Dana's criminal trial was shorter than the civil trial, but in some ways, it was harder. This time, the stakes were not money. They were freedom. Dana faced up to seven years in prison if convicted on all counts. Her lawyers tried a new strategy: they said Dana was "manipulated" by Marcus and Richard, that she was "a follower, not a leader," that she had been "used" by smarter, crueler men. It was a strange defense, coming from a woman who had once told me, with a straight face, that my book was hers. But the jury had heard the civil trial evidence, and they had heard Marcus's testimony, and they had heard Dana's own silence on the stand. They did not buy it.
I testified again, this time about the break-in, about the credit card application, about the forged letter, about the fear I had lived with for over a year. Dana's criminal lawyer tried to rattle me, asking why I had waited so long to go to the police, asking if I was "exaggerating" the break-in, asking if I had "an agenda." I answered calmly, the way Daniel had taught me, the way the therapist had helped me learn to do: slowly, truthfully, without anger. "I went to the police the day I found my door unlocked," I said. "I filed a report the day I found the credit card application. I have no agenda except the truth." The lawyer sat down. He had nothing left.
Sophie testified, too, and her testimony was the emotional heart of the criminal trial. She told the jury about being twenty-four, broke, and scared, about signing the nondisclosure agreement, about five years of monthly payments that felt like a leash. "I thought I would be quiet forever," she said, crying. "Then Nora called me, and she said, 'Sophie, you don't have to be quiet anymore.' And she was right." The jury convicted Dana on all counts: forgery, fraud, and identity theft. The judge sentenced her to six years in prison, with credit for time served, and ordered her to pay restitution to all of her victims. As the officers led her away, Dana looked back at me, one last time. She did not smile. She did not cry. She just looked at me, and for a second, I saw something in her eyes I had never seen before: not anger, not arrogance, but understanding. Understanding that it was over. Really over.
After the sentencing, Sophie and I walked out of the courthouse together, into the spring sunshine, and we did something we had never done before: we laughed. Not a polite laugh, not a brave laugh, but a real, deep, belly laugh, the kind that comes when a weight you have carried for years finally drops off your shoulders. We laughed until we cried, and then we cried until we laughed again, standing on the courthouse steps while reporters took pictures and strangers smiled at us. Claire met us at the bottom of the steps with coffee and hugs, and the three of us walked to a little café, ordered pie, and sat there like ordinary women on an ordinary day. It was the most extraordinary feeling in the world.
