Chapter 13 - The Jailhouse Confrontation
The basement of the Metropolitan Detention Center in downtown Los Angeles smelled of industrial floor stripper,
stale sweat,
and the damp,
metallic chill of an inescapable cage.
Fluorescent tubes flickered overhead,
casting a sickly greenish hue over the reinforced cinderblock walls and the heavy,
shatterproof glass partition that separated the visiting booth from the maximum-security holding cells.
I sat on the cold steel stool,
wearing a simple dark trench coat,
holding my head high,
refusing to let the crushing weight of the environment intimidate me.
Behind me,
my father stood with his arms folded across his chest,
accompanied by two federal marshals whose sidearms remained strapped to their hips.
The heavy iron door on the other side of the glass clanged open,
its hinges shrieking with metal fatigue.
Two correctional officers led Beatrice Vance into the room.
The woman who had arrived at my son’s birthday party draped in diamonds,
silk,
and arrogance was completely unrecognizable.
Her tailored emerald gown had been replaced by a baggy,
wrinkled orange jumpsuit stamped with federal property numbers across the back.
Her styled blonde hair hung in greasy,
tangled clumps around her gaunt face,
her makeup was smeared into hideous dark circles,
and heavy steel chains bound her wrists to a leather restraint belt around her waist.
When she sat down,
her shackles clattered violently against the metal bench.
She glared at me through the glass,
her eyes wild,
bloodshot,
and burning with venomous,
unbroken spite.
She grabbed the heavy black telephone receiver with both chained hands,
slamming it against her ear.
I picked up my receiver,
holding it calmly,
my voice devoid of fear,
tremor,
or warmth.
"You look miserable,
Beatrice,"
I said,
my tone lighter and colder than winter ice.
"You think this is a victory,
you ungrateful little guttersnipe?"
she hissed into the phone,
spittle flying against the reinforced glass,
her voice rattling with hysteria.
"You think you’ve won because you ran to the federal marshals with your pathetic cop father?
Do you have any idea what my late husband’s friends will do to you?
The attorneys are already filing writs of habeas corpus!
By tomorrow afternoon,
I will be out on bail,
and I will use every dollar of the Vance family fortune to crush you like a roach under my heel!"
I couldn't help but let out a quiet,
pitying laugh that made her face contort in rage.
"What fortune,
Beatrice?"
I asked softly,
leaning closer to the partition.
"Two hours ago,
I executed emergency Chapter 11 liquidation orders on Vance Biometrics.
Every domestic bank account has been frozen under federal seizure warrants.
Your luxury penthouse in Century City,
your villa in Aspen,
and your estate in Malibu have all been encumbered by federal tax liens.
And as for your little safe-deposit box at Pacific Crest..."
Beatrice froze.
Her jaw went completely slack,
the venom in her bloodshot eyes instantly replaced by a sudden,
sickening terror that seemed to drain the remaining color from her skin.
"Box 704,"
I whispered,
watching her soul wither through the glass.
"We have the binders,
Beatrice.
We have the adoption files from Belize,
we have the international wire transfers from Munich and Zurich,
and we have Dr.
Cross’s personal diaries detailing every single illegal extraction you coordinated for the last fourteen years.
There is no bail for crimes against humanity.
There are no high-priced lawyers who can save you.
You will never touch a single dollar of your money again,
and you will never spend another night in a bed without steel bars."
Beatrice began to hyperventilate,
her chained hands shaking so violently that the receiver clattered against her ear.
"Ryan..."
she choked out,
tears of pure panic cutting clean lines through the dirt on her cheeks.
"Ryan will explain...
it was Ryan's idea!
He forced me to make the call to Victor!
He was desperate!
He mismanaged the company!
Mariana,
you have to tell the prosecutors that I was only an advisor!
I am an old woman!
I will die in this place!"
"You should have thought about that before you put a needle into my son's neck,"
I said,
my words like hammer blows.
"You aren't a mother,
Beatrice.
You're a predator.
And predators belong in cages."
I slammed the receiver back onto the metal cradle,
stood up,
and turned my back on her as she began to shriek hysterically,
slamming her shackled fists against the glass until the correctional officers forced her to her feet and dragged her through the heavy iron door.
Next,
they brought in Ryan.
He looked even worse than his mother.
His skin was pasty and gray,
his expensive posture shattered,
his eyes darting around the room like those of a cornered animal waiting for the executioner.
When he saw me,
his knees buckled,
and he dropped heavily onto the steel bench,
reaching for the receiver with hands that trembled uncontrollably.
I picked up the phone again,
looking at the man who had promised to love me until death did us part.
"Mariana,
please..."
Ryan sobbed,
pressing his forehead against the cold glass,
openly weeping like a broken child.
"Please,
for God's sake,
tell them it was a corporate mistake.
Tell them I didn't know Dr.
Cross was going to use rocuronium.
They put me in solitary confinement,
Mariana!
They said I'm facing forty years!
I can't survive in a federal prison!
Think about Leo!
He needs a father!
What kind of monster takes a boy’s father away from him?"
"The kind of monster who protects her son from a father who tried to sell him,"
I replied,
my voice steady,
hollow,
and merciless.
"You aren't a father,
Ryan.
You never were.
To you,
Leo was a donor profile with an eight-million-dollar price tag.
I brought something for you to sign."
I pressed a set of folded legal documents against the glass.
"An absolute,
irrevocable surrender of all parental rights,
custody claims,
and visitation privileges,"
I told him.
"If you sign it right now,
AUSA Ramos has agreed not to seek the death penalty under the Federal Biological Anti-Terrorism Statutes,
and will recommend a plea deal of thirty-five years instead of life without parole."
Ryan stared at the papers through the glass,
his chest heaving with choked,
miserable sobs.
"And if I don't sign?"
he whispered.
"Then I will testify at your trial,"
I said,
looking straight into his hollow eyes,
"and I will personally read every single line of that Cook Islands escrow ledger to the jury.
Sign the papers,
Ryan.
It is the very last thing you will ever do for your son."
With trembling,
sweating hands,
Ryan pulled the legal pen slid under the security flap by the federal marshal,
his tears falling onto the parchment,
and signed his name across the bottom line.
He was no longer my husband.
He was no longer Leo's father.
May you like
He was just inmate number 84291,
waiting for his life to end.
