Chapter 9 - THE INTERROGATION
At two o'clock in the morning, inside the fluorescent-lit basement of the Metropolitan Detention Center, two separate interrogation rooms were operating under maximum recording protocols.
In Room A, Victoria Cross sat at a metal table, her emerald gala gown torn at the hem, her makeup smeared across her puffy cheeks.
Across from her sat Assistant United States Attorney David Keller, reviewing bank records displayed on a tablet.
"Let's go through the Cayman routing numbers again, Ms.
Cross," Keller said, tapping the screen with his pen.
"Forty-two million dollars transferred over nine months into accounts bearing your maiden name, Victoria Hayes.
Did Julian Vance authorize these transactions, or did you initiate them using his executive security tokens?"
Victoria leaned forward, her voice hoarse and desperate, tears falling onto the cold steel table.
"Julian gave me the security tokens!" Victoria cried, waving her hands frantically.
"He told me Clara had billions in hidden family trusts and that she wouldn't miss a few million dollars!
He said that if I helped him set up the offshore accounts, we would run away to Europe after the divorce!
He promised me everything!
He told me he had judges ready to lock Clara away in a psychiatric ward so she couldn't contest the transfers!
I have his voice notes!
I saved every single text message on an encrypted drive hidden inside my apartment!
I will give you everything, Mr.
Keller!
Just please don't send me to a federal penitentiary!
Please, I will testify against Julian in open court!"
Keller smiled slightly, making a note in his pad.
"We already have your encrypted drive, Ms.
Cross.
Ms.
Sterling’s private investigators recovered it from your apartment two hours ago.
Your cooperation will be noted in the sentencing recommendation, but you are still looking at a minimum of twelve years for wire fraud and money laundering."
Victoria dropped her head onto the metal table, letting out a wail of utter defeat that vibrated through the cinderblock walls.
Meanwhile, down the hall in Room B, Julian Vance sat in an orange jumpsuit, his hands cuffed to an iron ring anchored to the floor.
His expensive tuxedo had been confiscated as evidence, leaving him shivering in the cold, sanitized air of the holding cell.
Arthur Pendleton sat across from him, accompanied by a senior court reporter whose machine clicked rhythmically with every breath.
"Here is the formal separation agreement, Julian," Arthur said, sliding a single sheet of paper across the metal table.
Julian looked down at the document, his bloodshot eyes scanning the terse, devastating clauses.
Under the terms of the agreement, Julian waived all claims to marital property, spousal support, real estate, and corporate equity.
In exchange, Sterling Investment Group agreed not to pursue personal civil bankruptcy judgments against his remaining family assets.
"Where is Clara?" Julian demanded, his voice cracking with dry exhaustion.
"I want to see my wife.
I have a right to speak with my wife!"
"Ms.
Sterling is currently managing the transition of her new logistics division," Arthur replied without looking up from his briefcase.
"She has no interest in speaking with a man who attempted to orchestrate her psychiatric confinement.
Sign the document, Julian."
Julian clenched his cuffed hands, the iron chains clinking loudly against the table ring.
"I built that company!" Julian yelled, veins bulging along his neck.
"I worked eighty hours a week for eight years!
I took meetings with foreign dignitaries!
I put my name on the building!
She was just sitting at home doing laundry and cooking dinners!
She was nothing!
How can a judge take everything I built and hand it to a woman who never attended a single executive meeting?"
Arthur leaned forward, his eyes fixing on Julian with absolute, terrifying clarity.
"Every contract you signed over the last eight years was pre-approved by Clara’s legal desk, Julian.
Every loan you received from international syndicates was personally guaranteed by Clara’s private collateral.
The building your name was on was purchased by Clara’s holding company three days before your wedding.
You did not build an empire, Julian.
You were merely an actor reading lines on a stage Clara built for you.
And when you began using her stage to sleep with your public relations director and plot her institutionalization, the show was canceled."
Julian slumped back against the metal chair, staring at the single sheet of paper before him.
The illusions of grandeur, the arrogance, the delusion that he was a self-made titan of New York industry—all of it dissolved into the cold fluorescent reality of a jail cell.
He had thrown away a woman who had given him the world, all to impress a mistress who had betrayed him within thirty minutes of arrest.
He picked up the cheap plastic pen provided by the court reporter with shaking fingers.
"Tell her..." Julian whispered, a solitary tear cutting a clean path through the grime on his cheek.
"Tell Clara...
that I am sorry."
Arthur picked up the signed document, blowing lightly across the fresh ink before sliding it into his leather folio.
"Ms.
May you like
Sterling has already forgotten your name, Julian," Arthur said quietly as he stood up and walked toward the heavy steel door.
"May God have mercy on your soul, because the Department of Justice certainly will not."
