Chapter 15 - The Cell of Unforgiving Mirrors
The Metropolitan Detention Center in Brooklyn smelled of damp concrete,
bleach,
and cold iron.
Visiting Room Four was a narrow cubicle divided down the center by a thick partition of scratch-resistant plexiglass.
A small chrome speaker grille was embedded in the center,
and two black plastic telephone handsets hung on either side.
The heavy steel door at the rear of the room clanged open,
and a correction officer led Jerome inside.
He wore an oversized,
bright orange jumpsuit,
his wrists bound in front of him by a heavy steel transport chain linked to a belt around his waist.
His hair was ragged,
unwashed,
and completely gray.
Without his bespoke tailoring,
his daily grooming,
and his platinum accessories,
he looked twenty years older,
a broken,
stooped man who shuffled forward on plastic slip-on shoes.
He sat down heavily on the bolted metal stool,
looked through the plexiglass,
and froze.
I was sitting on the other side.
I was dressed in a simple,
high-collared black wool dress,
my hands resting calmly on the small ledge beneath the glass.
Beside me sat Sarah Sterling,
who placed a single manila folder on the shelf.
Jerome picked up the black plastic receiver with shaking,
manacled hands,
pressing it against his ear.
I picked up mine,
holding it to my ear,
looking through the scratched glass directly into his bloodshot,
hollow eyes.
“Leona,”
he whispered,
his voice cracking into the receiver,
sounding tinny and far away.
“You came.
I knew you would come.
You couldn't let them keep me in this cage.
The bail is twenty million dollars,
Leona.
Twenty million!
The judge is an animal!
He treated me like a cartel boss!
He said I was a flight risk because of the offshore accounts!”
I listened to him,
my expression remaining completely still,
offering neither anger nor compassion.
“You were a flight risk,
Jerome,”
I said calmly.
“You had a chartered jet booked for Zurich under an assumed corporate alias on Monday night.
The FBI entered the flight manifest into evidence at your arraignment this morning.”
Jerome pressed his face closer to the glass,
leaving an oily smudge on the surface.
“I was confused!”
he stammered,
his hands rattling the transport chains against the shelf.
“I was having a breakdown!
Leona,
please,
you have to post the bond.
The Drayton trust can wire twenty million dollars without feeling it.
I will resign from everything.
I will sign a non-disclosure agreement.
I will move to the south of France and you will never see me again.
Just get me out of this orange suit.
You don't know what they do to men like me in here.”
I gestured slightly to Sarah.
Sarah opened the manila folder,
pulled out a clean four-page document with blue signature tabs,
and slid it under the steel slot at the bottom of the glass partition.
“What is this?”
Jerome asked,
staring at the papers with growing dread.
“This is the unconditional marital dissolution agreement,
Jerome,”
I told him,
my voice soft,
even,
and irreversible.
“It waives all claims to Drayton trust assets,
confirms the forfeiture of your Northgate equity to cover corporate restitution,
and requires you to plead guilty to counts one through four of the federal indictment.”
Jerome’s eyes widened in horror.
“Pleaded guilty?”
he gasped,
his voice turning into a high-pitched scream through the handset.
“That carries an eight-year mandatory minimum sentence!
You are asking me to sign myself into federal prison!”
“No,
Jerome,”
I replied,
looking at him through the glass with absolute clarity.
“Your own greed signed you into federal prison.
This agreement merely determines whether the United States Attorney pursues counts five through twelve,
which carry a sentence of thirty-five years.
If you sign these papers right now,
the trust will pay your legal defense fees and fund a modest commissary account for the duration of your sentence.
If you refuse,
Sarah will walk out of this facility,
we will withdraw our cooperation agreement,
and you will face trial alone with a public defender.”
Jerome looked down at the blue tabs,
his chest heaving with dry,
strangled sobs.
He looked at the correction officer standing by the door,
looked at the cold concrete walls,
and realized that there was no escape.
The walls had closed in,
the trap had snapped shut,
and the woman who had opened the door was the one he had spent twenty years dismissing as an empty signature.
The officer stepped forward,
handed Jerome a standard black ballpoint pen,
and held the clipboard steady.
With hands that shook so violently the ink tore through the cheap paper,
Jerome scribbled his name across the four signature lines.
He dropped the pen,
buried his face against the metal shelf,
and wept like an abandoned child,
his shoulders heaving under the bright orange jumpsuit.
The officer slid the signed documents back through the slot.
Sarah inspected each signature,
nodded to me,
and placed them neatly into her briefcase.
I slowly lowered the plastic receiver to its cradle,
rose from the metal stool,
and smoothed the front of my black wool dress.
Jerome looked up through the scratched glass,
his face drenched in tears,
mouthing words that could no longer pass through the soundproof barrier:
Please.
Don't leave me.
I didn't answer.
I didn't turn back.
May you like
I walked through the heavy steel door into the cold autumn sunshine,
stepped into my waiting car,
