Chapter 6 - THE FINAL STAND AT THE GATES
The Rhode Island State Police tactical team intercepted Grant Hawthorne’s vehicle twenty minutes later on Route 4.
Refusing to pull over, Grant led state troopers on a high-speed chase that ended when his Mercedes blew a tire, veered off the embankment, and slammed into an concrete guardrail.
He survived the crash with minor injuries—fractured ribs, a broken collarbone, and a severely bruised face. When officers extracted him from the smoking wreckage, they found a loaded handgun on the passenger seat, along with a pair of forged international passports and fifty thousand dollars in unregistered cash.
He was formally taken into police custody, cuffed to a hospital gurney at Rhode Island General Hospital under twenty-four-hour armed guard, with bail officially set at ten million dollars—an amount he could no longer afford now that his bank accounts were completely frozen by Whitaker Capital.
Three days later, I stood in a private conference room at the state prosecutor's office in Providence, surrounded by my legal team and my brothers.
Through the heavy one-way glass mirror, I looked into the interrogation room where Grant sat in a orange prison jumpsuit, his arm immobilized in a sling, his face bruised and pale.
Sitting across from him was his court-appointed defense attorney—the high-priced private corporate lawyers he had hired over the years had all officially dropped him as a client due to non-payment of retainers.
The lead state prosecutor, a sharp woman named Victoria Cross, turned to me with a respectful nod.
“Mrs. Whitaker,” Prosecutor Cross said, using my true legal name. “The evidence against your husband is overwhelming. We have the dressing room camera feeds, the physical evidence of the riding crop recovered from the cellar, the medical trauma reports for both you and your daughter, and the testimony of his own domestic staff, who have all agreed to testify for the state.”
“What is the maximum sentence?” Nathaniel asked, standing behind me with his arms crossed.
“With the felony charges of child abuse, aggravated domestic assault, unlawful imprisonment, and the additional weapons charges from his arrest,” Prosecutor Cross explained, “he is facing a minimum of twenty-five to thirty years in state penitentiary without the possibility of early parole.”
I looked through the glass at Grant.
He was staring blankly at the metal table, looking small, pathetic, and utterly broken. The powerful, arrogant ocean tycoon who had strutted through Newport galas was completely gone, replaced by a convicted criminal awaiting his transfer to maximum security.
“Offer him a plea deal,” I said quietly.
Nathaniel frowned slightly, turning his head. “Evelyn?”
“Offer him a plea,” I repeated, turning to face Prosecutor Cross. “If he signs over complete, irrevocable sole custody of Maisie to me, formally surrenders all legal claims to any marital assets or Whitaker property, and agrees never to contact or approach us again, the state can recommend twenty years instead of thirty.”
Prosecutor Cross nodded slowly. “That is a very strategic offer, Mrs. Whitaker. He will take it instantly to avoid dying in prison.”
“Why give him a single break, Evelyn?” Alexander asked, his voice tight with anger. “He deserves every second of thirty years.”
I looked at Alexander, then down at my hands—my wrists were healing cleanly under light bandages, the raw rope marks fading into faint pink lines.
“I’m not giving him a break for his sake, Alex,” I said, my voice filled with pure, unshakeable peace. “I’m doing it so Maisie never has to sit through a prolonged, agonizing public trial. I want his legal existence erased from our lives today.”
Ten minutes later, Prosecutor Cross walked into the interrogation room and placed the plea agreement in front of Grant.
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Through the glass, I watched as Grant read the terms. When his eyes reached the line surrendering all paternal rights to Maisie and waiving every cent of his claims, he looked up at the one-way mirror, tears streaming down his bruised face. He knew I was standing behind that glass.
With a trembling hand, he picked up the pen and signed his name on every single line.
