Chapter 7 - The Depths of the Dungeon
The county detention facility was an architectural monument to human misery—a cold, gray brutalist concrete fortress located in the industrial flats near the river. It was a place where the noise never stopped: the constant, metallic clanging of automated security gates, the shouting of inmates across the tiers, and the heavy, rhythmic footsteps of correctional officers clad in tactical gear.
Victoria sat on the edge of her narrow, steel-frame bunk, her knees pulled tightly to her chest. She was wearing a rough, oversized bright orange jumpsuit that smelled faintly of industrial bleach and old sweat. The expensive silk blouses, the designer shoes, and the flawless French manicure were completely gone. Her nails were bitten down to the quick, raw and bleeding at the edges, and her hair was a tangled, unwashed nest of dull blonde strands.
She had been in the facility for three weeks, and the reality of her new existence was beginning to crush her spirit like a vice.
Her cellmate, a large, heavily tattooed woman named Roxy who was awaiting trial for armed robbery, looked up from a grease-stained paperback book. "Hey, princess. Your lawyer’s here. They're calling your name on the tier gate. Move your assets before the guard gets irritable."
Victoria stood up, her joints aching from the thin, plastic-covered mattress. She walked down the long, echoing corridor toward the attorney visitation booths, her plastic sandals clicking against the cold concrete.
Sitting behind the scratched, thick plexiglass partition was not the high-powered, multi-million-dollar defense team she had expected the Montgomery family to provide. It was a tired-looking, middle-aged public defender named Sarah Jenkins, whose desk was piled high with dozens of public assistance case files.
"Sarah," Victoria gasped, pressing her hands against the glass. "Did you talk to Harrison? Did you get the bail reduced? When am I getting out of here? The smell in this place is making me physically sick. I can't stay here another night."
Sarah Jenkins sighed, adjusting her cheap plastic glasses, looking at Victoria with a mixture of professional exhaustion and cold realism. "Victoria, sit down. We need to talk about your reality, because right now, you are living in a fantasy world."
Victoria sank into the metal chair. "What do you mean?"
"The bail review was denied," Jenkins said flatly. "The judge reviewed the victim impact statement delivered by your sister, alongside the medical forensic logs from St. Jude’s. The court declared you an extreme flight risk and an ongoing danger to the victim. You are staying right here until the trial begins in four months."
"Four months?!" Victoria shrieked, her voice cracking against the plexiglass, causing several other lawyers in the room to look over with annoyance. "I can't stay here for four months! My wedding is supposed to be in two weeks! The Belmont Estate—"
"The Belmont Estate has canceled your reservation, Victoria," Jenkins interrupted, her voice sharp and devoid of sympathy. "Your fiancé’s family has repossessed the ring, and your father’s estate executor has officially initiated disinheritance proceedings under the Slayer Statute. As of this morning, you are technically broke. Your credit lines have been canceled, and my office is representing you because you cannot afford to pay a private retainer."
Victoria stared at her public defender, her mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. "Broke? No... no, Dad had four hundred eighty thousand dollars. Half of that is mine! Patterson told me—"
"Patterson filed the forensic evidence of your forgery to the probate judge," Jenkins said, tapping a document against the glass. "You stole eighty-five thousand dollars from your father's commercial operating account using a fraudulent power of attorney. The state has already added a count of first-degree grand larceny to your indictment. Even if you somehow beat the assault charge—which you won't, because the forensic evidence on your sister's clothing is absolute—you will still spend five to seven years in a state facility for the financial crimes alone."
Jenkins leaned closer to the glass, her gaze dropping into a clinical, unyielding register. "The prosecutor has offered a plea bargain, Victoria. If you plead guilty to aggravated assault causing great bodily injury and grand larceny, they will drop the criminal neglect and forgery counts. They are offering a straight sentence of ten years in a medium-security facility, with eligibility for parole after seven. If you go to trial, they will seek the maximum penalty—twenty-four years without the possibility of early release."
Victoria sat back, her eyes wide, her face turning a sickly, translucent shade of green. She looked down at her hands—the hands that had pushed her sister down fifteen concrete steps just to secure a ballroom reservation. There were no diamonds on her fingers now. There was only the thick, indelible ink of the facility’s booking stamp, drying black against her skin.
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"Ten years," she whispered, a sudden, cold terror collapsing her lungs. "Ten years..."
"You have forty-eight hours to sign the document, Victoria," Jenkins said, packing her files into her briefcase. "If you don't, we go to the grand jury, and I can guarantee you, those twelve citizens will not look kindly on a woman who broke her sister’s spine for a party dress."
