Chapter 9 - The Settlement Showdown
Seven days later, the temperature in Conference Room A on the 40th floor of the Prominence Tower in Buckhead was precisely sixty-eight degrees.
I sat at the head of the glass conference table dressed in a bespoke charcoal pantsuit, a cup of hot green tea resting on a marble coaster beside my tablet.
To my left sat Arthur Sterling, looking relaxed and immaculate in a three-piece tweed suit, his fountain pen resting uncapped beside a blue leather folder.
Across the table sat Everett Crane and his court-appointed attorney, a harried, overworked public defender named Miller who looked as though he would rather be anywhere else on earth.
Everett had been released on a $50,000 signature bond forty-eight hours prior, secured only because Arthur had agreed not to contest bail under the condition that Everett surrender his passport and wear a GPS ankle monitor.
He looked unrecognizable.
He had lost at least seven pounds in a week. His hair was greasy, combed back with water, and his face was grey and hollowed out. He was wearing an off-the-rack navy blazer that Miller had clearly pulled from a thrift store rack for the hearing, and his hands shook continuously as he gripped the edge of the glass table.
“Let’s make this quick, Arthur,” Miller said, rubbing his eyes. “My client has reviewed the settlement terms. We feel they are excessively punitive.”
“Punitive?” Arthur chuckled, leaning back in his leather chair. “Mr. Miller, your client is currently facing four Class C felony counts of commercial embezzlement, one count of grand larceny, and three counts of criminal bank fraud. The state prosecutor has enough evidence to put him in a state penitentiary for fifteen years.”
“The criminal matter is separate from the dissolution of marriage,” Miller argued, though there was zero conviction in his voice.
“They are entirely intertwined,” I said, speaking for the first time.
Everett flinched at the sound of my voice. He looked up, his bloodshot eyes locking onto mine with a mixture of terror and desperate, pleading rage.
“Stella,” he whispered, his voice trembling. “Please. Look at me. We were married for seven years. Seven years! I made a mistake. A terrible, stupid, selfish mistake. The girl meant nothing to me! She threw herself at me, and I was weak! I was feeling insecure because you were so successful, because you never needed me—”
“Do not insult my intelligence, Everett,” I said, my tone utterly devoid of anger. It was worse than anger; it was the flat, clinical indifference one reserves for a dead insect on a windowpane. “You didn't make a mistake. You ran a calculated corporate fraud campaign against my company, your employer, and your own elderly parents for eighteen months.”
Everett swallowed hard. “My parents... where are they?”
“They are in Akron,” I said. “Living in a two-bedroom rental apartment arranged by their church. The bank initiated foreclosure proceedings on their home yesterday morning because you failed to make the bridge-loan interest payments.”
Tears welled in Everett’s eyes. “They won't take my calls. My mother hung up on me.”
“Your mother spent forty years building an idol out of you,” I said. “And you pawned her house for a two-week vacation with a twenty-six-year-old girl. You’re lucky she only hung up the phone.”
Arthur slid the blue folder across the glass table. It stopped inches from Everett’s trembling fingers.
“Here are the final terms of the dissolution, Mr. Crane,” Arthur said.
Everett looked down at the paper.
1. **Zero Spousal Support:** Everett Crane waives all claims to temporary or permanent alimony, spousal maintenance, or rehabilitative support.
2. **Real Property:** Stella Cole retains sole, unencumbered ownership of the Buckhead penthouse, including all contents, art, and personal property.
3. **Corporate Assets:** Everett Crane acknowledges zero equity, ownership, or intellectual property rights in Vanguard Creative Group LLC.
4. **Restitution:** Everett Crane agrees to sign a civil confession of judgment in the amount of $415,000 to cover the funds embezzled from Vanguard and Logix Global Solutions, payable through fifty percent wage garnishment on all future earnings.
5. **Criminal Consideration:** In exchange for the full execution of this agreement and the immediate surrender of all contested claims, Vanguard Creative Group will submit a formal letter to the Fulton County District Attorney recommending deferred adjudication with probation in lieu of immediate prison time, conditional upon complete financial restitution.
Everett stared at the final clause.
“Probation?” he whispered. “You... you’re going to let them put me on probation? I’ll have a felony record! I’ll never work in corporate consulting again! I won't even be able to get a job at an enterprise car rental desk!”
“You should have considered your career prospects before you forged Harrison Ross’s signature,” Arthur remarked coolly.
“Stella,” Everett cried, reaching across the table, his fingers clawing toward my hand. “Please! Leave me something! A car. A cash settlement. Fifty thousand dollars just so I can get an apartment! I’m sleeping on a cot at a YMCA in Decatur! I have forty dollars to my name!”
I pulled my hand back, stood up, and picked up my leather handbag.
“You have your health, Everett,” I said, quoting the exact phrase his mother had used when I had pneumonia three years ago and had to work through the weekend while he was at a golf tournament. “And you have the opportunity to experience what real, unearned hard work feels like.”
I turned toward the door.
“Sign the papers, Everett,” public defender Miller muttered, sliding a cheap ballpoint pen toward his client. “Or I walk out of this room, and you go back to the Fulton County jail before five o'clock.”
Behind me, I heard the scratch of the pen against the paper.
A jagged, ragged sound.
The sound of seven years of arrogance, entitlement, and theft being officially signed into oblivion.
May you like
I didn't look back.
***
