Chapter 6 - The District Attorney’s Dossier (approx. 1,800 words)The conference room on the twelfth floor of the Manhattan District Attorney’s office smelled of old paper, industrial carpet cleaner, and stale black coffee. Assistant District Attorney Marcus Vance—a sharp prosecutor with salt-and-pepper hair and rimless glasses—sat at the head of the polished oak table, flipping through a thick manila folder labeled State of New York v. Fallon Ward-Mercer.
Greer and I sat on the opposite side of the table, flanked by my civil litigation attorney, a formidable woman named Brenda Vance who specialized in corporate torts and personal injury liability.
“Let’s review the evidentiary ledger,” ADA Vance said, adjusting his glasses as he slid several glossy 8x10 photographs across the table.
The photos showed freeze-frames extracted from the raw wedding videography files confiscated by Marcus the venue manager. The first image captured Fallon standing near the bar at 9:14 p.m., her face twisted into a look of cold, calculating concentration as she poured a clear, dense liquid from an unmarked glass beaker into the decorative pink cocktail glass. The second image showed her walking across the dance floor with practiced, deliberate grace, her eyes locked directly on my face. The third image captured the exact millisecond of impact—the splash, the brilliant flash of pink liquid hitting my left cheek, and Fallon’s smug, triumphant smile before she delivered her scripted line: “Keep filming.”
“It’s a textbook case of premeditated assault in the second degree,” Brenda Vance noted, tapping a manicured finger against the second photograph. “We have clear visual evidence of deliberate preparation, physical execution, and post-incident concealment. Furthermore, Evan Mercer’s legal team has turned over text message logs between Fallon and her primary production assistant dated two days prior to the wedding.”
ADA Vance pulled a printed transcript from the file and slid it toward us.
I looked down at the text exchange:
Fallon (8/14, 11:42 PM): I need a reaction from Sloan that breaks the internet. She’s going to sit there looking smug and judgmental all night in that stupid navy dress.
Assistant (8/15, 8:15 AM): What kind of reaction? Like a staged food fight?
Fallon (8/15, 8:18 AM): No, something visceral. Something that makes her scream. I found a bottle of heavy-duty solvent in the venue’s back utility closet during our walkthrough. If I mix a few drops of that into a tinted drink, it’ll sting like hell and make her run out crying on camera. Perfect drama for the documentary arc.
Assistant (8/15, 8:22 AM): Isn’t that dangerous?
Fallon (8/15, 8:24 AM): It’s just a skin irritation, stop being a coward. Just make sure the camera rig on crane three has a clean lens angle on her face when I do it.
I read the words twice, feeling a strange, cold detachment. There was no remorse in those messages. No hesitation. To Fallon, my skin, my health, and my physical safety were nothing more than props in an unscripted reality show designed to boost her subscriber count.
“The production assistant turned state’s evidence this morning in exchange for immunity from prosecution,” ADA Vance explained, leaning back in his chair. “She confessed that Fallon personally retrieved the solvent container from the locked utility room using a master administrative pass code she borrowed from a catering contractor during rehearsal setup.”
“And what about my mother?” I asked quietly. “Sybil was aware of the plan.”
ADA Vance shook his head. “We have evidence that Mrs. Ward was aware Fallon intended to stage a dramatic confrontation, but we do not currently have direct proof that Sybil knew industrial solvent was going to be used instead of harmless liquid dye. Without direct electronic communication implicating Sybil in the chemical acquisition, prosecuting her as an active co-conspirator would be legally difficult. However, our civil attorney can certainly name her as a co-defendant in the civil tort suit for emotional distress and contributory negligence.”
Brenda Vance smiled thinly. “Oh, trust me, Mr. Vance. My civil suit is going to target every single asset Sybil and Fallon own. By the time we finish litigating, neither of them will have enough money to buy a cup of coffee in Central Park, let alone maintain a luxury social media lifestyle.”
Greer reached across the table and squeezed my hand. “Good. They deserve every financial penalty the court can hand down.”
“The arraignment is scheduled for tomorrow morning at 9:00 a.m. in Manhattan Criminal Court,” ADA Vance said, closing the file folder with a sharp snap. “Fallon’s defense attorney is going to push for a plea deal—probation, community service, and anger management classes, arguing that it was a ‘prank gone wrong.’”
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I looked up, meeting the prosecutor’s eyes with absolute, unyielding clarity.
“There will be no plea deal,” I said, my voice steady and cold as steel. “My sister wanted a viral moment. I am going to make sure she gets a permanent felony record.”
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