The trial felt like watching my life in reverse, but stripped of warmth.
They played recordings in court—Margaret’s voice, bright and gleeful, describing my death like a schedule. Prescott’s voice, clinical and confident, discussing dosages the way doctors discuss blood pressure.
The courtroom was packed with people who’d known us socially. Friends from dinners, neighbors who’d admired Margaret’s orchids, acquaintances who’d called our marriage “goals.” I watched their faces as the truth unfolded, and I saw disbelief become disgust in real time.
Margaret sat at the defense table in tailored clothes, hair perfect again, trying to look like a wronged woman. But the recordings betrayed her. You can’t polish a voice once it’s been captured saying, “By Monday I’ll be a widow and we’ll be rich.”
Her lawyer tried to argue it was fantasy. That Margaret had been “venting.” That the pills were “supplements” and the lab results “contaminated.” That Prescott’s communications were “misinterpreted.”