Chapter 13 - The Golden Cage Rejected
By 1:30 PM, the street was cleared.
The fraudulent eviction had been halted by an emergency injunction issued directly from the Chief Judge of Cook County after my attorneys intervened. Arthur Sterling had fled the scene in his Mercedes, his face gray with the realization that he had underestimated my willingness to declare open war on my own family.
Claire sat in the rear of the Maybach, wrapped in a dry wool blanket Thomas had provided.
She wasn't crying anymore. Her eyes had turned to cold, polished stone. The terror had burned away, leaving behind a terrifying, crystalline rage.
"Where are the boys?" she asked, her voice dangerously quiet.
"Safe," I said. "Marcus has four private security officers stationed inside St. Jude’s Elementary. The principal has been informed that under no circumstances is anyone other than you or me permitted to sign them out."
"And your mother?"
"I am going to handle Margaret," I said. "Right now."
I tapped on the glass partition. "Thomas. Daley Center."
"No," Claire said.
I turned to look at her. "Claire, the emergency custody hearing is in twenty-five minutes. We have to be in Judge Miller's courtroom."
"I am going with you," she said, untying the blanket and smoothing down the front of her damp, stained sweatshirt. "I am going to stand in front of that judge, and I am going to look that woman in the eye."
"Claire, you don't have to put yourself through that. My litigation team is already there. William Vance has twenty lawyers waiting to tear Margaret's petition to shreds."
"She tried to steal my children, Ethan!" Claire’s voice cracked like thunder inside the quiet cabin. "She had my furniture thrown into the rain! She treated me like an animal nine years ago, and she just did it again today! I am not hiding behind your lawyers! I am their mother!"
I looked at her fierce, magnificent fury. Nine years ago, she had been a frightened twenty-two-year-old girl who believed my mother's lies.
Today, she was an unstoppable force of nature.
"All right," I said softly, reaching out and gently tucking a strand of wet hair behind her ear. "We go together."
At 1:55 PM, our convoy arrived at the Richard J. Daley Center in downtown Chicago.
Dozens of reporters and television cameras were already swarming the plaza, tipped off by the sudden mobilization of Chicago’s two most powerful legal firms. As the Maybach pulled up to the curb, flashes exploded against the tinted glass.
I stepped out first, extending my hand to Claire.
She ignored my hand, stepping out on her own two feet, her head held high, completely indifferent to the cameras, the flashing lights, and the damp, faded sweatshirt she wore.
I fell in step beside her, my hand resting firmly against the small of her back as my security detail cleared a violent path through the shouting press.
*"Mr. Whitmore! Is it true you have secret children?"*
*"Ms. Morgan! Are you filing for back child support?"*
*"Is Margaret Whitmore suing for custody?"*
We ignored them all, walking through the revolving doors and taking the private express elevator directly to the sixth floor.
Courtroom 602 was already packed with attorneys when the heavy double doors swung open.
Sitting at the petitioner’s table on the right side of the room was Margaret Whitmore.
She wore a bespoke charcoal wool suit, a single strand of pearls, and her silver hair was coiffed to perfection. She looked like the matriarch of Chicago royalty.
Beside her sat Arthur Sterling, his collar disheveled, nervously whispering into her ear.
When the doors opened, Margaret turned, expecting to see her legal victory handed to her on a silver platter.
Instead, she saw me.
May you like
And standing directly beside me, with her chin held high and fire in her hazel eyes, was Claire.
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