Chapter 14 - The Federal Indictment
The Arctic freeze that had held Chicago in an iron grip for three weeks finally broke on Thursday afternoon.
A pale, watery sunshine reflected off the slush accumulating along the gutters of North Dearborn Street.
Grant Mercer walked out of the revolving doors of his criminal attorney’s high-rise office building, pulling the collar of his coat up against the damp chill.
He had spent four hours in a grueling pre-indictment conference with federal prosecutors.
The government was not offering probation.
The government was not offering a deferred prosecution agreement.
The Assistant United States Attorney had laid three separate counts of wire fraud, two counts of interstate transportation of hazardous equipment, and one count of witness tampering on the table.
The driver of semi-truck cab 414, terrified of facing twenty years in federal prison, had turned state's evidence forty-eight hours ago.
The driver had produced text messages from Grant’s burner phone promising a fifty-thousand-dollar cash payment if he told police his brakes had failed suddenly without prior warning.
Grant reached into his pocket to pull out his phone, wanting to call an Uber.
His fingers touched an empty pocket.
His private cellular accounts had been closed by the bankruptcy trustee managing his frozen personal estate.
He had eighty-four dollars in cash in his leather wallet.
He stood on the street corner, watching ordinary commuters in winter coats hurry past him toward the subway entrances.
For fourteen years, he had looked down upon these people from the floor-to-ceiling glass of his corner office.
He had considered them background noise in the grand symphony of his ambition.
Now, he didn't even have a token to ride the train.
A sleek black Mercedes-Benz sedan pulled smoothly up to the curb beside him.
The rear window rolled down with a faint mechanical purr.
Julian Reed sat in the back seat, holding a manila envelope.
"Get in, Grant," Julian said.
Grant stared at the lawyer, his jaw working silently.
"Why?" Grant rasped, his voice raw.
"Have you come to watch me beg?"
"Natalie asked me to deliver your final divorce decree and property division judgment," Julian said evenly.
"Unless you prefer to read the terms on the sidewalk while the federal marshals prepare your arrest warrant."
Grant swallowed his remaining pride, opened the heavy door, and slid into the leather passenger seat.
The interior of the vehicle was warm and quiet.
Julian handed him the thick manila envelope.
Grant pulled out the heavy legal documents stamped by the Circuit Court of Cook County.
His eyes scanned the final settlement terms:
The Lake Forest estate was awarded entirely to Natalie.
The Vance family commercial properties were restored to Natalie’s sole name.
The controlling shares of the restructured Apex Logistics enterprise were placed into an employee-and-community foundation chaired by Natalie.
Grant was awarded his personal clothing, his grandfather's vintage wristwatch, and the equity in a single, mortgaged condominium in suburban Schaumburg.
"She took everything," Grant whispered, his hands shaking as he turned the pages.
"She stripped me to the bone."
"She didn't take anything you earned honestly, Grant," Julian said, looking straight ahead through the windshield.
"She took back what your greed stole from her family."
"And she took what was necessary to compensate the victims of Midwest Hauling's neglected fleet."
"I want to see her," Grant said suddenly, turning toward Julian with desperate, bloodshot eyes.
"Take me to her."
"I know if I talk to her alone—without you, without Arthur, without the lawyers—she will listen."
"Natalie loved me, Julian."
"She loved me more than anyone in this world ever did."
Julian turned his head and looked at Grant with an expression of cold, unvarnished pity.
"She did love you, Grant."
"That was the greatest asset you ever possessed."
"And you treated it like an expendable line item on an operational budget."
The car pulled to a stop at the corner of Federal Plaza, outside the Dirksen Federal Building.
Parked along the curb were two unmarked black SUVs with tinted windows and federal government license plates.
Four agents wearing windbreakers with gold 'FEDERAL BUREAU OF INVESTIGATION' lettering across the back were waiting on the sidewalk.
Grant felt the blood drain completely from his brain.
"No," Grant choked out, grabbing the door handle to push himself back into the seat.
"Julian, no!"
"Please!"
"Not here!"
"Your attorney arranged the self-surrender for two o'clock, Grant," Julian said, his voice entirely devoid of emotion.
"It is currently one fifty-nine."
The rear door was pulled open from the outside.
A tall, broad-shouldered special agent leaned down into the car, displaying his gold badge.
"Grant Douglas Mercer?"
Grant sat frozen, clutching the manila envelope against his chest like a dying shield.
"Yes," he whispered.
"Step out of the vehicle, please."
"You are under arrest pursuant to a federal warrant issued by the Northern District of Illinois."
Grant stepped out onto the cold, wet pavement.
A crowd of pedestrians stopped on the sidewalk to watch.
The lead agent turned Grant around, pushing his hands behind his back.
The cold steel of the handcuffs clicked shut around his wrists with three loud, definitive notches.
Grant Mercer stood in the center of the plaza, his Savile Row coat pulled askew, his head bowed, the icy Chicago wind whipping his unkempt hair into his eyes.
Cameras flashed from three news vans that had been tipped off by the clerk's office.
As the agents guided him toward the federal transport vehicle, Grant looked up into the crowd.
Standing across the plaza, near the base of the Calder Flamingo sculpture, was Rachel Vance.
Rachel was holding her sister's hand.
Natalie stood tall and upright on the plaza tiles.
She had discarded her cane.
She was wearing a vibrant emerald wool coat, her head held high, the pale winter sun illuminating her face.
The dark sutures on her eyebrow were gone, leaving only a thin, silver line that caught the afternoon light like a medal of honor.
She did not smile.
She did not celebrate.
She simply watched him being loaded into the back of the federal vehicle, her green eyes clear, tranquil, and completely unburdened.
May you like
The heavy steel door of the FBI transport slammed shut.
Grant Mercer’s world went entirely black.
