Chapter 9 - The Signature
The room fell into an agonizing silence. The only sound was the steady patter of rain against the vast glass panels overlooking Chicago.
“And if I refuse?” Max whispered, his voice trembling with venom. “If I walk out that door right now?”
Julian checked his watch. “It is currently nine-fifteen. At nine-twenty, Marcus hits ‘send’ on an encrypted transmission to the United States Attorney for the Northern District of Illinois. By nine-forty-five, federal agents will be waiting at your Gold Coast apartment with a grand jury warrant for wire fraud and embezzlement under the ERISA statute.”
Julian looked at Keller. “Mr. Keller. You’re a member of the Illinois Bar. Tell your client his realistic prison exposure if this goes to a federal jury.”
Keller didn't hesitate. “Twelve to fifteen years, Max. Minimum security won't take pension theft. You’ll do real time in Terre Haute.”
Max’s breath came in ragged, shallow gasps. He looked at the silver fountain pen. He looked at Julian’s cold, unyielding face. And finally, his eyes dropped to the damp, wrinkled server’s shirt Julian was still wearing.
The sheer absurdity and terrifying reality of the situation broke him. The man who had entered the Marlow Room an hour earlier barking orders and throwing ice water now looked like a shattered, terrified child.
With shaking fingers, Max reached out and picked up the heavy silver pen.
His hand trembled so violently that the first stroke of his signature tore slightly into the parchment. But he signed. He signed the equity transfer. He signed the asset forfeiture. He signed away the legacy his family had held for seventy years.
When he dropped the pen, it rolled off the paper, leaving a tiny black dot of ink on the oak.
“Done,” Max croaked, staring at the floor. “I’m done.”
“Not quite,” Julian said.
Max looked up, his hollow eyes filled with dread. “What else do you want from me?”
Julian pushed the crystal pitcher of ice water across the table.
“Take off your jacket, Max.”
Max’s eyes went wide. “What?”
“Take off your jacket,” Julian repeated, his voice dangerously soft. “You’re going to walk downstairs. You’re going to walk back to Table Nine. And you are going to personally clean up every single drop of water and every cube of ice you left on the floor of my dining room.”
“You can’t be serious—”
“If there is a single droplet left on that hardwood by the time the dining room closes,” Julian said, “Marcus sends the files anyway. Get out of my sight.”
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Max stood paralyzed for three seconds. Then, stripping off his thousand-dollar cashmere jacket with trembling hands, he turned and fled through the double doors, Keller trailing behind him in silent, stunned ruin.
***
