Chapter 7 - The Interrogation Room
In the subterranean interrogation suites of the Federal Building, the atmosphere was thick with the scent of burnt institutional coffee and impending doom. Victoria Dupont sat at the rectangular laminate table, her designer clothes replaced by a gray detention smock. Opposite her sat Assistant United States Attorney Marcus Vance—Arthur’s son and one of the most ruthless prosecutors in the Eastern District—alongside two senior forensic accountants from the Internal Revenue Service.
Between them lay an array of financial dossiers three feet high.
"Let’s skip the aristocratic theatre, Victoria," Marcus Vance said, tossing a pen onto the table. "Your Swiss accounts in Zurich and Geneva were frozen at five this morning under an emergency treaty request. Your ex-husband, Walter, has already signed a full proffer agreement from his cell in Otisville. He confirmed that you promised him two million dollars in a Panamanian bearer account if he witnessed the forged deed from inside the prison walls."
Victoria didn’t flinch. Her eyes were narrowed into cold, reptilian slits. "Walter is a convicted perjurer. His word is worthless in front of a jury."
"Perhaps," Marcus replied with a thin smile. "But your daughter Chloe’s word isn’t. She spent five hours yesterday detailing your entire tax fraud infrastructure. She provided the routing numbers, the forged corporate seals, and the shell company incorporation papers you filed using stolen identities from deceased nursing home residents in Delaware."
For the first time, Victoria’s composure fractured. Her jaw tightened so hard that a muscle twitched beneath her powdered skin. "Chloe... that ungrateful little bitch. I made her who she is."
"You made her a co-conspirator," Marcus corrected. "The difference is, she was smart enough to come to us before the sun rose on the morning of the party. She handed us Julian, and she handed us you. In exchange, she’s doing four years at a minimum-security facility in Danbury. But you, Victoria? With your prior wire fraud record under your maiden name in Nevada? You are looking at a mandatory guideline sentence of thirty-two to forty years."
The forensic accountant slid a single document across the table. It was a summary forfeiture order.
"Every asset associated with Dupont Global Holdings is seized," Marcus continued relentlessly. "The Manhattan penthouse, the villa in St. Barts, the vintage jewelry collection, and the seven offshore accounts. You are bankrupt, Victoria. You don’t have enough money left to pay for a public defender."
Victoria stared down at the forfeiture notice. The grand illusions of Southern aristocracy, high-society dominance, and inherited grandeur dissolved into nothingness. She was sixty-three years old, and she would spend the rest of her natural life eating on plastic trays and sleeping on a concrete bunk.
She looked up at Marcus Vance, her face suddenly aging twenty years in a matter of seconds. "What does Eleanor want?"
May you like
Marcus stood up, gathered his files, and adjusted his coat. "Eleanor doesn't want anything from you, Victoria. In fact, she gave specific instructions that your name never be spoken in her presence again. You are simply a closed file."
***
