Chapter 43 Victim Impact Statements

Chapter 43 Victim Impact Statements
Amelia Noah POV
The courtroom feels smaller today. Judge Vasiliou announces that the families of the victims will deliver their impact statements, and suddenly the oxygen seems to thin. I'm seated in the front row between Kate and Emily, Isabella's jade bracelet cool against my wrist. Eight families. Eight women who should be sitting where I am.
Sophie's mother approaches the podium first. Marguerite Laurent is seventy-eight, dressed in black, her hands trembling as she grips the microphone. The translator stands beside her, but I lean forward anyway, trying to catch the French words beneath the English.
"Ma fille m'appelait chaque dimanche," she begins. My daughter called me every Sunday.
The translator's voice is steady, professional. "She would tell me about her students, about the art exhibitions she visited. She wanted children. Three, she said. She had names picked out already—Élise, Thomas, and Claire. I will die without grandchildren because a man decided my Sophie was a photograph instead of a person."
Marguerite's voice breaks on the last word. She covers her mouth with a handkerchief, shoulders shaking. Judge Vasiliou doesn't rush her. The courtroom waits.
When Marguerite steps down, she walks past our row. Her eyes meet mine for just a moment. I see everything in that look—grief that will never end, gratitude that I survived, rage that Sophie didn't.
Nina's father is next. Dmitri Petrov reads from a piece of paper so worn the creases have started to tear. "This is letter Nina wrote for Father's Day, 2020. I found it in her apartment after. She never sent."
His accent makes some words difficult to parse, but the meaning is clear. "Dear Papa, I am thinking of you today and remembering how you taught me to code when I was eight. You said computers don't lie like people do. You said logic is clean. I am in Prague working on project that might change everything—can't tell you details yet but you will be proud. I love you. Your Ninochka."
Dmitri folds the letter carefully, precisely. His hands don't shake. "She was twenty-nine. She was supposed to call me that Sunday. She didn't. I knew something was wrong. Police found her three days later."
He returns to his seat. Doesn't look at David. Doesn't look at anyone.
Mei Zhang's sister, Lin, speaks in English, her voice flat with the kind of control that comes from rehearsing grief until it can be performed. "I went to Copenhagen last year. Tried to visit the hotel where Mei died. I couldn't go inside. I stood across the street for two hours and couldn't make my legs work. My sister loved numbers, loved logic, loved solving problems. The problem she couldn't solve was recognizing a predator who smiled at her."
Lin's hands are clasped so tightly her knuckles have gone white. "Our father is too ill to travel. He asked me to say: our family name means 'clear' or 'bright.' Mei was our bright one. Now that light is gone."
When Lin sits, she stares straight ahead. I want to reach for her hand but the distance between us feels impossible to cross.
Grace Murphy's mother, Claire, stands and immediately starts crying. She's holding a piece of paper but can't speak. Grace's brother, Liam—the former prosecutor who gave me advice about Pemberton's cross-examination—gently takes the statement from her hands.
"I'll read it, Mum," he says.
Claire nods, pressing a tissue to her face.
Liam clears his throat. "My daughter Grace was brilliant. She graduated top of her architecture program. She designed buildings that made people feel safe. She made me feel safe. When she was seven, she drew a house for us—all windows, she said, so nothing could hide in the dark. The man who killed her hid in plain sight. He made her feel safe until the moment he strangled her. I have spent every day since wondering if she was afraid at the end. If she called for me. If she knew I would have come."
Liam's voice cracks but he keeps reading. "I will never stop missing her. I will never stop being angry. And I will never forgive the world for letting him smile at my daughter."
Claire is sobbing openly now. Several jurors are wiping their eyes. Even the court reporter's fingers have stilled on her machine.
Pemberton stands. "Your Honor, while we sympathize with these families, this testimony is highly prejudicial and—"
"Overruled." Judge Vasiliou's voice could cut glass. "These families are entitled to speak. Sit down, Mr. Pemberton."
Pemberton sits. David leans over and whispers something to him. Takes a note. His face shows nothing.
Lucia's daughter, Giuliana, walks to the podium. She's seventeen now, wearing a simple black dress, her mother's crucifix around her neck. She unfolds a piece of paper covered in careful handwriting.
"This is a poem I wrote," she says. Her voice is small but steady. "It's called 'Counting.'"
"I count the days since you left: five hundred and forty-three.
I count the Sunday dinners I ate alone: seventy-seven.
I count the times I wanted to call you: every hour of every day.
I count the ways I miss you: infinite.
I count the man who killed you: one.
One man. One monster. One choice.
And now I count what's left: me. Just me.
Learning to be a woman without my mother to teach me.
I count this as theft."
When she finishes, she folds the paper and tucks it into her pocket. Looks directly at David. "You stole my mother. I hope you rot."
Judge Vasiliou doesn't reprimand her. Giuliana walks back to her seat with her head high.
Ana's husband, Tomasz, doesn't speak at first. He sets up a laptop connected to the courtroom's display screen. His hands shake so badly it takes three tries to press play.
The video shows a wedding reception. Ana in a white dress, laughing, spinning in Tomasz's arms. The music is Polish—something joyful and fast. Ana's smile is so bright it hurts to look at. Thirty seconds. That's all he shows us. Then he closes the laptop.
"That was our wedding," Tomasz says. "Five years ago. She was thirty-one. We were trying for baby. She went to Amsterdam for work conference. She never came home. I waited at airport for three hours before police called."
He picks up the laptop. Holds it against his chest like a child. "She was not subject. She was not frame number. She was Ana. My Ana. And he took her because he could."
Tomasz doesn't sit. He walks straight out of the courtroom, still holding the laptop.
Carmen's parents speak in Spanish, the translator working quickly to keep up. Her mother describes Carmen's promotion—senior director at thirty-three, youngest in her company's history. "She called us the week before. She was so happy. She said she was taking vacation to celebrate. To Barcelona. She wanted to see the Sagrada Familia."
Carmen's father adds, "She sent us picture from her hotel room. View of the city. She wrote: 'Wish you were here.' Three days later, she was gone. We flew to Barcelona to identify her body. That was the last time we saw our daughter's face."
Carmen's sister, Rosa, stands abruptly. "I want to say something."
Judge Vasiliou nods.
Rosa walks toward the defense table. A bailiff moves to intercept but she stops six feet away. Looks at David. "You wrote me letters from prison. Love letters. Like you thought I'd understand you. Like you thought we were the same." She spits on the floor between them. "We're not. My sister was everything good. You're nothing."
The bailiff escorts Rosa back, but no one stops her from speaking.
Isabella's brother, Michael, is last. He's a software engineer from San Francisco, still wearing his wedding ring though his wife left him after Isabella's death—grief too heavy to carry together. "I found out my sister was dead from Facebook," he says. "Someone tagged her in a post before the police could notify us. That's how I learned. Scrolling through my phone during lunch. Modern tragedy on top of ancient one."
He pulls out his phone now, shows a photo to the courtroom. Isabella at a data analytics conference, holding an award. "This was six months before she died. 'Rising Star in Tech.' She was supposed to be rising. Instead she's gone and I'm standing here explaining to strangers why that matters."
Michael's voice drops. "It matters because she was my sister. Because she taught me to code when I was twelve. Because she called me every week even when I didn't call back. Because she deserved to live." He looks at David. "And you didn't deserve to take that from her."
When Michael sits, the courtroom is completely silent except for crying. Even Judge Vasiliou removes his glasses and rubs his eyes.
"We'll take a fifteen-minute recess," he says. His voice is rough. "And then we'll continue."
In the hallway, the families gather around me. Marguerite presses her handkerchief into my palm—white linen, embroidered with Sophie's initials. Rosa gives me her crucifix. Liam hands me Grace's legal notepad, the one she used during her architecture program. Each token is a weight, a responsibility, a trust.
"Tomorrow you testify," Marguerite says. Her English is accented but clear. "You carry them with you, yes?"
I'm already wearing Isabella's bracelet. Now I have seven more pieces of eight women I never met but know intimately. "Yes," I say. "I'll carry them."
That night, I can't sleep. At three in the morning, I stand on my hotel balcony wearing all of it—bracelet, handkerchief tucked in my pocket, crucifix around my neck, notepad clutched in my hands. The Athens night is warm and still.
Kate finds me there. She doesn't say anything at first, just stands beside me.
"Tomorrow I testify," I finally say.
"Are you ready?"
I touch Isabella's bracelet, feel the weight of Sophie's handkerchief, the cool silver of Carmen's cross. "I have to be. Eight women are depending on me."
Kate turns to face me. "Nine," she says quietly. "You're depending on you too."
I look at her—my sister, my advocate, my witness to all of this. "I know," I whisper. "That's what scares me most."