Chapter 10 - Sixty-Eight Subpoenas
By midnight, Eli was in the prison ward of Dell Seton Medical Center under armed federal guard, treated for a deep puncture wound to the quadriceps and booked on charges of felony burglary, aggravated assault, and witness tampering.
Dalia didn't sleep. She sat in the conference room amid the shattered glass and broken doorframe, her suit sleeves rolled up, drinking cold espresso while a locksmith installed an industrial steel reinforced deadbolt.
"No more defense," Dalia said, her pen scribbling across a stack of legal notices that stood nearly two feet high. "No more waiting for them to file motions. We take the room."
"What room?" I asked, my voice hoarse, a fresh purple bruise forming around my windpipe where Eli's fingers had dug in.
"The ballroom," she said, looking up with a gaze so sharp it could cut diamonds. "Sixty-eight witnesses clapped while your father dragged you across that floor. Sixty-eight city officials, bank presidents, oil executives, and charity directors watched a felony assault and cheered to protect their access to Richard Vance's stolen money."
Marcus carried in another box of court-stamped envelopes. "Every single one of them has been identified from the event’s guest list and hotel security footage."
"What are you doing to them?" I asked.
"Deposition subpoenas," Dalia said simply. "Under Federal Rule of Civil Procedure 45. They have seventy-two hours to appear at my office to give sworn, videotaped testimony regarding what they witnessed at the Whitmore Hotel at ten-forty-five PM on Saturday."
The audacity of it took my breath away. "You’re subpoenaing the entire high-society guest list?"
"If they lie under oath to protect Richard, they face five years for perjury and obstruction of justice," Dalia said. "If they tell the truth, they deliver the final nails in Richard Vance's criminal coffin. By sunrise, the elite of this city won't be returning Richard’s phone calls. They’ll be hiring their own criminal defense attorneys to save their own skins."
She was right.
By eight o’clock the following morning, Austin’s legal community was in total chaos.
My phone, which had previously received only threats from family, began blowing up with frantic messages from people who had ignored me for a decade.
*Cora, darling, it’s Cynthia Kensington. You know I’ve always loved you like a daughter. What happened at the hotel was a terrible misunderstanding—I was clapping because I thought Eli had made a toast! Please, tell your lawyer to drop my deposition notice.*
*Coralene, this is Councilman Davis. We need to talk privately. I didn't see your father touch you. I was looking at the buffet. Let’s resolve this without involving the press.*
One by one, the sixty-eight pillars of Richard Vance's empire crumbled.
By noon, fourteen affidavits landed on Dalia’s desk. High-society matrons and corporate vice presidents were tripping over themselves to sign statements confirming that Richard Vance had violently attacked me without provocation, desperate to avoid having their names dragged through a federal wire-fraud indictment.
The isolation Richard had spent my entire life weaponizing against me had reversed.
He was the one trapped in the dark now.
At two PM, Dalia’s private line rang.
It was Richard Vance’s personal criminal attorney, voice shaking so badly he could barely get the words out.
"Miss Brooks," the lawyer stammered. "Mr. Vance is prepared to discuss an unconditional surrender of all claims to Eleanor Vance's estate. He will sign a complete release of the four point eight million dollars. In exchange... he wants the federal assault and wire fraud referrals withdrawn."
Dalia looked across the desk at me. She didn't say a word. She simply reached out, hovered her finger over the speakerphone, and let me answer.
May you like
"Tell my father," I said, my voice steady, clear, and cold as river ice, "that Eleanor’s money was never a negotiation. It was already mine. I’ll see him in the courtroom tomorrow."
***
