Chapter 8 - The Trial of Preston Vance
Six months later.
The Suffolk County Supreme Court building in Long Island was surrounded by news vans, police barricades, and hundreds of spectators.
The story of the "Phoenix Bride" had gripped the entire nation.
Front pages across the country carried photos of my back from the Founders’ Gala beside mugshots of Preston Vance in an orange jumpsuit and leg irons.
Inside Courtroom 4B, the air was thick with tension.
Preston sat at the defense table beside a public defender. He looked completely shattered. His hair was shaved short, his face hollowed out, his posture slouched under the weight of facing capital attempted murder charges.
I sat in the front row of the prosecution gallery, dressed in a tailored navy blue suit, flanked by Gideon and my legal team.
"All rise," the bailiff called out. "Superior Court Judge Marcus Thorne presiding."
After three days of grueling witness testimony—including testimony from the original arson investigator who admitted Preston had bribed him ten years ago to suppress the accelerant report—the prosecution called its final witness.
"The State calls Vivian Mercer to the stand," Prosecutor Sandra Miller announced.
I stood up.
My walk to the witness stand was steady, strong, and proud. I didn't look at Preston as I swore under oath to tell the truth.
"Mrs. Mercer," Prosecutor Miller began, walking toward the jury box. "Please tell the court what happened on the night of July 14th, six years ago."
I looked directly at the twelve jurors.
"I woke up at two in the morning to the smell of heavy smoke," I began, my voice clear and steady. "The hallway outside our master bedroom was completely engulfed in flames. The door handle was red-hot."
"Did you escape through the window?" Miller asked.
"I could have," I replied. "The window was open. The ground floor roof was five feet below. I could have jumped and saved myself without a single injury."
"Why didn't you jump?"
I looked at Preston. For the first time in six months, he raised his eyes and met mine.
"Because my husband was lying on the floor near the doorway," I said softly. "He was unconscious from smoke inhalation. I couldn't leave him behind."
"What did you do?"
"I took off my robe, soaked it in water from the bathroom sink, and wrapped it around his face," I continued, every juror hanging on my every word. "Then I lay on top of his body to shield him from the collapsing ceiling beams, and I dragged him thirty feet down the hallway through the fire until we reached the back stairs."
"And that's how you received the scars on your back?"
"Yes," I answered cleanly. "The wooden beam collapsed directly onto my shoulder blades while I was pulling him through the doorway."
Prosecutor Miller turned to the jury box.
"And at any point during those six years, Mrs. Mercer, did your husband tell you that he had set that fire himself?"
"No," I stated. "He spent six years calling my scars repulsive. He spent six years telling me I was a monster who belonged in the dark."
I leaned forward, my voice ringing through the silent courtroom like a bell.
"He tried to burn me alive for three million dollars. And when I survived, he tried to kill my spirit instead."
Several female jurors wiped tears from their eyes. The jury foreman—a retired firefighter from Queens—stiffened in his seat, his jaw locked in pure anger.
"No further questions, Your Honor," Miller said softly.
Preston’s public defender stood up, looked at the jury box, looked at the arson evidence, and slowly sat back down.
"No cross-examination, Your Honor," the defender whispered.
The jury deliberated for precisely twenty-eight minutes.
When they returned, the courtroom was so quiet you could hear the tick of the wall clock.
"Has the jury reached a verdict?" Judge Thorne asked.
"We have, Your Honor," the foreman replied, standing tall.
"On Count One: Attempted First-Degree Murder... how do you find the defendant?"
"Guilty," the foreman announced firmly.
Preston let out a choked, broken sob, burying his face in his hands.
"On Count Two: Aggravated Arson..."
"Guilty."
"On Count Three: Insurance Fraud..."
"Guilty."
Judge Thorne looked over his glasses at Preston with cold, absolute disdain.
"Preston Vance, you committed an act of unimaginable wickedness," Judge Thorne declared. "You attempted to murder a woman who literally gave her own skin to save your life. You are a danger to human society."
Judge Thorne slammed his gavel down.
"I sentence you to forty-five years at Sing Sing Maximum Security Correctional Facility, without the possibility of parole."
BANG!
Two court officers grabbed Preston by his arms, hauling him to his feet.
As they pulled him toward the holding cell doors, Preston looked back at me one last time, weeping hysterically, his voice breaking.
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"Vivian! Please! I'm sorry! I'm so sorry!"
I didn't answer him. I simply adjusted my navy blazer, turned my back on him completely, and walked out of the courtroom into the bright afternoon sun beside Gideon.
