Chapter 5 - The Interrogation
The crisp winter morning sunlight did nothing to melt the frost caked onto the windows of the Oakridge Police Department precinct downtown. Inside Interview Room B, the air smelled of stale coffee, industrial floor wax, and the distinct, palpable panic of a man realizing his life of cards was collapsing.
Brandon Sterling sat at the metal interrogation table, his expensive Italian suit now wrinkled and smelling faintly of motel-room air and desperation. He hadn’t shaved, and the dark circles under his eyes made him look ten years older than his thirty-six years.
The heavy metal door clicked open, and Marcus Vance walked in, followed not by a patrol officer, but by Detective Ray Miller—a man who had investigated white-collar fraud in the county for twenty years and had seen every brand of arrogant con man the Midwest had to offer.
Marcus slid a thick manila folder onto the center of the table right in front of Brandon.
“What is this?” Brandon snapped, his voice cracking slightly as he tried to maintain an aggressive posture. He leaned back in his chair, folding his arms across his chest. “I want my lawyer. You can’t just detain me without representation. This is harassment!”
“You’re not being detained, Mr. Sterling. You’re being interviewed,” Detective Miller said smoothly, pulling out a chair and sitting down opposite him. He didn't raise his voice; his calm, methodical demeanor was far more terrifying than any shouting. “Though given what we found in the recycling bin of your downtown office yesterday afternoon, 'detained' might be upgrade status by lunchtime.”
Brandon’s eyes darted toward the manila folder. “That’s corporate paperwork. Private business dealings. My mother-in-law is waging a malicious campaign against me because of a personal family dispute.”
“Is that what you call forging an elderly widow’s power of attorney to secure a four-hundred-thousand-dollar equity loan against a residential property you don't legally own?” Marcus asked mildly, flipping open the folder to reveal the notarized documents Chloe had salvaged.
Brandon’s face went chalk-white. The bravado evaporated in an instant, leaving behind a pathetic, sweating husk of a man. “That... that’s a misunderstanding. The signature was authorized under familial delegation. Margaret knew we needed capital for the Columbus project. It was a verbal agreement!”
“Verbal agreements don’t hold up when the victim is sitting in my office with a forensic handwriting expert and a signed affidavit from her attorney,” Miller said, leaning forward and resting his forearms on the table. He slid a second document across the metal surface—a formal complaint bearing my signature, notarized less than two hours ago.
Brandon stared down at the paper as if it were venomous. “She can’t do this. I’m her daughter’s husband! I’m the father of her grandchildren!”
“And you’re also facing three counts of wire fraud, two counts of forgery, and grand larceny,” Marcus said, his voice entirely devoid of emotion. “The district office has already reviewed the preliminary evidence. Because of the interstate nature of your shell companies in Columbus, federal guidelines apply to a portion of the fraudulent loans.”
Federal guidelines.
The words hit Brandon like a physical blow. He slumped forward in his chair, his head dropping into his trembling hands. The arrogance, the smug superiority, the casual cruelty he had displayed at the dining table on Christmas Eve—it was all gone, stripped away by the cold, unyielding machinery of the law.
“Please,” Brandon whispered, his voice cracking as he looked up, tears pooling in the corners of his bloodshot eyes. “Please... talk to Margaret. Tell her we can work this out. We can restructure the debt. She has millions in her real estate portfolio; four hundred thousand is a drop in the bucket for her!”
“Mrs. Sullivan doesn't negotiate with financial predators, Mr. Sterling,” Marcus replied, standing up and buttoning his suit jacket. “And as of 9:00 AM this morning, Claire Sterling-Vance has officially filed a petition for sole custody and emergency divorce proceedings.”
Brandon let out a strangled, desperate sound, half-rising from his chair before Detective Miller gently but firmly pushed him back down by the shoulder.
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“Sit down, Mr. Sterling,” Miller said, pulling out a pair of silver handcuffs from his belt loop. “We’re done talking. It’s time to read you your rights.”
***
