Chapter 7: The Cost of Justice

The courtroom was a cavernous, unwelcoming space, drafty and cold despite the sputtering stove in the corner. The windows were opaque with frost.

My throat felt like sandpaper. Every breath of the frigid air sent a fresh pang through my vocal cords. I had spent the night trying to rest, but the anxiety and the bitter cold had prevented any true recovery.

Prosecutor Aldrich met us at the door, his expression grave. “Silas has been apprehended. He’s here, refusing to speak without his counsel.”

He led us to a small table. Silas sat at another table opposite, flanked by a slick, city-dressed attorney. Silas’s eyes, when they met mine, were full of venom.

“Your honor,” Aldrich began, addressing the judge, a stern man with a wispy white beard. “We request a formal deposition from Maria Oakridge Garcia, concerning charges of extortion, forgery, and the manipulation of a minor.”

The judge nodded, his gaze passing over me. “The court understands the urgency, Mr. Aldrich. Proceed.”

I was sworn in, the words feeling dry and distant in my mouth. My voice, usually so vibrant and resonant, felt weak, a pale shadow of itself.

Aldrich began his questions, guiding me through the story: my mother’s ledgers, Silas’s history of fraud, Caim’s orchestrated public rejection, Timmy’s unwitting delivery of the iron box, and finally, the contents of the box itself.

Each word I uttered was a struggle. My vocal cords burned with a sharp, unrelenting pain. I could feel the inflammation, a tightness that made it impossible to produce a clear sound.

My voice cracked. I coughed, a dry, rasping sound that echoed strangely in the quiet courtroom.

Silas’s attorney, a man named Sterling, seized the opportunity. “Your Honor, the witness appears to be in distress. Perhaps she is not well enough to give a coherent account.”

“I am well enough,” I insisted, forcing the words out. But the effort was immense. My voice sounded thin, reedy, utterly unlike my own.

Aldrich quickly intervened. “Mrs. Garcia is simply dealing with the effects of a strenuous journey through the blizzard, Your Honor. She is clearly articulate.”

I pushed through the pain, describing Silas’s threats, his demand for my return to the stage, his accusations against Grayson. I held up my mother’s ledger, describing its contents.

But every sentence was a battle. My operatic voice, once capable of filling grand theaters, was reduced to a hoarse, strained whisper. The clarity, the power, the very essence of my gift, felt diminished, almost gone.

The judge peered over his spectacles. “Mrs. Garcia, your testimony is clear, but your vocal condition is… apparent. Are you quite certain you can continue?”

I nodded, unable to summon more than a strained sound. I had to continue. For Grayson. For my mother.

I finished my deposition, laying out the timeline, the evidence, the devastating impact of Silas’s actions. By the time I was done, my throat was aflame. I could barely speak above a rough rasp.

Grayson squeezed my hand, his face etched with concern. He knew the cost of this testimony. The freezing temperatures, the vocal exertion, the raw agony in my throat.

I had secured the arrest warrant. I had given my testimony. But as I tried to speak to Grayson, only a painful, breathy whisper emerged.

A cold dread settled in my heart. This wasn’t just temporary hoarseness. This felt… permanent.