Chapter 8 - The Press Conference from Hell
Refusing to accept his corporate demise, Julian scheduled an emergency press conference at two that afternoon on the marble steps of City Hall.
He hired an aggressive, high-profile crisis communications firm to pack the plaza with sympathetic media outlets and paid supporters.
Julian took the podium flanked by two new criminal defense attorneys, wearing a pristine dark suit and projecting an air of wounded innocence.
He addressed the mass of cameras, claiming that he was the victim of an elaborate, highly coordinated extortion plot orchestrated by a vindictive wife.
He claimed that my injuries were self-inflicted, the result of a severe psychiatric episode caused by severe prenatal hormonal fluctuations.
He went so far as to claim that he had wrestled the knife away from me to save my life, and that my accusations were pure fiction designed to steal his wealth.
He claimed that there was zero objective evidence of his guilt, and that the justice system would fully exonerate him of all malicious allegations.
Just as Julian prepared to step away from the microphones, Marcus Kane stepped up to the public soundboard at the base of the plaza steps.
Kane plugged a sleek digital audio interface directly into the master feed that broadcasted to every major news network in the tri-state area.
He tapped the microphone, announcing to the press corps that they were about to hear the real, unedited truth of what transpired in the Vance penthouse.
Kane hit the spacebar on his laptop, routing the pristine digital recording from my smartwatch directly through the city’s public address speakers.
The sound of Julian’s distinct, arrogant voice echoed across the crowded plaza, carrying through the cool afternoon air with terrifying clarity.
The recording played the sickening, wet thud of the knife entering my flesh, followed immediately by my agonizing, breathless wheeze on the rug.
Then came Julian’s cold, horrifying words, booming through the plaza: he told Selena that I was gone, that he had finally done what she asked, and that they were free.
The entire plaza fell into a dead, paralyzed silence, broken only by the sound of Julian’s recorded voice whispering sweet promises to his mistress over my body.
Reporters dropped their pens in stunned disbelief, cameramen zooming their lenses straight into Julian’s face as his skin turned ashen gray.
On the steps of City Hall, Julian’s mouth opened and closed soundlessly, like a fish pulled out of water, completely unable to utter a single coherent syllable.
His two high-priced defense lawyers took two deliberate steps away from him, completely distancing themselves from their client on live television.
Before Julian could turn to flee toward his waiting limousine, four unmarked black sedans screeched to a halt along the perimeter of the plaza.
Detectives from the NYPD Major Case Squad, accompanied by armed state troopers, bounded up the wide granite steps with their badges held high.
The lead detective announced Julian Vance’s name, presenting an active warrant for attempted murder in the first degree, aggravated assault, and corporate fraud.
Julian backed away, screaming that they couldn't touch him, that they didn't know who his family was, that he was untouchable in this city.
Two burly detectives tackled Julian to the cold stone steps, pinning his expensive suit against the filthy granite while twisting his arms behind his back.
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The metallic click of the handcuffs ratcheting around Julian’s wrists was picked up clearly by the open microphones on the podium.
Thousands of citizens watching the live broadcast watched the golden boy of Manhattan Wall Street get marched down the steps in chains.
