Chapter 7 - The Arrest
The two state troopers didn't rush. They walked up the center aisle with the heavy, rhythmic thud of duty boots.
Behind them walked Detective Mark Jenkins, an old friend who had hunted Derrick Cole across three jurisdictions before Derrick vanished into the wealthy enclaves of Chicago under the identity of Albert Montgomery.
"Derrick Wayne Cole," Detective Jenkins announced, pulling a set of steel handcuffs from his belt. "You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law."
"Get your hands off me!" Derrick snarled, thrashing as the first trooper caught him by the elbow and drove him face-first onto the linen-draped sweetheart table.
Centerpieces crashed. Crystal vases shattered, spilling cold water and white roses across the satin runner. The two-thousand-dollar wedding cake shuddered as the table shook, then tilted sideways and collapsed onto the parquet floor in a ruined heap of white fondant and crushed raspberry filling.
The groomsmen, who had laughed so loudly at me only twenty minutes earlier, scrambled backward out of the splash zone, knocking chairs over, eager to distance themselves from their disgraced leader.
"This is harassment!" Derrick screamed into the microphone that lay inches from his crushed cheek. "I’m an investor! I have rights!"
"You have the right to serve that four-year sentence you skipped out on in Berks County," Jenkins said calmly, clicking the steel cuffs tightly around Derrick's wrists. "And you have a whole new batch of federal wire fraud and interstate bank scam charges waiting for you in the district court tomorrow morning."
Jenkins pulled the man up by the scruff of his tuxedo jacket.
Derrick’s hair was wild, his bow tie hanging crooked, his face smeared with frosting and red berry filling. As the troopers began marching him down the center aisle toward the main exit, the entire ballroom parted like the Red Sea. Friends, colleagues, and acquaintances he had cultivated over two years of lies averted their eyes, shrinking away in shame.
When they reached the back of the room, Jenkins stopped right in front of my little metal chair.
Derrick looked down at me. The hatred in his eyes burned with the heat of an open blast furnace.
"You," Derrick spat, spittle flying from his lips. "You did this. You miserable old fossil. You set me up."
I didn't stand up. I didn't raise my voice. I took the last sip of my champagne, placed the empty flute carefully on top of the stainless-steel trash can beside me, and looked him dead in the eye.
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"You told everyone I knew where the scraps belong," I said quietly, the whole room hanging on every syllable. "You were right. The garbage always ends up right back where it started."
Derrick lunged forward with a roar, but the two troopers yanked his arms back and hauled him through the double doors into the autumn chill.
