Chapter 11 - Richard Sits In A Holding Cell Facing Twenty Years
Under the harsh fluorescent glare of the Manhattan central booking precinct, Richard Whittaker sat in a bolted steel chair.
His bespoke Italian suit was wrinkled and stained, a stark contrast to the immaculate executive he used to be.
Detective Vance stepped into the glass-walled interrogation room, slamming a fresh case file onto the metal table.
“Well, Richard, your financial crimes department is cooperating fully in exchange for reduced corporate sentences,” Vance said.
Richard kept his eyes fixed on the gray tabletop, his jaw twitching with suppressed rage and humiliation.
“I want to speak to my lead corporate counsel immediately,” Richard demanded in a hollow, brittle voice.
“Your counsel dropped your representation two hours ago when the federal murder conspiracy charges were added,” Vance replied smoothly.
Richard’s head snapped up, his bloodshot eyes widening in genuine, unadulterated terror.
“Murder? What are you talking about? Clara is lying, she’s a bitter old woman!” Richard shouted, pounding his fist on the table.
“The independent toxicology report on your first wife’s body exhumation was signed off by the federal judge this morning,” Vance stated.
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The color drained entirely from Richard’s face, leaving him looking ancient, frail, and utterly defeated.
He slumped back into the steel chair, realizing that his lifetime of manipulation had finally built his permanent prison cell.
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