Chapter 8 - The Interrogation Room Confessions
The stark fluorescent lighting of the county precinct’s interrogation room cast a sickly pallor over Jason Vance’s face. Stripped of his bespoke suit jacket, his tie, and his leather belt, he sat at the steel table in a wrinkled white shirt, his forearms resting flat against the metal surface. Across from him sat Investigator Marcus Cole and Detective Miller. A small digital recorder rested between them, its tiny red LED light glowing like an unblinking eye.
"It was Vanessa," Jason croaked, his voice raw from hours of weeping. "She set up the Delaware LLCs. She found the notary stamp in her father’s old storage unit. She pushed me! She told me if we didn't get liquid capital, she was going to take our daughter and leave me!"
"Your daughter?" Detective Miller raised an eyebrow, leaning back in his chair. "You mean the child you share with Claire Montgomery in the Tribeca penthouse? Or is there another child we haven't discovered yet, Mr. Vance?"
Jason flinched as if slapped. He pressed his face into his hands. "Claire... Claire didn't know anything about the forgery. She thought the money was coming from my consulting firm. She’s innocent! Please, don't drag her into this!"
"You dragged her into a federal conspiracy the moment you laundered stolen trust funds to purchase that condominium," Investigator Cole said, his voice flat and merciless. "Every dollar you deposited into her accounts is subject to immediate federal clawback. She will be served with an eviction notice within seventy-two hours, and the property will be placed into receivership."
Jason let out a low, pathetic moan. "I have nothing left. Nothing."
"You have the opportunity to tell the truth," Cole replied, leaning forward, his gaze locking onto Jason's hollow eyes. "We already have Vanessa in Room 3. And let me tell you, Mr. Vance—she is not demonstrating the same chivalrous concern for your reputation. She is currently swearing under oath that the entire scheme—from Henry’s forged insurance rejection letters four years ago to the physical assault on your mother tonight—was entirely your design."
"She’s lying!" Jason roared, slamming his open palms onto the steel table. "She was the one who bought the forged signature machine online! She practiced my mother’s handwriting for three weeks! She told me that if my mother died of a heart attack during the confrontation tonight, it would save us the trouble of filing probate! She said an old woman with a bad heart dying during a burglary or an accidental fall wouldn't arouse suspicion!"
Detective Miller’s eyes narrowed into slits of ice. "Did she say that? Did she suggest your mother’s death would resolve the probate issue?"
Jason froze. He realized, too late, the horrifying threshold he had just crossed. He had moved from confessing to financial fraud into outlining premeditated conspiracy to commit murder.
"I... I didn't agree to that," Jason stammered, sweat pouring down the sides of his face, soaking his collar. "I swear to God, I never wanted my mother hurt! I just wanted the signature! That’s why I brought the deed folder! I just wanted her to sign so nobody would get hurt!"
"And yet," Cole noted quietly, "when your wife struck your seventy-one-year-old mother with a heavy porcelain plate, you didn't check her wound. You didn't call 911. You slammed the folder on the table and demanded she sign while she was bleeding on the floor."
Jason had no answer. He dropped his head onto the steel table, his shoulders shaking in silent, irredeemable despair.
Meanwhile, three doors down the corridor, Vanessa Vance was pacing the perimeter of Room 3 like a caged leopard. Her makeup was ruined, black mascara streaked across her hollow cheeks, her designer skirt rumpled and stained.
"I want my phone call!" she demanded of the female officer standing by the door. "This is false imprisonment! I am a victim of domestic financial coercion! My husband manipulated me! He abused me psychologically!"
The door clicked open, and Attorney Arthur Hayes stepped into the room, accompanied by an assistant district attorney.
Vanessa turned toward Hayes, her eyes flashing with desperate triumph. "Arthur! Thank God! Did Eleanor send you? Did she realize how insane this looks for the family name? Tell these idiots to unhook these charges! We can issue a joint press release saying it was an internal dispute—"
"Eleanor did not send me to help you, Vanessa," Arthur Hayes said, his tone chillingly formal. "She sent me to serve you."
Hayes opened a manila envelope and dropped a thick stack of legal documents onto the table.
"These are formal eviction proceedings from the carriage house on the Vance estate, which you have unlawfully occupied as an auxiliary office," Hayes stated. "Attached behind them is an emergency protective order forbidding you from approaching within one thousand yards of Eleanor Vance, her properties, or her financial representatives for the remainder of your natural life."
Vanessa stared at the papers as if they were venomous vipers. "You can’t evict me! Jason owns half of that property through the trust!"
"Jason owns nothing," the assistant district attorney interjected smoothly. "And neither do you. Furthermore, Mrs. Vance, based on the statements your husband is currently providing to federal investigators down the hall regarding your discussion of your mother-in-law's potential 'accidental demise' tonight, the state is upgrading your charges to include Attempted Manslaughter and Conspiracy to Commit Capital Felony."
Vanessa’s knees buckled. She caught herself on the edge of the interrogation table, her breath turning into a high, thin wheeze.
May you like
"Manslaughter...?" she whispered, the room spinning around her. "No... no, Jason wouldn't say that... he loved me..."
"Jason loves only one thing, Mrs. Vance," Hayes replied, his voice dropping into cold finality. "Jason loves himself. And like all cowards when the fire reaches their feet, he will burn everything around him to buy himself five more minutes of oxygen."
