Chapter 8 - The Trial of the Century
Six months later, the media dubbed it "The Downfall of the Blackwood Heir."
The trial was a media circus. True crime podcasters, financial journalists, and high-society gossips packed the courthouse every day. Garrett’s defense team tried every trick in the book. They tried to paint me as a manipulative billionaire heiress who had trapped Garrett in a web of financial deceit. They tried to argue that his attack in the hospital was a "trauma response" to finding out his wife had lied about her identity.
But juries don't care about the fragile egos of rich men when confronted with raw, undeniable evidence.
I took the stand on the fourth day. I didn't wear a power suit. I wore a simple, elegant blue dress. I didn't need to look intimidating; the truth was intimidating enough.
The prosecutor led me through the agonizing recounting of that morning. I spoke clearly, without crying, though the courtroom was dead silent, hanging on every word. I described the pain, the blood, the ticking of Eleanor's watch, and the sound of the deadbolt sliding into place.
Then came the financial records.
Document by document, the prosecution dismantled Garrett’s entire life. They showed how his first startup failed because he used the capital to buy a yacht. They showed how his second business collapsed due to embezzlement. And they showed the proxy accounts I had set up, funneling Davenport money into his failing ventures just to keep the peace in our home, hoping his success would make him love me.
"Mr. Blackwood claimed you ruined him financially," the prosecutor said. "Is that true, Ms. Davenport?"
"No," I replied, looking directly at Garrett, who couldn't even meet my eyes. "I didn't ruin him. I simply stopped saving him from himself."
The final nail in the coffin was the hospital footage. The jury watched it three times. The sound of the flatlining monitor made two of the jurors openly weep.
When Garrett took the stand in his own defense, he crumbled. Under cross-examination, his arrogance flared up, and he snapped at the prosecutor, revealing his true, violently misogynistic nature to the entire room. He blamed his mother, he blamed me, he blamed his investors. He took responsibility for nothing.
The jury deliberated for less than four hours.
When the forewoman stood up to read the verdict, the tension in the room was suffocating.
"On the charge of aggravated domestic assault... we find the defendant, Garrett Blackwood, Guilty."
"On the charge of financial fraud and embezzlement... we find the defendant, Guilty."
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"On the charge of attempted feticide... we find the defendant, Guilty."
Garrett slumped forward, burying his head in his arms as the gavel fell. The monster was finally slayed.
