Chapter 9 - The View from Behind the Glass
The federal holding facility at MCC was a world stripped of all poetry.
It smelled of industrial bleach, sour sweat, and the stale humidity of underground concrete. There were no cashmere sweaters here. No twenty-year-old scotches. No silk pocket squares.
When the guard ushered Richard into the small visitation stall, I almost didn't recognize him.
The bright orange jumpsuit hung loosely on his shoulders. His hair, usually sculpted with expensive pomade, was greasy and matted against his forehead. The arrogance that had powered his voice for thirty years had withered, replaced by the hollow, twitching paranoia of a caged animal.
He sat down heavily on the metal stool, picked up the plastic telephone receiver, and slammed it against his ear.
I sat down opposite him on my side of the reinforced glass, holding my receiver with one hand. I wore a simple black turtleneck and no jewelry except my mother’s vintage gold watch.
“You think this is over?” Richard’s voice rasped through the tinny speaker. His eyes were bloodshot, pupils dilated. “My lawyers are filing for an emergency writ. This entire case is based on stolen company documents. Fruit of the poisonous tree, Fiona! Any first-year law associate will throw this out!”
“The documents weren't stolen, Richard,” I said calmly. “They were preserved under the Corporate Transparency and Whistleblower Protection Act. As the primary trustee of the Sterling Estate, I had legal fiduciary duty to report illicit transactions. Marcus didn't steal them. I handed them over as the majority stakeholder.”
Richard slammed his fist against the plexiglass. The guard behind him took a step forward, his hand on his baton. Richard flinched and pulled back, breathing heavily.
“Why?” he choked out, his voice cracking with genuine, desperate bewilderment. “Why did you do this? We had everything! We were kings in this city! If you were unhappy, you could have taken a settlement! Ten million, twenty million—I would have given you a divorce!”
“You wouldn't have given me anything, Richard,” I said, looking directly through the glass. “You would have dragged it through court for five years, buried me in legal fees, smeared my name in the tabloids, and tried to leave me with pennies. Just like you did to the partners you cheated. Just like you did to every woman who came before me.”
Richard sneered, trying to gather the shattered pieces of his bravado. “And look at you now. You think you’re a hero? You’re a pariah, Fiona! Nobody in our circle will touch you. You ruined your own life just to spite me.”
“Our circle?” I laughed softly, a clear, untroubled sound that made him recoil. “Charlotte Wellington called me at six this morning to ask if I’d assume the chair of the museum gala. David from Meridian sent a bouquet of white lilies to the penthouse with a letter apologizing for ever doing business with you. They didn't love you, Richard. They feared your money. And now that I have it, they love me.”
Richard’s mouth worked soundlessly, his face flushing dark purple.
“You are going to spend the next twenty years in a federal penitentiary in upstate New York,” I told him, each word deliberate and measured. “Danielle is testifying against you. Marcus is testifying against you. Your board voted unanimously at dawn to strip you of all titles and assist the prosecution.”
I leaned in closer to the glass.
“You told me I was an ornament, Richard. You said I had no useful stress. Well, here is your stress. Every morning when you wake up on a thin mattress in a six-by-eight cell, remember that the woman who put you there was the one you thought was too stupid to read a balance sheet.”
I hung up the receiver.
Richard screamed something—a muffled, desperate obscenity—and threw himself against the glass, but the guards grabbed him by the shoulders, twisting his arms behind him, and dragged him backward through the steel door.
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I didn't watch him disappear. I simply turned and walked toward the exit.
***
