Chapter 8 - The Raid on Muirfield
The gates of Muirfield Village in Dublin, Ohio, were designed to keep the world out.
They were tall, wrought-iron things flanked by dressed limestone pillars, guarded by an attendant in a heated stone booth who checked driver’s licenses on a clipboard before lifting the wooden barrier. For thirty years, Wallace Voss had driven through those gates in his leased Mercedes, waving carelessly to the guard, feeling the profound satisfaction of a man who believed money and zip codes made him untouchable.
At ten-fifteen Thursday morning, the wooden barrier didn't lift.
Three unmarked Ford Explorers and two marked Franklin County Sheriff cruisers pulled up to the gatehouse, their blue and red strobes flashing against the frosted manicured hedges. The gate guard didn't ask for identification. A deputy stepped out of the lead cruiser, held a signed federal search warrant and a state arrest warrant against the glass window, and pointed toward the inner gate.
The wooden barrier flew up in three seconds flat.
At 7422 Muirfield Drive, Laurel Voss was in the kitchen arranging white hydrangeas in a crystal vase. Wallace was seated at the marble island, nursing his third cup of black coffee, his phone pressed to his ear as he screamed at a junior associate at his commercial realty office.
"I don't care what the tenant said!" Wallace barked into the phone. "Tell them if they don't pay the CAM charges by Friday, I’ll lock the doors and seize their inventory! I’ve got notes due on Monday!"
In the upstairs guest bedroom, Grant Voss was lying across a king-sized four-poster bed in his sweatpants, staring blankly at the ceiling. His laptop was open on the nightstand, displaying forty-seven unread emails from clients demanding refunds, and his phone was blowing up with automated text alerts from three different credit card companies notifying him of immediate account cancellations.
The front doorbell didn't ring.
*BAM. BAM. BAM.*
The heavy mahogany double doors of the mansion shuddered under the impact of a steel breach-baton.
"Sheriff’s Department! Open the door!"
Wallace dropped his phone. The screen shattered against the marble floor.
Laurel dropped the crystal vase; it hit the polished slate and exploded into fifty pieces, cold water and white flower petals washing across the kitchen floor.
"Wallace?!" Laurel shrieked, clutching her throat. "What is that?!"
Before Wallace could reach the foyer, the side door from the garage was shoved open by two plainclothes detectives wearing black tactical vests with *POLICE* stenciled in bold yellow letters across their chests. Behind them were four uniformed Franklin County deputies with their hands resting on their sidearms.
"Wallace Voss?" the lead detective called out, stepping into the high-ceilinged foyer.
Wallace emerged from the kitchen, his face pale gray, his hands shaking violently. "What is the meaning of this?! This is a private residence! You have no right to enter this home!"
"Franklin County Sheriff's Office, executing a felony arrest warrant issued out of Portage County," the detective said, pulling a laminated document from his vest pocket. "We’re looking for Grant Voss."
From the top of the sweeping spiral staircase, Grant appeared. He looked like a ghost. His hair was greasy and uncombed, his eyes wild and bloodshot, his hands trembling at his sides.
"Grant Voss," the detective called up, looking directly at him. "Keep your hands where we can see them and come down the stairs slowly."
"Wait!" Wallace shouted, stepping between the detectives and the staircase. "Wait! This is a domestic misunderstanding! We are in the middle of negotiating a civil settlement with his mother-in-law’s attorney! I can post bond right now! I have fifty thousand dollars in cash in my safe!"
"Step aside, sir," a uniformed deputy commanded, grabbing Wallace by the elbow and steering him firmly against the wall.
"Don't touch me!" Wallace roared, his face flushing crimson. "Do you know who I am?! I am personal friends with the county commissioner! I will have your badge for this!"
"You can tell that to the magistrate, Mr. Voss," the deputy said, completely unmoved. "Now stand against that wall and keep your mouth shut, or I’ll cite you for obstruction."
Grant walked down the stairs like a condemned man walking to the gallows. Every step seemed to take a year. When he reached the bottom landing, two deputies stepped behind him, pulled his arms behind his back, and snapped a pair of cold steel handcuffs over his wrists.
*CLICK-CLACK.*
The mechanical sound of the cuffs echoed off the vaulted ceiling of the million-dollar foyer.
"Mom," Grant whimpered, looking past the deputies toward Laurel, who was leaning against the kitchen archway, sobbing hysterically. "Mom, do something. Call Uncle Richard. Call Richard at Huntington."
"Richard Voss was taken into federal custody two hours ago, Grant," the lead detective said calmly, turning Grant toward the front door. "He won't be returning your calls."
Grant stopped dead. His knees buckled, and the two deputies had to hold him upright by his armpits to keep him from collapsing onto the slate floor.
"Richard?" Wallace whispered, his voice cracking into a dry, pathetic rasp. "Richard was arrested?"
"Federal bank fraud task force," the detective replied, walking Grant toward the open front door where the cold December wind was blowing snow across the threshold. "They’re at your commercial office in Dublin right now, Mr. Voss. I’d suggest you find yourself a very good criminal defense attorney who specializes in Title 18 violations."
The deputies led Grant out down the curved brick walkway toward the waiting marked cruiser.
Across the street, three neighbors in down coats stood by their mailboxes, watching in stunned silence as Wallace Voss’s golden-boy son was pushed head-first into the back of a police car.
Wallace stumbled out onto the front porch, the cold wind whipping through his thin dress shirt. He looked down the street at his neighbors. He looked at the flashing blue lights reflecting off the snow. He looked at the police car carrying his son away to a Portage County holding cell.
For thirty years, Wallace Voss had believed he was better than the mechanics, the carpenters, and the small-town widows of the world.
He had laughed when an old woman hit the floor.
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And now, standing in the freezing Ohio wind, watching the blue lights fade down Muirfield Drive, Wallace Voss finally realized that the bill for that laugh had just come due.
***
