PART 5: A Knock on the Cell Door
PART 5: A Knock on the Cell Door
Federal holding cells humble arrogant executives.
The fluorescent lights of the federal holding facility hummed with an irritating, unyielding buzz that echoed off the cinderblock walls.
Marcus Mercer sat on the edge of a bolted steel bunk, his expensive tuxedo jacket discarded on the floor, his silk shirt wrinkled and stained with the dried champagne from Saturday night.
His hair was uncombed, his eyes bloodshot and hollow.
For thirty-six hours, he had been subjected to endless interrogations, confronted with shell company ledgers, forged wire transfers, and sworn affidavits from his own chief financial officer—who had immediately flipped the moment the feds flashed badges.
The heavy metal door of his cell clicked open.
A prison guard tapped his baton against the bars.
"Mercer. You have a legal visitor in room three," the guard announced flatly.
Marcus let out a ragged, hopeful breath.
His defense attorney.
He scrambled up from the bunk, smoothing down his trousers with trembling fingers, praying that his high-priced legal counsel had found a loophole, a bail motion, a lifeline—anything to keep him from facing twenty years in a maximum-security penitentiary.
He was escorted down the sterile, gray corridor and pushed into a small, windowless visitation room separated by a thick sheet of plexiglass and a scratchy intercom speaker.
Sitting on the other side wasn't his defense attorney.
It was Chloe Vance.
She looked entirely different from the woman who had clung to his arm at the hotel ballroom.
Her designer makeup was smudged, her hair was pulled back into a messy clip, and she wore an oversized denim jacket over a simple black t-shirt.
Marcus grabbed the plastic telephone receiver on the wall, his hands shaking, pressing it urgently to his ear.
"Chloe! Thank God!" Marcus babbled into the speaker, his voice pitching upward in desperation. "Did you reach my attorney? Did you get the bail bond sorted out? We need to liquidate the secondary brokerage accounts—"
"Shut up, Marcus," Chloe interrupted.
Her voice wasn't tearful.
It was cold, venomous, and dripping with pure, unadulterated hatred.
Marcus stopped dead, lowering the receiver slightly. "What...? Chloe, what are you talking about?"
"I'm talking about the fact that the marshals seized the Weston house this morning," Chloe hissed through the intercom speaker, her eyes blazing with fury. "I'm talking about the fact that every single credit card I own has been permanently declined, my apartment lease was cancelled because you used my name on your corporate shell accounts, and the police spent three hours questioning me as an unindicted co-conspirator!"
"That... that's a mistake, I can fix that once I—"
"You can't fix anything from a jail cell, you pathetic fraud!" Chloe shrieked, slamming her fist against the plexiglass partition. "You lied to me! You told me you were a multimillionaire tycoon! You told me Evelyn was just a bitter, barren failure who couldn't keep up with your success!"
"Chloe, please—"
"We are done!" she screamed into the receiver. "I am filing for a complete legal disassociation, I am cooperating with federal prosecutors, and if I never see your miserable face again, it will still be too soon!"
Click.
She slammed the visitor’s phone down onto its cradle, spun around on her heel, and marched out of the room without looking back once.
Marcus stood frozen in the small visitation booth, holding the plastic receiver to his ear as the dial tone hummed a monotonous, electronic tune.
May you like
The mistress who had helped him destroy my life had abandoned him the second the money ran out.
He sank slowly down into the plastic chair, burying his face in his hands, as the full, crushing weight of his isolation finally caved in on him.
