Chapter 7 - The Cornered Rats
While Ethan and Olivia were receiving the standing ovation of Manhattan’s elite, inside the sterile confines of the Metropolitan Correctional Center, the final remnants of Margaret Mitchell’s empire were being dismantled piece by piece.
In Room 4B of the interrogation complex, Jason Mitchell was curled into a fetal position on the metal chair, his designer shirt stained with sweat, snot, and tears. Across the steel table sat two special agents from the Federal Bureau of Investigation, their faces bored and impassive as a tape recorder clicked steadily between them.
“I told you everything!” Jason wailed, his voice cracking like a terrified teenager’s. “I gave you the names of the Russian couriers! I gave you the account numbers in the Caymans! It was all Mom! She controlled the trust! She told me if I didn't help her keep Olivia in line, she’d let Petrov’s men cut off my fingers! You have to put me in witness protection, please! If they put me in regular prison, I’m dead!”
The lead agent, a weathered veteran named Harris, leaned back and crossed his arms.
“You’re not going to witness protection, Jason,” Harris said calmly. “Witness protection is for innocent bystanders who get caught in the crossfire. You’re a co-conspirator. You willingly signed seven offshore transfer authorizations. You actively assisted in the domestic imprisonment and physical abuse of a pregnant military dependent. The U.S. Attorney has authorized twenty-five years at ADX Florence or Terre Haute. Best we can do is protective custody in a maximum-security unit.”
Jason let out a strangled whimper, slamming his forehead against the metal table as the reality of his future crashed down upon him. The private jets, the VIP lounges, the sports cars, and the endless bottles of vintage champagne were gone forever, replaced by an eight-by-ten concrete cell, a stainless-steel toilet, and twenty-three hours of solitary confinement a day.
Down the hallway, in the women’s isolation unit, Margaret Mitchell was sitting on the edge of her bunk.
Her manicured hands were gone; her nails were chewed down to the quick. Her blonde hair hung in greasy, tangled strands around her gaunt face. She had spent the last forty-eight hours demanding to speak to the governor, demanding her private doctor, demanding her silk robes.
Every demand had been met with the cold, mechanical click of a heavy iron slot sliding shut.
The heavy door buzzed, and an officer escorted in a court-appointed public defender—a young, overworked woman carrying a tattered manila folder.
“Are you my new lawyer?” Margaret spat, rising from the bunk with a pathetic attempt at her former haughty posture. “Where is my bail appeal? Where is my motion for emergency release?”
The public defender pulled up a metal stool and looked at Margaret with absolute professional detachment.
“There is no bail appeal, Mrs. Mitchell,” the lawyer stated. “The government just added eight counts of attempted murder by chemical poisoning, conspiracy to commit murder, and international money laundering. Furthermore, the video recorded by your son has been admitted into the official court record and unsealed by the judge. The entire world has seen it.”
Margaret froze, her jaw slackening. “What video?”
“The video of you grinding your heel into your pregnant daughter-in-law’s shoulder,” the lawyer replied bluntly. “It’s currently the most-watched video on the internet. Every news outlet in the Western world is broadcasting it. The public outrage is so intense that the Department of Justice has stated they will seek the maximum penalty allowed under federal statute. Thirty-five years to life without the possibility of parole.”
“No…” Margaret whispered, her hands flying to her throat as if she were being choked. “No! I am Margaret Mitchell! My grandfather built the railways! My husband built the aerospace defense network! You cannot put me in a cage with… with animals!”
“You are not Margaret Mitchell, socialite,” the public defender said coldly, packing her papers. “As of today, you are Federal Inmate Number 89402. And based on the evidence your son just handed over to save his own neck, you will die in federal custody.”
The lawyer stood and knocked on the steel door to be let out.
As the heavy door swung open, Margaret lunged forward, her fingers clawing at the air. “JASON! THAT TRAITOR! I WILL KILL HIM WITH MY BARE HANDS! HE IS MY SON! HE OWES ME EVERYTHING!”
May you like
The corrections officers pushed her back onto the concrete floor with effortless force, the heavy steel door slamming shut with a concussive *BANG* that echoed down the empty corridor, sealing Margaret Mitchell in the cold, silent tomb of her own making.
***
