Chapter 19 - The Trial Begins
Vincent’s trial began fourteen months after his arrest and twenty-eight months after Isabelle’s murder.
The courthouse steps filled with cameras.
Reporters called it a mafia family civil war.
They liked the easy version.
Brother against brother.
Money.
Power.
Murder.
Nobody photographed Sophie practicing breathing exercises in the back seat.
Nobody saw Nora asking Grace whether courtrooms had snacks.
Nobody recorded Olivia gripping my hand so tightly my fingers lost feeling.
The children were not scheduled to testify unless absolutely necessary.
Prosecutors had built the case around adult witnesses, financial evidence and recordings.
That was intentional.
I would testify.
Everyone advised against it.
My criminal history gave the defense ammunition.
My reputation gave them more.
But I had firsthand knowledge of Vincent’s role, estate plan, businesses and post-murder actions.
Most important, the prosecution wanted the jury to hear me admit what I had done.
Not because I was good.
Because I was not.
On the second week, I took the stand.
Vincent looked at me for the first time since his arrest.
He smiled.
The prosecutor asked my occupation.
I answered.
She asked whether I had participated in illegal gambling.
“Yes.”
Extortionate collection practices.
“Yes.”
Cash transactions designed to avoid reporting requirements.
“Yes.”
Defense counsel objected twice.
Eventually he stopped.
I could see confusion in the jury.
Men like me were supposed to lie.
That was the mythology.
Truth was more disruptive.
“Why are you admitting these crimes?” the prosecutor asked.
“Because they’re true.”
“Have you received immunity?”
“No.”
“Have federal prosecutors guaranteed you will not be charged?”
“No.”
Vincent’s smile disappeared.
Then we discussed Isabelle.
The photograph.
The letter.
The ledger.
The hidden recorder.
The threat to the girls.
On cross-examination, Vincent’s lawyer stood slowly.
“Mr. Romano, you are a self-described criminal.”
“Yes.”
“You have used violence.”
“Yes.”
“You have threatened people.”
“Yes.”
“You expect this jury to trust you?”
“No.”
That surprised him.
“No?”
“I expect them to trust records, recordings, bank transfers and people whose stories match evidence.”
He changed direction.
“Your wife planned to leave you.”
“Yes.”
“You were controlling.”
“Yes.”
“Violent?”
I paused.
“Not toward Isabelle.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
I looked toward the jury.
“I created a life where violence was normal. My wife hated that. She was right.”
The courtroom remained silent.
Vincent stared at me as if I had committed a betrayal more profound than testimony.
I had refused the family lie.
That afternoon Carlo took the stand.
He identified Vincent.
He explained the payment.
He admitted shooting Isabelle.
There was no heroism.
No excuses worth hearing.
I looked down during the worst details.
Grace sat behind me.
Her hand rested briefly against my shoulder.
Then Camille testified.
Then Luca.
Then Mrs. Donnelly.
Then Aaron.
Each witness carried guilt.
That became the prosecution’s strength.
This was not a collection of saints accusing one villain.
It was compromised people telling overlapping truths.
Lieutenant Sullivan eventually pleaded guilty and testified too.
He admitted suppressing the pharmacy video and accepting money.
By the fourth week, the defense had only one powerful argument left.
No recording contained Vincent saying, “Kill Isabelle Romano.”
No witness except Carlo heard the final order.
And Carlo had every reason to shift blame.
Then the prosecution called its final witness.
Not Olivia.
A digital-forensics specialist.
Vincent’s encrypted Northstar server had contained deleted voice files copied from Isabelle’s stolen phone.
Most were corrupted.
One had been restored.
Timestamp:
9:13 a.m.
Four minutes before Isabelle died.
The courtroom speakers crackled.
Isabelle’s voice.
“You’re following me.”
Then Vincent.
“Stop this, Isabelle.”
“You brought Carlo here.”
“I brought a solution.”
“My daughters are twenty yards away.”
“You should have thought about them before stealing my brother from me.”
“I am trying to save your brother.”
Long silence.
Then Isabelle:
“If you hurt me, Dominic will know.”
Vincent laughed softly.
“No. Dominic will become exactly what grief makes him. Angry. Blind. Easy to control.”
My chest stopped moving.
Then he said:
“Carlo, after she gets out of the car, do it.”
The recording ended.
No one in the courtroom moved.
Vincent closed his eyes.
For the first time since this began, I felt no rage.
Only grief.
Because my brother had not merely murdered my wife.
He had believed he understood me well enough to predict exactly how her death would destroy me.
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And for fourteen months—
he had been right.
