My mother’s attorney cross-examined me, trying to paint me as vindictive, as someone with an axe to grind.
“Isn’t it true that you’ve hated your parents for years? That you’ve wanted revenge since they kicked you out?”
“I didn’t hate them,” I said. “I was hurt. There’s a difference. And I didn’t want revenge. I wanted justice for their tenant, for my grandfather, for all the people they’d hurt. If that happened to bring consequences down on them, that’s because of their choices, not mine.”
“But you benefit from this, don’t you? If they’re convicted, you inherit everything.”
“I don’t want their money,” I said, and I meant it. “I never did. I built my own life without them. The inheritance can go to their victims—the tenants they abused, the people they hurt. I just want them held accountable.”
The prosecution rested, and Frank tried to mount a defense. He called character witnesses who testified that my parents were upstanding citizens, generous donors to charity, pillars of the community. But it all rang hollow against the mountain of evidence.
When my mother took the stand in her own defense, she claimed the notebook was just dark fiction—that she’d been writing a crime novel and those were story notes. No one believed her.
The trial lasted three weeks. When closing arguments came, Catherine stood before the jury and said simply:
“They murdered a kind man in cold blood for money. They poisoned him slowly, watched him suffer, and felt no remorse. They’ve spent twelve years living off blood money while his granddaughter slept in her car. Justice demands a verdict of guilty.”
The jury deliberated for four hours. When they returned, the forewoman stood.
“On the count of first-degree murder, how do you find?”
“Guilty.”
My mother collapsed, wailing. My father sat motionless, staring at nothing.
“On the count of evidence tampering, how do you find?”
“Guilty.”
“On the count of fraud?”
“Guilty.”
Judge Hullbrook set sentencing for two weeks later. As the bailiffs led my parents away, my mother turned and looked at me. There was hate in her eyes—pure and undiluted.
I looked back at her and felt nothing.
Sentencing day arrived cold and gray, matching the somber mood in the courtroom.
Judge Hullbrook looked down at my parents with an expression of profound disappointment.
“I’ve been on the bench for twenty-seven years,” she said. “I’ve seen every kind of crime, every kind of criminal. But what you did stands out for its sheer callousness. You murdered your own father—your children’s grandfather—for money. You calculated the dosage, administered the poison, and watched him die. And then you spent twelve years living comfortably off his estate while your daughter, the one he wanted to protect, struggled to survive.”
My mother tried to speak, but Judge Hullbrook held up her hand.
“You had every advantage—money, education, opportunity—and you used all of it to hurt people. Your tenants lived in squalor while you collected rent. Your daughter was thrown out to fend for herself. And your father, a good man by all accounts, was murdered in his own home.
“The law requires me to sentence you, but I can tell you that no sentence will ever be enough for what you’ve done.”
She looked at the papers in front of her.
“On the count of first-degree murder, I sentence you each to life in prison without the possibility of parole. On the counts of evidence tampering and fraud, I sentence you each to an additional fifteen years, to run consecutively. You will spend the rest of your lives behind bars, and that is far less than you deserve.”
The gavel came down with finality.
My mother screamed, a sound of pure anguish that echoed through the courtroom. My father sat silent, tears streaming down his face.
As they were led away, my mother turned to me one last time.
“I hope you’re satisfied,” she spat. “You’ve destroyed this family.”
“No,” I said clearly, standing up so she could hear me. “You destroyed this family when you chose money over people. When you chose greed over love. I just made sure everyone knew the truth.”
She was dragged away, still screaming, and the courtroom erupted in noise. Reporters shouted questions. Former tenants cheered. Melissa grabbed my hand and squeezed it tight.
Outside the courthouse, Catherine Morris held a press conference.
“Today, justice was served for James Thompson and for all the victims of Helen and Robert Thompson’s greed,” she said. “This case demonstrates that no one is above the law, that wealth and status cannot protect you when you commit crimes. I want to especially commend Anna Thompson and Melissa Thompson for their courage in coming forward, for choosing truth over family loyalty.”
Reporters turned to me, shoving microphones in my face.
“How do you feel seeing your parents sentenced to life?”
“Relieved,” I said honestly. “Not happy, not triumphant. Just relieved that they can’t hurt anyone else.”
“Will you accept the inheritance?”
“No. Everything they have will go to a fund for their former tenants, the people they actually hurt and exploited. That’s what my grandfather would have wanted.”
“What’s next for you?”
I thought about it.
“I’m going to keep doing what I’ve been doing. Helping people who need legal representation but can’t afford it. Making sure landlords are held accountable. Trying to make the system work for people who usually get trampled by it.”
That night, Melissa and I went to my grandfather’s grave. We hadn’t been there together since the funeral twelve years ago. The headstone was simple:
James Thompson
Beloved father and grandfather
1940–2013
“We got them, Grandpa,” Melissa said softly, kneeling by the stone. “They’re going to pay for what they did to you.”
I knelt beside her.
“I’m sorry it took so long. I’m sorry you didn’t get to see me become an attorney. Didn’t get to see me prove them wrong. But I hope you know I never forgot what you told me—that I was worth more than they said. You were right.”
We sat there for a while in silence, the cold wind rustling through the bare trees. Finally, Melissa spoke.
“What happens to us now? We’re orphans in a way. No parents, no family except each other.”
“We build something new,” I said. “Something better. We become the family we never had.”
“I’d like that.” She smiled—a real smile this time. “You know, I’ve been thinking about going back to school. Maybe becoming a paralegal. Working with you at the firm.”
“Diane would love that. We’re always short-staffed.”
“It’s strange,” Melissa said. “I spent my whole life trying to be what they wanted—the perfect daughter, the obedient one—and it was all for nothing. They didn’t really love me. They just loved that I was easy to control.”
“They were incapable of real love,” I said. “That was their failing, not yours. And not mine. We deserved better parents. Grandpa knew that.”
We left flowers on the grave—violets, his favorite.
As we walked back to the car, I felt something shift inside me. The anger that had driven me for so long, the need for vindication, the burning desire to prove myself—it was fading. Not gone entirely, but quieter now. Manageable.
“Anna,” Melissa said as we drove away, “thank you for not giving up. For fighting. For showing me what courage looks like.”
“You showed courage too,” I said. “Coming forward with that evidence, testifying against them—that took strength I’m not sure I would have had in your position.”
“We were both strong,” she said. “Just in different ways. But we’re stronger together.”
I smiled.
“Yeah. We are.”
The road ahead was long, but for the first time in my life, I wasn’t facing it alone. And that made all the difference.
Three months after the sentencing, I stood in the conference room at Kestrel and Associates, looking at the faces of twenty-three former tenants of my parents’ properties. They’d all come at my invitation to learn about the restitution fund that had been established.
“The court has ordered the liquidation of all assets belonging to Helen and Robert Thompson,” I explained. “The three rental properties have been sold. Personal assets, investments, everything. After legal fees and court costs, there’s approximately $1.8 million remaining. That money will be divided among all verified victims—tenants who suffered due to unsafe living conditions, people who paid medical bills because of their negligence, anyone who was harmed by their actions.”
Clare, the woman whose case had started everything, raised her hand.
“How much will each person get?”
“It depends on the severity of harm and documentation of damages,” I said. “But we estimate between thirty and seventy thousand per person. Some will get more if they can prove significant medical expenses or ongoing health issues.”
A man in the back stood up.
“That money should go to you,” he said. “You’re the one who brought them down. You sacrificed everything to get justice.”
I shook my head.
“I didn’t do this for money. I did it because it was right. This money belongs to the people they hurt. I have my grandfather’s trust fund. That’s more than enough.”
The meeting continued for another hour, with people sharing their stories, crying, hugging each other. These were people who’d been victimized and silenced, who’d thought no one cared about their suffering. Now they were being heard, being compensated, being vindicated.
After everyone left, Diane came into the conference room.
“That was a good thing you did,” she said. “A lot of lawyers would have taken a hefty portion as fees.”
“I’m not interested in profiting from my parents’ crimes,” I said. “Besides, I have enough. The trust fund paid off my loans and gave me a cushion. I don’t need more.”
“Speaking of which,” Diane said, “I have a proposition for you. I’m getting older, thinking about retirement in a few years. I’d like you to consider becoming a partner—eventually taking over the firm entirely.”
I stared at her.
“Are you serious?”
“Completely. You’re the best attorney I’ve ever trained. You care about the clients. You fight like hell. And you understand what it’s like to be powerless. This firm needs someone like that at the helm.”
“I… I don’t know what to say.”
“Say yes.” Diane smiled. “Think about it. We can discuss details later.”
That evening, I met Melissa for dinner at a quiet restaurant downtown. She’d started classes at the community college, working toward a paralegal certificate. She looked healthier than I’d seen her in years, with color in her cheeks and light in her eyes.
“How was your day?” she asked.
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