Chapter 7 - The Trial of the Century
The next three months were a blur of doctor’s appointments, therapy sessions, and meetings with the federal prosecutors. Emma’s face healed slowly—the swelling went down, the black eye faded, the fractured rib mended—but the scars on her neck, the ones from Andrew’s hands, took longer to fade, both physically and emotionally. She started seeing a trauma therapist twice a week, and Jake started going to play therapy, working through the fear of his dad he’d carried for so long.
The unit was there every step of the way. Jax moved into Daniel’s Nashville house for a while, helping fix up the spare bedrooms for Emma and Jake, building a treehouse in the backyard for Jake. Rio got Jake onto a Little League baseball team, and he and Daniel were the assistant coaches, yelling encouragement from the dugout at every game. Mia opened a free medical clinic for domestic violence survivors in downtown Nashville, with Emma as the volunteer director. Doc kept posting updates on TikTok, keeping the public engaged, raising money for Emma’s new non-profit—Mercer House, a shelter for women and kids trying to escape abusive relationships. Mouse set up a cyber security team for the shelter, making sure no abusers could track down the women staying there.
The trial started on a hot July morning, the Nashville courthouse packed with reporters, survivors, and people who’d followed the case since Doc’s first TikTok. Andrew’s lawyer, Richard Stone, was a silver-haired man in a $5,000 suit, famous for getting guilty men off with clever loopholes and emotional appeals to the jury. His opening statement was a masterclass in lying.
“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury,” he said, pacing in front of the jury box, his voice full of fake sympathy. “Andrew Prescott is not on trial here today. He is the victim. The victim of a bitter, angry ex-wife who wanted to steal his company, his money, and his son. The victim of a violent, retired army colonel with PTSD who gathered a gang of his equally violent army buddies to break into Andrew’s home, kidnap his wife and child, plant false evidence, and frame an innocent man for crimes he never committed. You will hear testimony that Daniel Mercer and his friends have a history of violence, of drinking, of run-ins with the law. You will hear that Emma Prescott has a history of ‘dramatic episodes,’ of lying to get attention. And you will find Andrew Prescott not guilty on all counts.”
The federal prosecutor, Sarah Chen—tough, no-nonsense, a former Marine who’d put away 30 corrupt politicians in her career—smiled when she got up to give her opening. She didn’t pace. She didn’t yell. She just walked to the jury box, held up a large photo of Emma’s face from that Easter Sunday, and let it speak for itself.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” she said, her voice steady. “This is what Andrew Prescott did to his wife on Easter Sunday. This is what he did after she asked him for a divorce. This is the face of a woman who thought she was going to die. Over the next two weeks, you will hear from Emma. You will hear from two other women who survived Andrew’s abuse. You will hear from four mercenaries who will testify under oath that Andrew paid them $400,000 to kidnap a 7-year-old boy and kill his grandfather. You will see bank records, text messages, audio recordings, and video footage proving that Andrew Prescott bribed the sheriff, a judge, and two prosecutors to cover up his crimes for three years. You will see the proof that he stole $18 million from the United States Army, money meant to fund drone programs that keep our soldiers safe overseas. This is not a case of a bitter ex-wife. This is a case of a man who thought his money and his power made him above the law. And today, we are here to prove him wrong.”
The first week of the trial was brutal for Andrew. Emma testified for three days, telling the jury every detail of her six years of abuse: the time he’d locked her in the closet for 24 hours, the time he’d broken her arm, the time he’d strangled her until she passed out, the way Margaret had stood by and watched, even encouraged him. She was calm, she was honest, and when the defense lawyer tried to badger her, calling her a liar, a gold-digger, a bad mother, she didn’t flinch. She just looked him dead in the eye and said, “You can call me whatever you want. But the bruises on my body don’t lie. The bank records don’t lie. The 17 other witnesses who are gonna testify against your client don’t lie. And you know it.”
The jury nodded. They believed her.
Next, Sarah Jenkins and Lisa Marlow testified, telling their own stories of Andrew’s abuse, of the hush money, of the threats. The four mercenaries testified, admitting they’d been hired to kill Daniel and kidnap Jake, showing the jury the text messages Andrew had sent them. Sheriff Tompkins, Judge Hale, and the two ex-DAs testified, admitting to every bribe, every cover-up, every crime they’d committed to protect Andrew. Mouse testified, walking the jury through the hacked files, the bank transfers, the offshore accounts. Doc testified, showing the jury the timeline of the TikTok posts, the protests, the public outcry.
The defense tried everything. They tried to say the files were faked. They tried to say the mercenaries were lying to get shorter sentences. They tried to say Emma’s bruises were self-inflicted. They even tried to put Andrew on the stand, where he cried fake tears, telling the jury he was a “good man” who’d “loved his wife and son more than anything,” that Daniel and his unit had “terrorized” his family. But when Prosecutor Chen cross-examined him, holding up the text message where he’d called Emma a “worthless bitch” and told his lawyer he’d “make her disappear if she ever tried to leave,” he broke. He screamed, he slammed his fist on the witness stand, he called Emma a liar, called the witnesses liars, called the prosecutor a “stupid cunt.” The jury watched, horrified. They’d seen his true colors now. There was no going back.
The trial lasted two weeks. The jury deliberated for four hours. When they came back into the courtroom, the whole room held its breath. The foreman stood up, holding the verdict form.
“On count one, domestic assault resulting in serious bodily injury: Guilty. On count two, strangulation: Guilty. On count three, attempted murder for hire: Guilty. On count four, bribery of a public official: Guilty. On count five, money laundering: Guilty…”
He read all 17 counts. Every single one: Guilty.
Andrew sat frozen, his face white, as the judge remanded him into custody without bail, sentencing him to 25 years in federal prison, no possibility of parole. As the marshals led him out of the courtroom in cuffs, he turned and screamed at Emma, “You’ll pay for this! You’ll all pay!” But Emma just sat there, holding Daniel’s hand, smiling. She didn’t hear him. For the first time in her life, she was truly free.
Outside the courthouse, a crowd of 500 people cheered when the verdict was announced. Survivors held up signs, kids waved signs that said “GOOD RIDDANCE ANDREW,” and the unit stood together, watching, proud. A reporter pushed a microphone in Daniel’s face, asking him what he thought of the verdict.
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Daniel looked at Emma, who was hugging Jake, laughing through her tears, then at the unit—his brothers, the only family he’d ever needed. He smiled.
“Justice ain’t about money or power or fancy suits,” he said. “It’s about showing up for the people you love. It’s about not leaving anyone behind. And today? Justice was served.” (1,547 words)
