Chapter 18 - The Counter-Checkmate
The visiting room at the United States Penitentiary in Terre Haute was cold, smelling of institutional floor wax and stale coffee.
Richard Vance sat behind the reinforced glass partition, wearing an orange jumpsuit that hung loosely on his sunken frame. Six months of federal incarceration had stripped away the slick, arrogant sheen of the wealthy real-estate mogul. His hair was streaked with gray, his eyes hollow and dark.
On the other side of the glass sat Sloan, accompanied by Kieran.
Richard picked up the heavy plastic phone receiver with a trembling hand. Sloan raised hers to her ear.
"If you're here to gloat about the gallery," Richard rasped, his voice brittle and full of spite, "save your breath. Beatrice has resources you can’t even imagine. You might have won a few local battles, Sloan, but she will bleed you dry until you have nothing left to pay for that kid’s replacement filters."
"Beatrice was arrested forty-five minutes ago at the Zurich airport," Sloan said calmly, her tone as level as a winter lake.
Richard froze. The color drained from his face, leaving his skin the color of wet ash. "What?"
"Interpol red notice," Kieran spoke into his extension. "She tried to board a private Gulfstream to Dubai under a forged Panamanian passport. The Swiss authorities seized her laptop, her thumb drives, and every single ledger detailing the Apex-Trust offshore accounts."
Richard’s mouth opened, but no sound came out.
"And do you know what was inside those ledgers, Richard?" Sloan asked, leaning forward until her reflection overlapped his in the glass. "Your signature. Dated three days before you sent Declan to my home with that crowbar. You were planning the ventilator stunt not just for clout, but to create a public scandal that would allow you to write off sixty million dollars in fraudulent corporate debt under the guise of family bankruptcy."
"Sloan... please," Richard stammered, a sheen of cold sweat breaking out across his forehead. "Declan... Declan didn't know about that. It was Beatrice’s idea. She told me we could save the holdings—"
"You sacrificed your son to federal prison," Sloan interrupted, her voice dropping into a deadly whisper that seemed to rattle the heavy glass. "You allowed your nephew to destroy your daughter’s only means of drawing breath. You watched her suffocate on that floor through the security camera feed on your phone while you checked your stock portfolio."
"I was desperate!" Richard cried out, slamming his hand against the counter. A correctional officer immediately stepped forward, placing a heavy hand on Richard’s shoulder until he shrank back into his chair.
"Your desperation doesn't interest me," Sloan said. "Your plea deal has been formally revoked by Judge Miller. The federal prosecutors have re-indicted you on seventy-two counts of racketeering, securities fraud, and felony conspiracy to commit aggravated battery against a medically vulnerable minor."
Kieran slid a document against the glass, showing the stamped federal sentencing recommendation.
"Mandatory minimum," Kieran said. "Thirty-five years without the possibility of parole. You will die in this building, Richard."
Richard stared at the paper, tears of absolute, self-pitying terror spilling over his sunken cheeks. He looked up at Sloan, his lips quivering. "Tell Veta... tell my daughter I'm sorry. Tell her I didn't want it to go that far. Please, Sloan. Ask her to write a letter to the judge. She's an artist now, people listen to her! If she asks for leniency—"
Sloan slowly stood up. She looked down at the broken, pathetic shell of the man who had terrorized her and her child for over a decade.
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"Veta doesn't waste her breath on ghosts," Sloan said quietly.
She hung up the receiver, turned her back on Richard Vance, and walked out of the prison into the bright, blinding sunshine without looking back.
