Chapter 5 - The Frozen Offshore Accounts
Rain began to lash against the glass windows of Arthur Vance's corner office as the afternoon darkened into evening.
Graham sat in a low armchair opposite Arthur's desk, looking like a man who had survived a train derailment.
His expensive Italian loafers were soaked from walking three blocks through the rain after his car service was terminated.
"There has to be an offshore release valve, Arthur," Graham pleaded, his hands shaking violently.
"The Zurich account in my uncle's name."
"That wasn't listed on the Caldwell trust schedule."
Arthur did not look up from the court transcripts he was reviewing.
"The Zurich account was liquidated at nine o'clock this morning by the Swiss authorities," Arthur said flatly.
Graham shot out of the chair, knocking over an umbrella stand.
"Under what jurisdiction?" he screamed.
"Under the mutual legal assistance treaty for wire fraud," a voice answered from the doorway.
I stepped into the office, holding an umbrella dripping water onto the marble threshold.
Graham turned to me, his eyes wild, hollowed out by fatigue and terror.
"Elena, please," he croaked, dropping his hands to his sides.
"They're talking about grand larceny."
"They're talking about ten to fifteen years in a federal penitentiary."
"You wouldn't actually send the father of your future children to prison, would you?"
I stared at him with profound pity, realizing how shallow his understanding of me had always been.
"We never had children, Graham."
"Every time I brought it up, you said the company needed another two years of total focus."
"You were delaying me so you could secure enough capital to divorce me and take half the estate."
Graham stepped backward, his shoulder blades hitting the wood-paneled bookshelf.
"Who told you that?" he whispered.
"Nobody had to tell me," I said, walking to Arthur’s desk and opening a blue leather binder.
"I found the draft separation agreement in your private safe at the marina office six months ago."
Graham’s breath caught in his throat.
"You were planning to file the moment the harbor bond closed," I revealed.
"You were going to claim I was emotionally unstable and demand twenty-five million in maintenance."
"You spent six months smiling at me across the breakfast table knowing I was planning to leave?" Graham asked, horrified.
"I spent six months making sure that when you fell, you wouldn't take a single thread of my father's legacy with you."
Graham sank back down into the armchair, burying his face in his trembling hands.
"I gave you everything," he groaned through his fingers.
"You gave me a borrowed life paid for with my own inheritance," I said.
Marcus Cole entered the room through a side door, holding a fresh batch of faxed documents.
"Elena, the grand jury has returned a true bill," Marcus reported without hesitation.
"Seven counts of bank fraud, three counts of corporate embezzlement, and two counts of tax evasion."
Graham raised his head, his face completely pale.
"A true bill?" he whispered.
"The warrants have been signed by Judge Miller," Arthur stated, picking up his desk phone.
"The Marshals are likely waiting outside this building right now."
Graham scrambled to his feet, rushing to the window to peer through the blinds down to the street.
Two black unmarked utility vehicles were parked at the curb, their emergency lights flashing quietly in the downpour.
"You orchestrated this whole thing," Graham said, turning his trembling face toward me.
"The dinner party last night... you knew it was over before Sloane even spoke."
"I gave you one last chance to be a decent human being, Graham," I said softly.
"If you had walked into that dining room, introduced Sloane as a professional colleague, and left my personal life alone, I might have allowed you to resign quietly."
"Instead, you stole my mother’s honeymoon gift to parade your infidelity in front of my peers."
"You chose the arena, Graham."
"I simply decided who was going to walk out of it alive."
A heavy knock rattled the frosted glass of Arthur Vance's office doors.
Graham jumped as if he had been struck by a live wire.
"Don't open it," he pleaded, tears finally spilling down his hollow cheeks.
"Elena, please... let me go out through the maintenance exit."
"Let me leave the country."
I looked at the man who had commanded me not to make a scene at my own table twenty-four hours earlier.
"Arthur," I said calmly.
May you like
"Open the door."
***
