Chapter 9 - The Last Plea
The final paperwork took less than twenty minutes.
With Victor formally removed from the proceedings and Julian Croft having fled the courtroom to avoid federal subpoenas, Judge Evelyn Hall executed the final dissolution decree with the sharp, decisive strokes of her fountain pen.
"The marriage between Clara Elizabeth Vance and Victor Alexander Vance is hereby dissolved," Judge Hall announced, her voice echoing with absolute finality. "Full, permanent legal and physical custody of Lily Vance is awarded exclusively to Clara Vance, with zero visitation rights granted to the respondent pending the resolution of his federal criminal proceedings. The Whitaker Trust is certified as non-marital, sole-custody property, entirely exempt from any marital claims."
Judge Hall set her pen down, removed her glasses, and looked down at me from the bench.
"Ms. Vance," she said, her voice gentler than I had ever heard it. "In thirty-two years on this bench, I have seen hundreds of people destroyed by money. I have seen cruelty masquerade as sophistication, and I have seen good people crushed beneath the weight of wealthy predators. Eleanor Whitaker gave you a weapon because she knew you had the character to wield it. Raise your daughter well."
"Thank you, Your Honor," I said, bowing my head. My chest felt so light I almost felt as if I were floating.
When Marcus Bennett and I walked out of the courtroom, the storm of reporters had migrated downstairs to the federal intake dock, waiting for Victor’s perp walk. The fourth-floor corridor was blissfully, beautifully quiet.
"Ms. Vance," Marcus Bennett said, extending a hand. "It has been an absolute privilege. The trust funds have been formally transferred to Northern Trust under your exclusive signature. You are now, officially and irrevocably, a very wealthy woman."
I took his hand, shaking it firmly. "Thank you, Marcus. For everything. For Eleanor."
"Eleanor was an exceptional judge of character," Bennett smiled. "Now, go get your daughter. She’s waiting for you."
Before I could take the elevator down, a deputy sheriff approached me from the secured holding area.
"Mrs. Vance?" he asked politely.
"Yes?"
"Your ex-husband... he’s being processed for transfer to the Metropolitan Correctional Center. He has invoked his right to a three-minute personal conference before federal marshals take custody. He begged the intake sergeant to ask you. You don't have to go, ma'am. You have a restraining order."
I stood still for a long moment, watching the dust motes drift through the yellow courthouse light.
"I'll take the three minutes," I said.
Marcus Bennett frowned slightly. "Clara, you don't owe that man anything."
"I know," I replied softly. "This isn't for him, Marcus. It’s for me."
The deputy led me through a heavy, security-coded door into a narrow, cinderblock attorney-client visitation room. In the center of the room, bolted to the concrete floor, was a metal table with a scratch-resistant Plexiglas barrier dividing it.
Sitting on the other side was Victor.
He had already been stripped of his bespoke Italian suit. He wore a generic, oversized orange jumpsuit made of rough, scratchy cotton. His hands were cuffed to a chain wrapped around his waist. His hair was disheveled, his eyes red and swollen from weeping.
When he saw me enter, he lunged forward against the partition, the chains rattling violently against the metal table.
"Clara," he wept, pressing his palms against the glass. "Thank God. Thank God you came."
I sat down on the cold plastic chair on my side of the glass. I didn't pick up the telephone receiver. I simply sat there, looking at him.
Victor grabbed the receiver on his side, waving his hand frantically for me to do the same. Slowly, I lifted the black plastic phone to my ear.
"Clara, listen to me," he sobbed, his voice cracking with a terrifying, pathetic desperation. "The feds... they’re charging me with thirty years. Thirty years, Clara! In a federal penitentiary! I won't survive in there! You know what they do to white-collar guys like me!"
"You should have thought about that before you stole forty million dollars, Victor," I said, my voice completely devoid of emotion.
"It was business! I was trying to build an empire for us!" he pleaded, tears streaming down his face, leaving clean streaks through the gray grime on his cheeks. "Clara, the judge set bail at five million dollars cash. You have thirty-two million! Five million is nothing to you now! Just post the bail! I’ll sign everything over to you—the penthouse, the company assets, everything! Just don't let them take me to MCC!"
I looked at him through the scratched glass. I saw the man who had stood over me while I was pregnant, telling me I was fat and useless. I saw the man who had laughed when my father died because my father left me an old car instead of stock options. I saw the man who had looked at his own seven-year-old daughter yesterday morning and told her to go to hell.
"Victor," I said softly into the receiver.
"Yes! Yes, Clara! What do you want? I'll do anything! I swear to God I'll do anything!"
"Do you remember what you said to me yesterday?" I asked. "Right before the judge opened the envelope?"
Victor froze. His breath hitched in his throat. His bloodshot eyes widened with a horrific, sudden realization.
"Clara... please..." he whispered.
I leaned slightly closer to the glass, my voice calm, steady, and cold as arctic ice.
"Take your pride," I said, repeating the words he had hurled at my child, "and go to hell."
I set the receiver back on its cradle.
May you like
I stood up from the metal chair, turned my back on his frantic, muffled screams against the glass, and walked out the heavy steel door into the sunlight.
***
