Chapter 9 - THE PLEA
The weeks that followed were a blur of preparation.
My parents’ legal team—five of the best litigators in the country, all of whom owed my mother favors from her DOJ days—worked around the clock building the prosecution’s case alongside DA Carter. They tracked down every former maid, every former gardener, every former employee of the Bishop family who’d ever witnessed Lorraine’s temper or Michael’s cruelty. They collected sworn statements from twenty-three different people, all telling the same story: Lorraine was a violent, entitled bully who thought the rules didn’t apply to her. Michael was a spoiled, arrogant mama’s boy who’d never been told “no” in his life. Both of them were capable of exactly what they were accused of.
The defense team, meanwhile, was flailing. Harold Weiss tried everything in the playbook: motions to suppress the video (denied), motions to change venue (denied), motions to dismiss the charges entirely (denied with prejudice). He tried to leak stories to the tabloids about me being a “gold-digger” who’d “set up” the poor Bishops—stories that died on the vine when my mother casually released Michael and Lorraine’s criminal records: three DUIs between them, two assault charges that had been swept under the rug with hush money, a long history of civil lawsuits for harassment and unpaid bills.
By the time the trial date was three weeks away, the writing was on the wall. The Bishops had no defense. No alibi. No witnesses who’d testify on their behalf. No way to explain away the video. No way to win.
Weiss called my parents’ lawyer on a Tuesday afternoon. He wanted to talk about a plea.
We met in a conference room at the DA’s office downtown—me, my parents, Carter, our lead attorney. Weiss was already there, looking tired and defeated, his expensive suit rumpled, his tie askew. Lorraine and Michael weren’t present. They were still in Rikers, still denied bail, and Weiss had obviously decided there was no point in dragging them in for what was essentially a surrender.
“Thank you for meeting with me,” Weiss said, sitting down across from us. He didn’t bother with the usual pleasantries. He knew better. “I’m not going to waste your time. We both know my clients are going to lose at trial. The video is ironclad. The witnesses are lined up. The judge hates them. The jury is going to hate them even more. If we go to trial, Lorraine is looking at twenty-five to life. Michael is looking at twenty to twenty-five. They’ll die in prison.”
He leaned forward, his elbows on the table. “They’re ready to plead. Guilty. On all counts. No trial. No drama. No dragging Elena through the mud on the witness stand. In exchange, the People recommend a sentence of eighteen years for Lorraine, twelve years for Michael. No possibility of parole for eighty-five percent of the sentence. They’ll serve every day of it. And they’ll both sign allocutions—formal, sworn statements admitting exactly what they did, in open court, for the record.”
The room went quiet. Eighteen years. Twelve years. It was less than the maximum they could get at trial, but it was still a long time. Lorraine would be eighty when she got out. Michael would be in his mid-forties, with a felony record, no money, no family, no future. They’d be marked for life.
DA Carter looked at me. “It’s your call, Elena. Legally, this is a great deal. We avoid a trial, we avoid the risk—however small—of some jury nullification nonsense, we get guaranteed prison time, we get a formal admission of guilt. But emotionally… it’s up to you. If you want to see them on trial, if you want to testify, if you want the whole world to hear every last detail of what they did to you? We’ll go to trial. We’ll win. And we’ll get more time. But it means you have to relive every second of that day in front of a courtroom full of strangers. On cross-examination, Weiss will try to tear you apart. He’ll dig up everything he can about your past. He’ll try to make you the villain. It’ll be brutal.”
I looked at my mother. She gave me a tiny nod—whatever you decide, we’re with you. At my father, who squeezed my hand under the table.
I thought about the trial. About sitting on the witness stand, reliving the worst day of my life over and over again. About Weiss trying to make me sound like a liar, like a manipulator, like I’d somehow deserved what happened. About seeing Michael and Lorraine every day for six weeks, watching them sneer at me, watching them lie.
Then I thought about the alternative. A guilty plea. An admission of guilt, in open court, on the record. Eighteen years for Lorraine. Twelve for Michael. No trial. No drama. Closure. The chance to move on with my life.
“I’ll take it,” I said, my voice clear and steady. “Eighteen and twelve. Allocutions. No trial. But there’s one more condition.”
I looked straight at Weiss. “They both have to apologize. In open court. On the record. To me. Sincerely. No weasel words. No ‘I’m sorry if you felt hurt.’ A real apology. Admitting they knew exactly what they were doing. Admitting that I did nothing to deserve it. If they won’t do that? No deal. We go to trial. And I’ll make sure they both rot in there for the rest of their natural lives.”
Weiss paled slightly. He knew how hard that would be for Lorraine—for either of them. Their pride was the only thing they had left. But he also knew he had no leverage. No cards left to play.
“I’ll… talk to them,” he said, standing up. “I’ll make them understand. This is the only deal they’re ever going to get. If they turn it down because they’re too proud to say they’re sorry? That’s on them. But I’ll make them see reason.”
May you like
He left the room. Carter let out a long breath, leaning back in her chair. “Well. That’s that, then. If they agree—which they will, once Weiss explains the alternative—we’ll have them in court next Friday for the plea hearing. It’ll be over by lunchtime. And then… you can finally start living your life again, Elena.”
I smiled. It felt strange. Light. Unburdened. “I’d like that very much.”
