But the prosecution was methodical. They played the 911 call. They played the video recorded by a relative in the pews—the video where Diane justified the murder because the twins were a “burden.”
But the linchpin was Emma.
The judge allowed Emma to testify via closed-circuit television to spare her the trauma of being in the same room as Diane. I sat in the viewing room with her, holding her hand while she answered the prosecutor’s gentle questions.
“She put the powder in the bottles,” Emma said, her voice small but steady on the courtroom monitors. “She told me it was magic powder to help Mommy and Daddy save money.”
The jury, twelve strangers who held my fate in their hands, looked physically ill.
Then came the defense’s turn. Patricia Hendrix tried to gently discredit Emma, suggesting that perhaps she had been coached.
“Emma,” Hendrix asked, “did your mommy tell you to say these things about Grandma?”
Emma looked directly into the camera. “No. Mommy cried when I told her. Mommy threw up. Grandma told me to say nothing. Grandma said it was our secret.”
That was the nail in the coffin.
When Trevor took the stand, he was a broken man. He had lost twenty pounds. He looked like a ghost. The prosecutor asked him about his mother’s attitude toward our family.
“She… she hated the idea of twins,” Trevor whispered, unable to look at his mother. “She told me it was a mistake. She said God would find a way to fix it if I wouldn’t.”
“And at the funeral,” the prosecutor pressed, “when your wife was grieving, whose side did you take?”
“My mother’s,” Trevor choked out. “I… I didn’t know. I thought…”
“You thought your wife was the problem,” the prosecutor finished.
The jury deliberated for only three hours.
When the bailiff read the verdict—Guilty on two counts of first-degree murder—Diane didn’t cry. She didn’t scream. She just stared at me with pure, unadulterated hatred. She was sentenced to two consecutive life terms without the possibility of parole.
As they led her away in handcuffs, she passed by the table where I sat. She leaned in, just slightly.
“You’ll never be free of me,” she whispered.
I looked her dead in the eye. “I already am. But you? You’re going to die in a cage.”
