My Assistant Cried Rape And Named My Husband — But My Husband Is A Robot Chapter 10
Three months later, the extortion and false-accusation trial against Chloe Whitmore and Kyle Brennan opened.
Superior Court, Department 3.
I sat in the front row of the gallery.
When two bailiffs led Chloe to the defense table, I almost didn’t recognize her.
Three months in county lockup had wrung her dry.
Hair brittle and dull. Cheekbones jutting. Eyes sunken deep in their sockets.
Wearing an orange jumpsuit, hunched over, looking like she’d collapse in on herself any second.
Kyle stood beside her, worse.
Scraggly beard, empty eyes.
Word was he’d been worked over inside by some fellow inmates over old gambling debts. He limped.
When the district attorney read the indictment aloud, every fact and every piece of evidence was laid bare.
From premeditation to execution. From the dashcam audio to the text records. From the street surveillance to the DNA match.
Airtight.
Chloe’s court-appointed defense attorney offered a few token remarks, and even his own tone was flat.
Kyle didn’t bother. He signed the plea agreement in open court, pleading guilty in exchange for leniency.
When the verdict came, Chloe braced both hands against the railing of the defense table. Her whole body was trembling.
The judge’s voice wasn’t loud, but every word landed hard.
“The defendant, Chloe Whitmore, is hereby found guilty of the following—”
“Count one: false reporting of a crime. Three years’ imprisonment.”
“Count two: extortion in the first degree. Two years’ imprisonment.”
“Count three: embezzlement. Two years’ imprisonment.”
“To be served consecutively. Total sentence: seven years, with no eligibility for parole in the first four.”
Her legs gave. She hung there against the rail.
A long, thin wail came from her throat, like air escaping from a punctured balloon.
“The defendant, Kyle Brennan, is hereby found guilty of extortion in the first degree—two years. Grand larceny—three years. Illegal gambling and parole violation—one year…”
“To be served consecutively. Total sentence: six years.”
When the gavel came down, the sound rang out through the courtroom.
Kyle’s legs buckled, and he dropped straight to his knees behind the defense table.
The bailiffs, expressionless, hauled the two of them away.
As Chloe passed the gallery, she suddenly turned her head and looked at me through the wooden rail.
There was hatred in that look. There was regret. There was refusal.
I looked back at her, perfectly calm, and said nothing.
In the back row of the gallery, Diane Whitmore had crumpled sobbing into her seat and was being carried out by two bailiffs.
Her faux-fur coat was long gone. She was wearing a wrinkled knit sweater and looked ten years older than her own daughter.
After the trial ended, I walked out of the courthouse.
The Spanish-style white walls of the building glared in the California afternoon sun, blinding and warm all at once.
Across the parking lot, a tall, upright figure stood at attention beside my car.
Apollo. Arm repaired.
I came down the steps and walked over.
His sensors picked up my approach immediately. He turned toward me, took two steps forward, and opened the door.
“Welcome back, Vivian. Would you like me to navigate us home?”
I smiled and gave his cool arm a light pat.
“Let’s go home, Apollo.”
I slid into the passenger seat. Apollo took the driver’s side and started the car.
I looked at his focused profile, and for a moment, everything felt strangely unreal.
He really was something else.
He didn’t lie. He didn’t scheme. He didn’t stab you in the back.
The End