Chapter 5 - The Trap CrapsesTwo weeks later.
The preliminary hearing at the Santa Clara County Courthouse was packed to capacity. Reporters from three major business networks crowded the wooden benches, their cameras flashing whenever the double doors opened.
Edwin Vance sat at the defense table, looking shattered.
He wore a cheap, off-the-rack grey suit he had bought at a department store three days earlier. His hair was messy, his cheeks sunken, and his hands shook so violently he could barely hold his glass of water. Beside him sat his public defender—a young, overworked attorney provided by the court after every high-end firm in San Francisco refused to take Edwin’s case without a massive upfront retainer he could no longer afford.
In the second row behind the defense table sat Beverly and Annika.
Beverly’s vibrant purple jackets were gone, replaced by a faded dark dress. She looked ten years older, her eyes darting nervously around the courtroom as if expecting the bailiffs to arrest her at any moment. Annika sat beside her, her phone gone, staring blankly at the floor.
At 9:30 AM, the side doors opened.
Camila walked into the courtroom, accompanied by Arthur Wayne and Harrison Cole.
She wore a striking midnight-blue silk dress, a dark wool coat draped over her shoulders, her posture effortlessly regal. She did not look at Edwin as she took her seat at the prosecution table alongside the Assistant District Attorney.
“All rise!” the bailiff barked as Judge Margaret Vance—a sharp-eyed woman with a reputation for mercilessly punishing corporate corruption—stepped up to the bench.
The hearing moved with terrifying speed.
The Assistant District Attorney laid out the evidence with surgical precision: forty-two bank wire transfers, twenty-six falsified invoice logs, three tax evasion counts, and five hundred thousand dollars in unauthorized corporate credit card charges.
“Your Honor,” Edwin’s public defender attempted to argue, his voice weak. “My client was under immense personal stress. The funds in question were intended as short-term inter-company loans that were scheduled to be repaid upon the completion of the municipal bridge contract—”
“Repaid?” Judge Vance interrupted, her voice dripping with frost. She held up a thick stack of financial receipts. “Is that why three hundred thousand dollars of these 'loans' were wired directly to a luxury yacht dealership in Newport Beach under Mr. Vance’s personal name?”
Edwin flinched as if he had been struck.
“And what about these charges?” the Judge continued, flipping through the pages. “Eighty thousand dollars for high-end jewelry? Forty thousand dollars for personal resort stays in Saint-Tropez while the sub-contractors on the Crestview housing project went unpaid for two months?”
“Your Honor...” Edwin stammered, attempting to stand up. “If I could just explain... my wife... she’s doing this out of spite! She’s trying to destroy my reputation because of a personal marital disagreement!”
Judge Vance looked over her glasses at Edwin with absolute contempt.
“Mr. Vance,” the Judge said coldly. “Your personal marital disagreements are not on trial today. Your brazen, systematic theft of corporate assets and gross tax fraud are. Sit down before I hold you in contempt.”
Edwin collapsed back into his chair, pulling at his collar as sweat poured down his neck.
“In light of the overwhelming evidence presented by the District Attorney’s office and the Stanford Estate auditors,” Judge Vance ruled, slamming her wooden gavel against the block, “bail is set at five million dollars. Mr. Vance will surrender his passport immediately and remain in county custody pending full trial.”
BANG!
The sharp crack of the gavel sounded like a gunshot in the silent room.
Two uniformed sheriff’s deputies stepped forward, pulling Edwin’s arms behind his back and snapping cold steel handcuffs around his wrists.
“No! Please!” Beverly shrieked from the gallery, rushing toward the wooden railing. “Edwin! My boy! You can't take him! Camila, tell them! Tell them to stop! You’re his wife!”
Camila stood up slowly. She walked over to the wooden barrier separating the prosecution table from the gallery.
Beverly reached out her trembling, wrinkled hands across the railing, tears streaming down her face.
“Camila! Please!” Beverly begged, her loud, arrogant voice broken into a desperate sob. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry for everything I said! I’ll give back the porcelain! I’ll clean your house! Just pay his bail! Don't let my son rot in jail!”
Camila looked at the woman who had spent five years calling her a penniless orphan, a freeloading maid, and a useless burden. She looked at Annika, who was weeping quietly behind her mother.
“Beverly,” Camila said softly, her voice cool and clear.
“Yes, child? Yes?” Beverly gasped, hope flaring in her wet eyes.
“The Bel Air house was formally transferred back to the Stanford Foundation this morning,” Camila said calmly. “You have until five o'clock tonight to pack your personal clothes and vacate the premises. Whatever is left in the house at five-0-one will be donated to the local homeless shelter.”
Beverly froze, her eyes going wide with horror. “Where... where are we supposed to go? We have no money! We have nowhere to live!”
“You have your dignity, Beverly,” Camila replied smoothly, turning her father’s silver watch on her wrist. “You used to tell me every day that poor people just didn't work hard enough. I suggest you and Annika start looking for a job.”
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Camila turned her back on the sobbing woman and walked toward the exit of the courtroom.
Behind her, Edwin was being dragged down the side hallway by the deputies, his pathetic, desperate cries echoing off the stone walls until the heavy steel doors slammed shut.
