Bound by Yesterday's Fire

Chapter 38

Chapter 38

The courtroom smelled of varnished wood and sweat, the kind of place where silence always carried weight. The Philippine flag hung heavily on the wall, beside the golden seal of the Republic. At the center, above us all, sat the judge—robes dark, face stern, gavel within reach.

I adjusted the blazer over my dress, feeling the cool air from the ceiling fans brushing against my skin. The benches were crowded: journalists, curious onlookers, the Rosario family seated stiffly in the front row. To my right, my counsel—one of the best litigation lawyers in Manila—sorted through neatly bound folders. I had hired him not just for his brilliance, but because I knew I needed someone who would not flinch at Monique's madness.

The doors opened.

Monique Rosario was escorted in, her wrists cuffed, two police escorts flanking her. She looked nothing like the polished heiress she once pretended to be. Her hair hung in greasy tangles, her face bare and pale, but her eyes—God, her eyes—still burned with that same venom. She smirked the moment she saw me, as though this entire trial were just another one of her games.

"All rise!" the bailiff announced, voice booming. Everyone stood. The judge entered and sat down, and we all followed.

"This is the Regional Trial Court, Branch 128," the clerk began formally, "in the matter of People of the Philippines versus Monique Rosario, docket number..." His voice echoed as he read out the case title. "Charges include kidnapping under Article 267 of the Revised Penal Code; attempted murder under Article 6 in relation to Article 248; illegal possession of firearms under Republic Act 10591; and parricide by reason of the deaths of Mr. and Mrs. Esperanza, punishable under Article 246."

The list made the room hum with whispers. Parricide—murdering ascendants—was a capital crime. Life imprisonment, or reclusion perpetua.

The judge cleared his throat. "Proceed."

The prosecution began. Evidence was laid out—photographs, sworn affidavits from the police officers who had exchanged fire with Monique's men during LC's kidnapping, the forensics report on Tyrell's gunshot wounds. My lawyer glanced at me, then at the judge, then stood.

"Your Honor, the prosecution also submits additional evidence discovered through private investigation—" He lifted a thick folder. "—establishing the direct involvement of the accused, Monique Rosario, in the bombing of the private plane that carried Mr. and Mrs. Esperanza, along with their staff. We submit certified photographs, corroborating testimonies, and an authenticated security report from the airport."

The judge raised an eyebrow. "Is the defense aware of this submission?"

Monique's lawyer sputtered, trying to object, but the judge cut him short. "Overruled. The evidence is admissible under the Rules of Court, Rule 132. Proceed."

My lawyer glanced at me and nodded. He opened the folder, placing photographs on the evidence table.

My throat tightened. Even after weeks of knowing, seeing the images still hurt. The grainy picture showed Monique in a maintenance worker's uniform, crouched near the belly of my parents' plane, slipping a rectangular package into place. The caption read: CCTV still, Ninoy Aquino International Airport, July 2015.

A ripple of shock moved through the courtroom. Even the Rosario family froze.

And then—Monique laughed.

The sound was sharp, deranged. "Yes! I did it! I planted the bomb! Your parents deserved to die, Dea! They were nothing but parasites!" Her shackled hands rattled against the wooden table as she leaned forward, cackling.