Chapter 12 - The Desperate Gambler
In a cramped, airless diner off Golf Road in Schaumburg, Daniel Sterling stared into a mug of lukewarm drip coffee.
His hands, once manicured and accustomed to signing seven-figure mezzanine notes, were dry and calloused from sorting bill-of-lading disputes.
His navy bespoke suits were hanging in a closet in Evanston, sold or seized, replaced by off-the-rack polyester blends that bagged around his narrowing shoulders.
Across the formica booth sat Julianna Ward.
She looked nothing like the radiant, perfume-drenched junior vice president who had stood beside him under the chandeliers of the Halston Hotel.
Her career in commercial banking was effectively dead; the industry did not forgive being named as a co-conspirator in an unauthorized capital transfer.
She wore oversized dark glasses indoors and pulled her trench coat tightly around her frame, as if the cold shame of Chicago could be kept at bay by wool.
"He agreed to meet you?" Julianna whispered, glancing nervously toward the diner’s grease-stained front doors.
"He didn't agree out of charity," Daniel said, his voice grating with bitter pride.
"He agreed because he lost three million dollars when Claire triggered the loan-acceleration clauses on the River North high-rise."
"And you think he believes you?" she snapped under her breath.
"You lied to everyone, Daniel, including me."
"I lied about our timeline, not about the money," Daniel hissed, leaning across the table until the plastic booth creaked.
"Claire didn't just walk away with her trust fund."
"She orchestrated the liquidation of Sterling Crest using proprietary data that belonged to the corporate partnership."
"That makes her move fraudulent conversion under Illinois law, regardless of what that biased magistrate ruled."
Julianna let out a ragged, humorless laugh.
"You think Arthur Pendelton cares about justice?"
"Arthur Pendelton only cares about bleeding whoever has the deepest pockets."
The bell above the diner door jingled softly.
A heavy-set man in a cashmere overcoat stepped inside, flanked by a younger associate holding a leather portfolio.
Arthur Pendelton, once Daniel’s most formidable institutional creditor and a legendary Chicago real estate predator, looked around the cheap booth seating with visible disgust.
He slid into the seat next to Daniel without offering his hand.
"You have ten minutes, Sterling," Pendelton said, not bothering to take off his leather gloves.
"Convince me you’re not just a broken dog barking at the moon."
Daniel slid a manila folder across the sticky table.
"Claire’s grandmother had an irrevocable foundation registered in Geneva in 1984," Daniel said, his pulse hammering against his temples.
"Every single seed dollar for Sterling Crest passed through that entity before I ever touched it."
"If that trust is voided, her entire estate falls into open bankruptcy, and the priority liens revert to your consortium."
Pendelton tapped the folder with a gloved finger, his gray eyes narrowing.
"And what do you want out of it, Daniel?"
May you like
"I want her back in a Chicago courtroom," Daniel whispered, his knuckles white.
"I want her to sit across from me until she has nothing left to give."
