The trial was over, but the legal process was not. Winning a verdict and collecting the money are two very different things, and Daniel warned me that Dana and Richard would try to hide whatever they had left. They did. Richard tried to transfer the Florida house to his brother's name. Dana tried to close a bank account in Ohio and open a new one under her sister's name. But the court had anticipated all of it. The judge issued an asset seizure order, freezing every account, every property, every investment they owned, until the damages were paid. U.S. Marshals served the order. The Florida house was seized and put up for sale by the court, with the proceeds going to the victims. Dana's car was seized. Her jewelry, her designer handbags, the expensive watch Richard had bought her — all of it was inventoried, appraised, and sold at auction, and every dollar went toward what they owed us.
It was strange, watching the life Dana had built on my work being taken apart, piece by piece, in public records and auction listings. I did not enjoy it. I did not sit there feeling triumphant. I felt something quieter: relief. Relief that the system, for once, had worked. Relief that the money, which had never been theirs, was finally going where it belonged. My share of the damages — $2.3 million, plus part of the punitive damages — began arriving in installments, as assets were sold. The first payment, $400,000, arrived in my bank account on a Tuesday morning, and I stared at the number for a long time, not quite believing it. I paid off my mortgage that week. I paid off Claire's student loans. I set up a college fund for my future grandchildren, if Claire ever has them. And I donated $50,000 to a writers' legal defense fund, so that the next woman who gets her book stolen will have a lawyer on day one, not on day two hundred.
But money, I was learning, does not fix everything. The nightmares did not stop just because the trial ended. I still woke up sometimes, sure someone was in my house, sure my laptop was gone. I started seeing a therapist, a kind woman in Ellsworth, who helped me understand that what I had been through was a trauma, not just a legal case. "You were betrayed by people you loved," she said. "That wound takes time to heal, even after justice." She was right. Justice is not the same as healing. Justice is the courtroom. Healing is everything after.
Meanwhile, the criminal cases moved forward. Marcus Bell was already serving his three-year sentence. Richard Whitmore pleaded guilty to bank fraud and money laundering, to avoid a longer trial, and was sentenced to five years in federal prison, plus restitution. Dana, who had always been the face of the scheme, faced her own criminal charges: forgery, fraud, and identity theft, based on the forged signatures, the forged loan application, and the credit card she had tried to open in my name. Her lawyers negotiated for months, trying to get her a deal with no prison time. The prosecutor refused. "Ms. Whitmore stole from multiple victims, over multiple years, and she showed no remorse," the prosecutor said in a statement. "The public deserves a trial." Dana's criminal trial was set for the spring. I would have to testify again. I was not afraid anymore. I had done it once. I could do it again.
