Beside her sat Marissa in a demure pastel dress, though the diamond tennis bracelet catching the light betrayed her new status.

Then Sterling introduced the exhibits. The fabricated evidence. A glossy photograph of a shattered Ming vase. A close-up of scratched mahogany on the master bedroom door.

Finally, an image of an ugly contusion on Evan’s left forearm.

Evan took the stand. “My wife attacked me in a blind rage,” he testified, his voice trembling with an Oscar-worthy mixture of fear and reluctance. “I merely raised my arms to restrain her and protect myself.

That’s all I ever did. I loved her. I never wanted our private tragedies dragged into the public light.”

The judge, a stern woman with a reputation for zero tolerance, watched him with sympathetic eyes.