Chapter 8 - The Confrontation in Green
The Federal Detention Center was a stark, monolithic block of concrete situated in the industrial district near the river. There were no carpeted floors, no polished mahogany desks, and no soft lighting. Everything was gray, steel, and harsh fluorescent tubes that hummed softly overhead.
I sat behind a thick pane of bulletproof glass in Visitation Room C.
Arthur Pendelton sat beside me, a thin manila folder resting under his hands.
A heavy steel door opened on the far side of the glass. Daniel was led in by two armed guards. He was wearing an orange jumpsuit, wrists handcuffed to a leather belly chain, his ankles shackled together so he had to shuffle slowly across the linoleum floor.
He looked terrible. His face was pale and drawn, dark purple rings sat deep under his eyes, and the arrogance that had defined him for eleven years had completely evaporated.
He sat down on the metal stool across from me and picked up the black plastic telephone handset attached to the wall.
I picked up my handset and held it to my ear.
“Claire,” he rasped through the glass, his voice tinny through the phone receiver. “You came. Thank God. You spoke to my lawyer?”
“I didn't come here to talk to your lawyer, Daniel,” I said quietly.
Daniel leaned closer to the glass, his eyes wide, filled with a frantic, unhinged energy. “Listen to me, Claire. You have to help me. The prosecutors are offering me twenty-five years! Twenty-five years! I’ll be sixty years old when I get out! I can’t survive in here, Claire. Look at this place!”
“You built this place for yourself, Daniel,” I said.
“I didn't have a choice!” he shouted, slamming his cuffed hands against the ledge beneath the glass, making the metal chains clatter loudly. A guard by the door shifted his posture, warning him with a sharp glance. Daniel swallowed hard and lowered his voice. “I told the U.S. Attorney that you knew about the Aegis accounts. I had to, Claire! It’s the only leverage I have! If they think it was a joint marital asset decision, they have to drop the primary fraud conspiracy count!”
He was admitting it to my face without an ounce of shame. He was admitting that he had thrown me to the federal wolves to trim five years off his sentence.
“You really never loved me, did you?” I asked, looking at him through the glass. It wasn't a question asked out of pain; it was an observation of a scientific fact.
Daniel looked down, unable to meet my eyes for the first time. “I loved you, Claire. In my own way, I did. But... survival comes first. You have millions now. You have the house. You won. Just let me have this plea deal. Don't fight the conspiracy claim. Tell the prosecutor you signed the papers.”
I looked at him, feeling a sudden, deep sense of pity—not for what he was going through, but for how tiny and pathetic his soul was.
“Arthur,” I said gently, without looking away from Daniel’s eyes. “Show him.”
Arthur picked up the manila folder, drew out a single sheet of paper, and pressed it against the thick bulletproof glass so Daniel could read it.
It was the certified audit log showing Daniel’s forgery of my signature on the corporate guarantees, along with the affidavit Arthur had filed with the U.S. Attorney’s office two hours ago.
Daniel’s eyes scanned the document. As he read the technical codes and dates, the tiny bit of color remaining in his face drained entirely. His mouth fell open slightly.
“Where... where did you get this?” he whispered into the phone, his hand trembling so violently he almost dropped the receiver.
“Your handles at Koval Capital sent it to us,” I said calmly.
Daniel’s eyes went wide with pure horror. “No... no, no, no. They... they wouldn't...”
“They did,” I replied. “They consider you a liability, Daniel. You proved yourself incompetent when you let your domestic life collapse at Gate B12. They handed us the proof of your forgery to ensure your credibility as a cooperating witness was completely destroyed. The U.S. Attorney revoked your plea agreement twenty minutes ago.”
Daniel dropped the phone handset. It dangled by its coiled black cord against the wall, buzzing with static.
He pressed both palms against the glass, staring at me with a look of absolute, unadulterated ruin. Through the thick glass, I could hear his muffled screams: “No! Claire! Please! Fix this! They’ll kill me! They’ll give me thirty years!”
I didn't pick up the phone to respond. I didn't need to.
I stood up slowly from the stool. I buttoned my coat, picked up my leather tote bag, and adjusted my scarf.
May you like
I looked at him through the glass one last time. He was on his knees now, dragged down by his belly chain and ankle shackles, sobbing hysterically against the shelf while the two guards stepped forward to pull him back to his feet.
I turned my back on Daniel Vance and walked out of the visitation room, leaving him alone in the gray steel room he had spent three years building for himself.
