Chapter 19 - The Visitor at Otisville
The winter wind howling across the flat fields of Orange County, New York, brought with it a freezing, biting rain.
The minimum-security camp at Otisville was surrounded by high chain-link fences topped with razor wire, their metallic links rattling in the gale.
Inside the communal visiting hall, plastic tables were arranged in neat rows beneath humming fluorescent fixtures.
Jerome Chase sat at table twelve, wearing standard issue dark green prison slacks and a rough grey fleece sweatshirt.
His face was thin, his jawline hollowed out, and his hair had grown completely white and coarse.
He rubbed his rough, chapped hands together to fight off the chill of the concrete floor.
He had been summoned from his work assignment in the prison maintenance warehouse twenty minutes earlier.
The guard had told him only that his legal representation had arrived with urgent news.
Jerome sat with a flicker of pathetic hope burning in his chest.
He had spent months convincing himself that Richard Sterling’s maneuvers in Zurich would succeed.
He believed that thirty million dollars in hidden European funds would eventually provide him with the resources to hire high-priced appellate lawyers, vacate his guilty plea, and reclaim his status upon his release.
The heavy security door opened, and a visitor entered the hall.
Jerome stood up, a nervous smile forming on his lips.
Then he froze.
Walking toward the table was not an appellate lawyer.
It was his younger brother, David Chase, accompanied by Marcus Wright.
David was fifty-three years old, an unassuming high school history teacher who wore an ordinary wool coat and carried an inexpensive canvas briefcase.
His face was weary, lined with the sorrow of a decent man whose family name had been dragged through every gutter in the financial press.
David sat down across from Jerome, placing his hands on the plastic table.
Jerome sat down slowly, his eyes darting frantically between David and Marcus.
"David?" Jerome asked, his voice cracking.
"Why are you here?"
"Did the appellate filing go through?"
"Did Sterling’s firm contact you?"
David looked at his older brother with profound, unyielding grief.
"Sterling was arrested in Zurich four days ago, Jerome," David said, his voice flat and devastatingly quiet.
Jerome’s breath hitched in his throat.
"What?"
"The Swiss federal police took him into custody at Banque Privée Valmont," David continued.
"He was extradited to New York yesterday afternoon."
"He entered a full guilty plea this morning to avoid twenty years in maximum security."
"He named you as the primary instigator of the patent theft."
Jerome clutched the edge of the plastic table, his knuckles turning dead white.
"No... that’s impossible," Jerome stammered, shaking his head frantically.
"Bridget had the backup codes."
"Bridget would never cooperate without my permission."
"Bridget gave the codes to Leona herself, Jerome," Marcus Wright interjected, leaning forward with calm authority.
"She handed over the physical encryption key at Danbury."
"Every patent assigned to Helios Global has been recovered and returned to Northgate Systems."
"The thirty-two million euros held in Zurich have been seized by the Department of Justice."
"And because of your role in attempting to liquidate stolen corporate property while awaiting sentencing, Judge Vance has revoked your eligibility for early parole."
Jerome stared at Marcus, his mouth opening and closing like a fish pulled from water.
"She... she gave them the codes?" Jerome whispered, tears finally pooling in his bloodshot eyes.
"After everything I did for her?"
"I bought her that apartment!"
"I bought her family the house in Aspen!"
David Chase slammed his open palm against the table with a sharp, resonant crack.
The guard near the wall shifted his stance, but David did not look away from his brother's face.
"Stop it, Jerome!" David shouted, his voice shaking with pure disgust.
"Stop talking about what you bought people with money you stole!"
"Look at yourself!"
"You are fifty-three years old, sitting in a federal penitentiary, and you still think the world revolves around your vanity!"
"David, I am your brother," Jerome sobbed, reaching across the table with trembling hands.
"You have to help me."
"I cannot survive seven more years in this place."
"My heart is weak, David."
"The dampness in the warehouse is killing me."
David pulled his hands back, refusing to allow Jerome to touch him.
"I didn't come here to help you, Jerome," David said, his voice dropping into a cold, heartbreaking whisper.
"I came here to tell you that Mom died yesterday morning in Pennsylvania."
The room fell into an unbearable, suffocating silence.
Jerome’s hands froze in mid-air.
"Mom?" he whispered.
"She had a stroke three weeks ago," David said, tears finally rolling down his own cheeks.
"She never recovered."
"Her last words weren't about your corporate empire, Jerome."
"She asked why her oldest boy had turned into a thief."
"She asked why you let the newspapers print such terrible things about our family."
"And do you know who paid for her hospice care, Jerome?"
"Do you know who ensured she had private nurses holding her hand while she passed away?"
Jerome stared at his brother, terror and shame crushing his chest until he could barely breathe.
"Leona," David said.
"Leona Chase paid every single dollar of Mom’s medical bills."
"She arranged for the private funeral in our hometown."
"She didn't tell a single reporter."
"She didn't issue a press release."
"She did it because she loved Mom, and because she possesses a decency that you couldn't understand if you lived a thousand years."
Jerome buried his face in his rough green sleeves, weeping uncontrollably as the reality of his total moral bankruptcy tore through him.
David stood up from the table, buttoning his ordinary wool coat.
"I'm not coming back here, Jerome."
"Don't write to me, and don't call my house."
"As far as my family is concerned, the brother I grew up with died the night you allowed that girl to strike your wife at Selene."
David turned and walked toward the exit without looking back once.
Marcus Wright stood up, closing his leather portfolio with a firm snap.
"Goodbye, Mr Chase."
May you like
Jerome Chase remained collapsed over the plastic table, his shuddering sobs echoing through the empty visiting hall.
The last thread connecting him to the world of honor, family, and dignity had snapped forever.
