Chapter 5 - Desperate Rats
Morning broke over Manhattan with the slate-grey hue of a pending storm.
In the basement holding cells of the Manhattan Criminal Court, Adrian Vale had spent twelve hours learning what the absence of money felt like.
The silk shirt he had worn to the gala was now stained with vomit and gray water from a leaking pipe in the corner of the communal cell. His Italian leather loafers had been confiscated because they had laces, replaced by a pair of oversized orange foam slippers that flapped awkwardly against his feet.
“Guard!” Adrian shouted for the fiftieth time, rattling the heavy steel bars. “Guard! I demand to speak to my attorney! This is a human rights violation!”
An older corrections officer with a thermos under his arm walked past, not even bothering to turn his head. “Quiet down in three, or you lose recreation privileges.”
“Do you know who I am?!” Adrian raged, his voice cracking into a dry, hoarse rasp. “I am Adrian Vale! I will have you scrubbing toilets in Staten Island!”
“Yeah, yeah,” the guard grumbled. “Save it for the judge, buddy. You’re on the ten o’clock docket.”
Two cells down, Vanessa Vance sat curled on a metal bench, weeping uncontrollably. Her face was swollen, her mascara dried into black streaks down her cheeks, and the red dress she had been so proud of looked like a rag retrieved from an incinerator.
“Adrian,” she sobbed. “Please tell me you reached someone. My mother... my mother has connections in the Hamptons. Did you call her?”
Adrian wheeled around, glaring at her through the bars. “Shut up, Vanessa! Just shut your mouth! If you hadn't insisted on wearing that damn necklace to the gala, none of this would have happened!”
“Me?!” Vanessa shrieked, jumping to her feet and gripping the bars of her cell. “You gave it to me! You told me Julian Montgomery’s fund was an automatic trust that never looked at invoices! You told me your wife was an illiterate orphan who couldn't balance a checkbook!”
“She *was*!” Adrian yelled back, running his trembling hands through his greasy hair. “She spent eight years sorting laundry and cataloging poetry books! How was I supposed to know she was a Montgomery? She never said a word! She never spent a dime of their money!”
“Because she didn't need to, you fool!” a voice spoke from the corridor.
Adrian froze.
Walking down the concrete corridor was Jonathan Vance, Vanessa’s uncle—and the senior managing partner of Vance, Kline & Associates, the law firm that had handled Adrian’s private affairs for half a decade.
“Uncle Jonathan!” Vanessa wept, pressing her face against the bars. “Thank God! Get me out of here! Post the bail!”
Jonathan Vance didn't look at his niece. He was a man in his late sixties, impeccably dressed in a bespoke overcoat, but his face was ashen, his hands visibly shaking as he clutched a leather briefcase.
“There is no bail, Vanessa,” Jonathan said, his voice trembling.
Adrian stepped forward, his eyes wild. “What do you mean there’s no bail? This is an arraignment! Grand larceny and domestic assault are bailable offenses! Write the check, Jonathan! I’ll pay you triple the retainer once my offshore accounts clear!”
Jonathan Vance turned slowly to Adrian, looking at him with sheer terror.
“There are no offshore accounts, Adrian,” Jonathan whispered.
Adrian’s breath caught in his throat. “What are you talking about?”
“Julian Montgomery executed a hostile takeover of Grand Cayman Union Bank at six o’clock this morning,” Jonathan said, pulling a trembling hand across his forehead. “He bought sixty percent of the bank’s parent company through a sovereign wealth vehicle. The moment the board changed hands, they surrendered all private client registries to the Department of Justice.”
Adrian’s knees went weak. He slumped against the cold steel bars, his fingers clawing at the metal. “No... that's illegal. That takes months of regulatory approval...”
“Not when Marcus Montgomery signs an emergency international subpoena on behalf of a joint federal task force,” Jonathan replied, his voice breaking. “Adrian... they have everything. The shell companies. The dummy invoices for the women’s shelters. The kickbacks you took on the construction contracts. They even have the surveillance footage of you and Vanessa transferring the bearer bonds from the safety deposit box last Thursday.”
“Uncle Jonathan,” Vanessa wailed, “what about me? I’m your family!”
Jonathan Vance stepped back from the cell as if Vanessa were infected with the plague. “My firm received a notice of impending federal investigation twenty minutes ago. If I represent either of you, the Bar Association will revoke my license before lunch. I came here as a courtesy to deliver this.”
Jonathan reached into his coat and slipped two documents through the bars of Adrian’s cell.
Adrian looked down. They were formal notices of withdrawal of counsel.
“You’re abandoning me?” Adrian choked out, absolute panic finally piercing through his armor of narcissism. “You’re my lawyer!”
“I am an old man who wishes to die outside of a federal penitentiary,” Jonathan Vance said coldly. “Good luck, Adrian. You’re going to need it.”
Without another word, Jonathan Vance turned and practically ran down the corridor, the heavy iron security door slamming shut behind him with a deafening, final thud.
Adrian sank down onto the concrete floor. The cold seeped through his trousers, straight into his bones. For the first time in his life, there were no strings to pull. No politicians to flatter. No donors to charm.
There was only the silence of a cage.
May you like
And the knowledge that outside, waiting in the courtroom above, was the woman he had treated like a ghost for eight years.
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