I never told my in-laws that I am the daughter of the Chief Justice of the Supreme Court. When I was seven months pregnant, they forced me to cook the entire Christmas dinner alone.

“Her name is Clara,” I said, my voice smooth, level, and carrying the icy authority of my father’s courtroom cadence. “She is alive, she is healthy, and she is currently sleeping beside me. And she is not our baby, Arthur. She is mine.”

Arthur wiped his nose with the rough sleeve of his orange jumpsuit, his hands shaking violently. “Elena, please, you have to listen to me! I was wrong! I was horrible! I was scared of losing my promotion, and I panicked! You know how much pressure Richard Sterling put on me! It was my mother—she’s always been jealous of you! She shoved you, I didn't! You have to tell the federal prosecutors that I didn't touch you!”

“You didn't shove me, Arthur,” I replied coldly, leaning closer to the camera. “You just stood over my bleeding body, watched me writhing in agony on the floor, and smashed my only means of calling an ambulance against a brick wall because you were worried about sirens embarrassing you in front of your bosses.”

“I was not thinking clearly!” he begged, tears streaming down his face in pathetic, ragged streams. “I’ve lost everything, Elena! Richard fired me! My bank accounts are frozen! The Bar Association has suspended my license pending disbarment! I’m in a maximum-security cell with drug traffickers! If your father doesn't drop these federal charges, I’m going to prison for twenty years!”

“You’re going to prison for thirty-five years, Arthur,” my father’s voice boomed from just off-camera.

William Vance stepped into the frame, standing directly behind my left shoulder like an avenging angel in a tailored charcoal suit. He glared down into the camera lens, his gray eyes flashing with lethal intent.

“Mr. Attorney General—” Arthur gasped, shrinking backward in his metal chair as if the physical weight of my father’s gaze could crush him through the monitor.

“I have reviewed the audio logs from your broken telephone, Mr. Sterling,” my father said, his tone measured and merciless. “I listened to you threaten to commit my daughter to a psychiatric institution using your corrupt local connections. I listened to you mock her for being an orphan with no family to protect her.”

My father placed a protective, heavy hand on my shoulder. “You wanted to know who would believe a 'nobody from nowhere' in a courtroom? You are about to find out. I have personally assigned my top civil rights and domestic violence prosecutors to this case. There will be no plea bargains. There will be no leniency. You will face a jury of twelve citizens, and when they hear the recording of what you did to a pregnant woman on Thanksgiving, they won't just convict you—they will ask the judge to throw away the key.”

“Elena, please!” Arthur screamed at the screen, clasping his hands together in supplication. “Don't let him do this to me! We were married! I loved you!”

I reached out and placed my finger over the red end-call icon on the laptop screen.