Chapter 5 - The Grand Jury VerdictSix months after the attack, the San Diego Hall of Justice was swarming with media vans from every major news network in the state.
The story had captured national headlines: a wealthy socialite, a kidnapped heiress, a shattered knee, and an embezzled forty-two-million-dollar timber trust. The tabloid press had dubbed Austin "The Blueblood Bigamist," and the courthouse steps were lined with protestors holding signs demanding justice for both Kathleen and me.
I walked up the granite steps of the courthouse without a crutch.
I carried only a slim, polished mahogany cane with a silver tip, wearing my best charcoal business suit, my head held high. Beside me walked Robert, Clara, and Kathleen.
Kathleen had transformed over the preceding six months. With the help of trauma counselors and Clara’s fierce, unwavering support, she had reclaimed her life. Her cheeks had color, her eyes were sharp, and she carried a leather briefcase containing her personal victim impact statement.
Inside Courtroom 502, Judge William Harrison presided over the formal change-of-plea hearing.
Austin Wellman sat at the defense table in a navy prison jumpsuit, his hair buzzed short, his athletic frame diminished by six months of administrative segregation. His hands were uncuffed for the proceedings, but two armed sheriff's deputies stood less than three feet behind his chair.
His high-priced criminal defense team had spent the last seventy-two hours negotiating desperately with the federal and state prosecutors. The evidence was overwhelming: over two thousand pages of forensic accounting ledgers compiled by my firm, three hours of neighborhood surveillance audio, the testimony of the corrupt notary who had flipped for immunity, and the devastating statements provided by Naomi Millican and her father.
Judge Harrison adjusted his half-moon spectacles and looked down at Austin.
"Mr. Wellman," Judge Harrison said, his voice echoing through the vaulted wood-paneled room. "Your counsel has informed this court that you wish to withdraw your previous plea of not guilty and enter a negotiated plea to the superseding federal and state indictments. Is that correct?"
Austin stood up. His hands trembled slightly against the wood of the table. He didn't look back toward the gallery where Kathleen and I sat side by side in the second row.
"Yes, Your Honor," Austin said, his voice barely audible.
"Speak into the microphone, Mr. Wellman," the judge instructed sternly.
"Yes, Your Honor," Austin repeated, louder this time, his tone flat and dead.
"To Count One: Aggravated Assault with a Deadly Weapon Causing Great Bodily Injury, how do you plead?"
"Guilty."
"To Count Three: Federal Wire Fraud in excess of sixteen million dollars, how do you plead?"
"Guilty."
"To Count Seven: False Imprisonment by Violence or Menace involving the victim Kathleen Vance, how do you plead?"
A long silence stretched through the courtroom. Austin swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing violently.
"Guilty."
"And to Count Nine: Attempted Premeditated Murder in the second degree against the victim Monica Wellman, how do you plead?"
Austin’s head dropped toward his chest. His shoulders shook once, but it wasn't grief—it was the profound, suffocating terror of a man who realized that his life was effectively over.
"Guilty," he whispered.
Judge Harrison nodded slowly, making several rapid notations on the docket.
"Under the terms of this joint federal and state plea agreement," the judge pronounced, "you have waived all rights to appeal. On the state violent felony charges, you are sentenced to nineteen years at Pelican Bay State Prison. On the federal wire fraud and civil rights deprivation charges, you are sentenced to an additional twelve years, to be served consecutively in the Federal Bureau of Prisons. You are further ordered to make full restitution to the Vance Memorial Endowment in the amount of $18,450,000, and to Monica Wellman in the amount of $2,200,000 for medical damages and pain and suffering."
Austin did not turn around. When the bailiffs stepped forward and clicked the heavy steel handcuffs onto his wrists, he stared straight down at the defense table, his eyes vacant, completely crushed under the weight of his own calculated hubris.
Twenty minutes later, Eleanor Wellman was led in through the prisoner tunnel for her own sentencing.
She had accepted a plea deal to conspiracy, false imprisonment, and evidence tampering. Her sentence was twelve years at the California Institution for Women in Corona.
When Judge Harrison asked if she had any statement of remorse to make to the victims seated in the courtroom, Eleanor slowly turned her head. She looked at me, then at Kathleen, then at Robert.
Her face was gaunt, the skin around her mouth pinched and bitter.
"I have nothing to say to these people," Eleanor said, her voice dripping with the last remnants of her venomous pride. "They destroyed my family. They destroyed my son."
Judge Harrison’s gavel came down with a thunderous crack that silenced her instantly.
"Take her away," the judge ordered coldly.
May you like
As Eleanor was led back through the iron door, her chains clattering against the concrete steps, I let out a long, slow breath that felt like it had been trapped in my lungs for five long years.
It was over.
