Chapter 94 Trial Day One
Monday Morning - 7:45 AM
Elena stared at her closet for the third time that morning, arms folded and mind racing.
Navy dress? Too stiff. Black suit? Too grim. Gray dress? Too—
"Just pick one," Alexander called, still tangled in the bedsheets.
"I'm trying," she shot back.
"They’re all fine."
"Nothing feels right."
He showed up in the doorway, tousled but patient. "What feels wrong?"
She shook her head. "Everything. What do you even wear for something like this? Watching someone on trial for destroying your mother?"
"Something comfortable," he said. "You'll be sitting all day."
She went with the gray dress. Simple. Professional. Safe.
"This one."
"Perfect."
She got dressed, barely touched her face with makeup, hair swept back into a low ponytail.
The mirror said all buttoned-up, calm, like she belonged. She didn’t buy it for a second.
Down in the kitchen, Leo sat at the table, aimlessly stirring his cereal. He looked like he was trying to solve a math problem no one else could see.
"You’re quiet," Alexander said.
"I'm thinking," Leo mumbled.
"What are you thinking about?"
"Where Mama's going."
Elena sat next to him. "I told you already, honey. I have an important meeting today."
"At court."
"Yeah."
"Why?"
"To help make sure everyone tells the truth about something that happened," she said, choosing her words like she was stepping through a minefield.
"What happened?"
"Someone hurt people. We’re there to make sure the truth comes out."
Leo mulled that over. "Like when James said I pushed him, but I didn’t, and Ms. Greene asked everyone?"
"Exactly like that."
"And everyone said I didn’t push him, remember?"
She smiled. "I do. And the truth came out."
"Will the truth come out at your meeting?"
She paused. "I hope so."
"It will. Ms. Greene says the truth always wins."
Elena kissed him on the head. "Ms. Greene’s a smart lady."
They finished breakfast without saying much else.
Leo seemed to sense something was off, even if he couldn’t name it.
Eight-thirty rolled around; time to drop Leo at Mrs. Chen’s.
She greeted them in her usual flour-dusted apron. The smell of cookies drifted into the hall.
"Come in, come in!"
Leo darted inside. "Are those cookies?"
"Chocolate chip! Want to help?"
"Yes!"
Mrs. Chen caught Elena’s eye. "How are you holding up?"
"Nervous," Elena said, voice thin.
"Of course you are. You’ll be all right."
"I'm not doing anything except sitting there."
"Sometimes that’s the hardest thing." A squeeze on the arm, steady. "Go. He’ll have a good day."
"Mama!" Leo brandished a wooden spoon like a trophy. "Mrs. Chen says I can stir!"
"That’s wonderful. Behave, okay?"
"I always do!"
The car ride downtown felt endless. Elena kept her eyes on the road. Alexander took her hand.
"You okay?"
"Ask me later."
"Fair enough."
The courthouse rose up ahead—gray, stern, promising nothing to anyone.
They parked, wound through crowds, edged toward the metal detectors and security checks.
On the seventh floor, the hallway buzzed with energy. Cameras, reporters, nervous witnesses—all of them waiting.
There was Patricia Ross at a window, nodding acknowledgment, Karen White looking smaller than usual on a bench, clutching her bag. Victoria came hustling from the restroom.
"You’re here."
"We’re here."
"It'll be fine. Jennifer’s good. The evidence is good."
"I know."
"Then why do you look terrified?"
"Because knowing isn’t the same thing as feeling."
Move inside.
The courtroom doors swung open. Everyone shuffled inside.
Elena and Alexander landed in the third row behind the prosecution.
People poured in—journalists, victims, supporters, total strangers looking for a story. Nine on the dot, a side door swung open.
Viviana walked in.
A cream suit, elegant and precise. The neat hair, understated makeup, steady gaze. She looked dignified. Maybe even innocent.
No sign of a woman who could unravel lives.
She sat straight at the defense table, next to Harold, hands folded, face unreadable. She didn’t glance at Elena. Not even a flicker.
Just waited.
“All rise.”
Everyone got up.
Judge Morrison, all gravitas and black robes.
“Be seated.”
They sat.
"People of New York versus Viviana Mark Chen. Are both sides ready?"
Jennifer Park stood. "Ready, Your Honor."
Harold stood too. "Ready, Your Honor."
"Opening statements. Ms. Park?"
Jennifer strode to the jury, twelve faces—seven women, five men, all watching like the world started and stopped with them.
"Good morning. I’m Jennifer Park. I represent the people of New York. In the next few weeks, you’ll hear about a woman who built her career on destroying other women."
She paced, slow and measured.
"You’ll hear from Patricia Ross. Fired in 2001 over a theft she didn’t commit. You’ll hear about how she lost everything."
A pause.
"Karen White. Different year. Same ruin."
Maria Santos, same deal.
Jennifer faced the jury. "And you’ll hear about Rebecca Moreno—a woman who died at thirty-one after being framed for fraud, losing her career, and having every attempt to rebuild torn apart."
She let it hang in the air.
"Rebecca didn’t just lose a job. She lost hope. She lost her life. She drank herself to death after what the defendant did to her."
Jennifer moved back to her seat.
"The evidence points to a pattern. Fourteen years. Four victims we know of. None of this was a mistake—these were choices. Calculated. Cold. Criminal."
Jennifer sat.
Harold stood—smooth, still, not moving far from his spot.
"The prosecution wants you to see a monster. That my client spent fourteen years destroying women’s lives. But people and corporations aren’t that simple. Four incidents out of hundreds of employees? Four out of hundreds she managed?"
He grabbed a sheet of paper.
"You’ll hear she was tough. Demanding. That’s not a crime—it’s leadership."
Paper down.
"You’ll hear about investigations. Internal reviews for legitimate reasons. That’s not fraud. That’s her job."
He found the jury’s eyes. "You’ll see emails and documents. The context matters. What sounds incriminating now was standard language then."
He paused.
"As for Rebecca Moreno—her story is tragic. There’s no denying that. But my client didn’t make her drink. Didn’t make her leave her daughter. Didn’t cause her death."
A nod toward Viviana.
"My client isn’t perfect. But the evidence won’t make her a criminal."
He sat.
Judge Morrison turned to Jennifer. "Call your first witness."
"The People call Margaret Walsh."
Margaret stepped up, took the oath, settled into the witness box.
Elena sat frozen. This was it. The whole thing beginning—would there actually be justice?
Jennifer started, "Ms. Walsh, how did you know Viviana Mark Chen?"
"I was her assistant. Chen Marketing Solutions, 2001 to 2005."
"And you handled her communications?"
"Yes. Emails, memos, you name it."
"Did you keep any?"
"Some."
"Why?"
Margaret’s voice didn’t shake. "Because I saw what was happening to Rebecca Moreno. Others too. I thought someone might need proof, someday."
Harold jumped in. "Objection—speculation about the defendant’s intent—"
Jennifer cut in, "I’ll rephrase. Did you see Ms. Mark do anything related to Rebecca’s termination?"
"Yes."
"What did you see?"
Margaret recited it all—calm, step by step. The emails, the fake documents, the investigation Viviana herself led. The whole sad story.
Elena sat, listening to a stranger recount her mother’s end written in files and emails and signatures, held secret for two decades.
Alexander’s hand squeezed hers.
Margaret dabbed her eyes. "I should have spoken up then. I was scared. I regret it every day."
Hours melted. More documents, emails, Viviana’s own words—chilling and meticulous.
At noon, Judge Morrison called a recess.
In the hall, Elena leaned against a wall.
"You okay?" Alexander asked quietly.
"They distilled my mother’s life down to a stack of emails and facts. Like she was only a cautionary tale."
"I know. But the jury will see her. They will. Give it time."
Victoria appeared. "Margaret did great. Solid as they come."
"Harold barely touched her," Elena said, almost surprised.
"If there’s nothing to attack, he’ll move on. She’s credible. The evidence is strong."
Lunch was tired burger down the street. They barely chewed.
Back inside, Harold’s cross-exam was quick. He called Margaret obsessed, vengeful—she just kept her cool.
By three, she was done.
Judge Morrison checked the clock. "Adjourned for the day. Back at nine tomorrow."
A gavel tap, and it was over.
Elena felt drained. All she’d done was sit and listen.
They picked up Leo at Mrs. Chen’s, who grinned as Leo exploded out the door, flour everywhere.
"We made SO MANY cookies! And I only had—" he counted on sticky fingers, "five."
Mrs. Chen beamed. "He’s a joy. As always."
Leo chattered all the way home—cookies, games, the cat, nothing about court, nothing about Viviana.
At home, Elena cooked fast—pasta, jarred sauce, whatever. Leo talked through the meal until bedtime.
Bath, stories, goodnight.
Afterward, the apartment sat quiet outside the rush of traffic below.
Elena and Alexander landed on the sofa.
"Long day," he said.
"The longest," she replied.
"How many more?"
"Two weeks, maybe three, Jennifer said."
"That’s a lot of people telling your mother’s story for you."
"You don’t have to go every day. I can go, give you updates."
She shook her head. "I need to see it through."
He nodded.
Silence, deep and close.
"Did you watch her face?" Elena finally said. "Viviana. While Margaret testified."
"Yeah."
"Nothing. Didn’t flinch. Just sat there."
"She’s practiced. She knows what she’s doing."
"Too good at it."
Alexander sighed. "Leo probably asked Mrs. Chen where we were."
"What’d she say?"
"That we had an important grown-up meeting. He bought it. For today."
"He’ll keep asking. He’s smart. He’ll work it out."
"Yeah." She rubbed her face. "How do you even explain this to a three-year-old? That his grandmother destroyed his other grandmother?"
"You don’t. Not yet. You just say, ‘We’re making sure someone who hurt people is held accountable.’ It’s true, and it’s simple."
"Ms. Greene would approve," Elena said, almost smiling. "She really is wise."
Elena leaned in and closed her eyes.
Tomorrow, there’d be more witnesses, more evidence, more story.
But tonight, she grabbed what peace she could.
On this couch, next to this man, in this life.
One day at a time.
One question, one answer, one truth at a time.
Justice would come. Or not.
Either way, she’d keep going.
They all would.
Together, like always.
No matter what came next.