists, architectural engineers, maritime labor union leaders, and civic directors sat in the public gallery, their eyes fixed on the defense table where Viktor Vance and Harrison Sterling sat in standard khaki federal inmate jumpsuits.
Harrison Sterling looked twenty years older. His styled vanity had been completely stripped away, his hands trembling continuously against the oak table as Chief Federal Prosecutor Sarah Lin systematically presented over five hundred exhibits: the unsealed Panama wire transfers, the encrypted municipal licensing logs, the recovered debt collection surveillance files, and the high-definition audio recordings from the Fremont duplex.
When the high-definition audio of eight-year-old Hazel calling Damian at 2:47 in the morning—capturing her terrified plea for her mother’s life—was played through the courtroom speakers, a collective roar of revulsion and fury echoed through the gallery.
Judge Katherine Thornton adjusted her spectacles and read from the comprehensive sentencing memorandum with absolute, unyielding severity.
"On forty-eight counts of federal enterprise racketeering under the RICO Act, grand corporate extortion, the felonious bribery of public officials, and conspiracy to commit commercial fraud, the jury finds the defendants Viktor Vance and Harrison Sterling guilty on all counts," Judge Thornton read, her voice ringing through the breathless chamber like a tolling bell.
The judge paused, letting the crushing weight of the verdict settle over the silent room.
"Viktor Vance is hereby sentenced to thirty-five years of imprisonment in a maximum-security federal correctional facility, with zero possibility of parole before twenty-eight years, accompanied by an absolute, permanent lifetime protective order barring any contact, proximity, or communication with Sloan Callaway, Hazel Cross, Iris Cross, or Damian Cross."
"Harrison Sterling is sentenced to twenty-eight years of federal imprisonment."
"Furthermore, pursuant to the federal civil asset forfeiture statutes, the entirety of the defendants' residual personal bank accounts, luxury real estate, and corporate holdings—totaling ninety-four million dollars—are hereby forfeited to the Callaway-Cross Foundation for Independent Architectural Innovation and Child Protection."
The heavy wooden gavel struck the sound block with a sharp, definitive crack that sounded like the closing of an iron vault.
Viktor slumped forward onto the defense table, letting out a dry, broken wail as two federal marshals pulled his arms back, securing the heavy transport chains around his waist and ankles.
As they were led through the side prisoner exit, their hollow, bloodshot eyes caught Damian’s where he sat in the front row of the gallery, holding Sloan’s hand, with Hazel and Iris sitting proudly between them.
Damian did not look at them with hatred, nor did he flinch. He sat tall, his posture calm, dignified, and regal, watching the men who had tried to bury his family being hauled away into the dark where they could never harm another human soul.
Sloan squeezed Damian’s hand, her hazel eyes shining with tears of boundless, unshakeable peace.
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"It is finished, Damian," Sloan whispered.
"It is finished, my love," Damian answered softly. "Now we build our home."
