Chapter 8 - The Jailhouse Reckoning
Forty-eight hours later, I sat on one side of a thick plexiglass partition in the attorney-client visitation room of the Metropolitan Detention Center in Brooklyn.
Daniel sat on the other side.
The transformation was astonishing. The bespoke Tom Ford suit was gone, replaced by an ill-fitting orange jumpsuit. His perfectly coiffed hair was unwashed, flattened against his scalp, and a dark purple bruise bloomed under his left eye—a parting gift from an inmate who hadn't appreciated Daniel's upper-class complaints about the holding cell conditions.
He picked up the heavy plastic telephone receiver with trembling, handcuffed hands.
I lifted mine.
"You came," Daniel croaked through the receiver. A desperate, sickening spark of hope flared in his sunken eyes. "Victoria... baby. I knew you'd come. You listened to Evelyn, didn't you? You know this whole thing can go away if you just post the bail collateral."
I looked at him in silence for five long seconds.
"You look terrible, Daniel," I said evenly.
"They put me in gen-pop for six hours, Victoria!" he hissed, pressing his face close to the scratched glass. "They treated me like an animal! You have to get me out! If you pledge the Greenwich house for the bail package, the judge will grant house arrest! I can stay in the guest house! We can work this out!"
"Pledge my house?" I laughed softly. A cold, genuine laugh that seemed to strip the last shred of flesh from his bones. "Daniel, you really still don't get it, do you?"
"Get what?" he pleaded. "I made mistakes! I got in over my head with the Panama investments! I only did it because I wanted to be your equal! I hated being Mr. Victoria Hayes! I hated having everyone look at me like I was a kept man living off your grandfather's money!"
"You were a kept man," I corrected him. "And you weren't my equal because you lack the two things required to build an empire: brains and discipline. You were a petty, thieving fraud who thought charm could replace competence."
Daniel’s expression twisted into ugly rage. "What about my mother? You had her arrested at the Belle Haven Club! In front of everyone! She’s sixty-four years old! She has high blood pressure!"
"Your mother will survive federal prison camp in Danbury," I said. "Though I doubt she'll find anyone willing to let her wash their feet."
Daniel slammed his plastic receiver against the counter, then brought it back to his ear. "I will fight you on the divorce! I will drag out the proceedings for five years! I will expose every single asset your family holds in trust! The public will see everything!"
"There will be no trial, Daniel," I replied calmly.
I reached into my handbag, pulled out a manila envelope, and pressed it against the glass.
Inside was a copy of the plea agreement Evelyn Cross had negotiated with the Department of Justice earlier that morning.
"Chloe gave them your personal hard drives," I told him. "She gave them the private ledger from your Panama accounts. She gave them the voice memos you recorded on your phone discussing how you planned to drug my bedtime tea with sedatives to get my biometric thumbprint on the mortgage documents."
Daniel recoiled from the glass as if it were electrified.
"You recorded those memos, Daniel," I whispered. "You saved them to the cloud. You were so proud of your brilliant plan that you documented your own premeditation."
His mouth hung open. The room seemed to spin around him.
"The U.S. Attorney offered you twelve years at a medium-security facility in upstate New York if you plead guilty today and sign over all rights to our marital estate, including your pension and any claim to my assets," I said. "If you refuse, they are filing superseding indictments tomorrow morning. Thirty-five years. No parole."
Tears began to spill from Daniel's eyes, running down his stubbled cheeks. "Victoria... please. Don't do this. I'll have nothing. I'll be forty-four when I get out. I'll have no money, no career, no family..."
"You should have thought about that before you handed your mother a basin of water in my house," I said.
May you like
I hung up the phone.
I stood up, smoothed down the front of my trench coat, and walked toward the heavy steel exit door without looking back. Behind me, through the thick reinforced glass, I could hear the muffled, frantic pounding of Daniel Sterling screaming my name until the guards forced him down onto the concrete floor.
