The CEO Hit My Car And Mocked Me, Now My Injury Attorney Owns His Mansion

The civil trial had taken his money. The criminal trial was here to take his time.

Vance and I sat in the back row of the federal courthouse. The room smelled of pine cleaner and anxiety. Preston stood before the judge, but he wasn't the arrogant CEO anymore. He was Defendant 49201, wearing an orange jumpsuit that clashed horribly with his pale skin.

"Mr. Sterling," the judge intoned, looking over her glasses. "The evidence of wire fraud and embezzlement uncovered during your civil proceedings is overwhelming."

Preston didn't speak. His lawyer, a public defender who looked overworked, stared at the floor. There would be no high-priced white collar crime prison consultant to get him into a luxury camp. The fraud involved pension funds. The judge was not lenient.

"I sentence you to fifteen years in federal prison," the judge said. The gavel banged—a sharp, final sound that echoed in my chest.

The bailiff moved in. Preston turned around. He scanned the room, looking for a friendly face, someone to save him. His eyes locked on mine.

For a second, I thought he would scream. But he just slumped. The fraud sentencing was the period at the end of a very long sentence.

As they cuffed his hands behind his back, Vance leaned toward me. "It's over, Sarah. He's gone."

I watched them lead him through the side door. I didn't smile. I just let out a long, slow breath and stood up to leave.