Chapter 7 - The Bailing Out of Pride
Three days later, the central county jail’s visitors' room smelled of stale floor cleaner and old industrial paint. Heavy glass partitions separated the rows of stainless-steel booths, and the room buzzed with the low hum of nervous conversations.
I sat on a metal stool on one side of Booth 4, wearing a tailored charcoal suit.
A moment later, the heavy metal door on the inmate side opened, and a guard escorted Brendan inside.
I barely recognized him.
The slicked-back hair was gone, replaced by limp, unwashed locks hanging over his forehead. He wore a bright orange inmate jumpsuit that was two sizes too large for his frame. The arrogant, booming voice that had dominated boardrooms and galas for five years was entirely shattered. He looked gaunt, terrified, and broken.
He slid onto the metal stool, picked up the plastic telephone receiver with trembling, handcuffed hands, and pressed it to his ear.
I picked up my receiver.
“Sydney...” Brendan whispered, his voice trembling through the static-filled line. “Sydney, please... you have to get me out of here. My lawyer says the judge set bail at five million dollars, cash only. They won't let me use property as collateral because all the property is frozen!”
“I know,” I said quietly. “I was the one who requested the freeze order through the DA’s office.”
Brendan pressed his forehead against the heavy glass partition, a sob wracking his chest. “Sydney, please... I’m losing my mind in here. The guys in my cellblock know who I am. They saw the news video. They mock me every single hour. I haven't slept in three days!”
“You look tired, Brendan,” I remarked coolly. “Just like I was tired after ten years of carrying your ego on my back while you and your mother treated me like a servant.”
“I was wrong!” Brendan wept, tears smearing against the glass. “I was stupid! Sabrina seduced me, she tricked me into thinking I was untouchable! It was all her idea to take the money! I swear it to God, Sydney, I still love you! We built a life together! Ten years!”
I looked at him through the glass, feeling neither anger nor pity. Just an overwhelming sense of profound emptiness.
“You didn't love me, Brendan,” I said gently. “You loved the life my money provided for you. You loved the illusion of power. You loved standing on stage and having people clap for you. But the moment you thought you were powerful enough to survive without me, you slapped me three times in front of three hundred people to impress a mistress.”
Brendan flinched, pulling back from the glass as if he had been struck.
“I made a mistake...” he whispered.
“A mistake is spilling coffee on a shirt, Brendan,” I replied. “Slapping your wife, stealing six million dollars, giving your toxic mother corporate funds to buy diamond earrings, and trying to throw me out on the street—that isn't a mistake. That’s who you truly are when you think nobody can stop you.”
Brendan’s eyes flashed with a sudden, desperate rage. “If you put me in prison, you won't get a single dime of that six million back! I hid two million in an encrypted cold wallet in Zurich! You’ll never find the keys!”
I smiled slightly, pulling a sheet of paper from my portfolio and pressing it against the glass for him to read.
It was a formal seizure order issued by the Swiss Federal Financial Market Authority.
“Andy Ashworth traced your Zurich IP addresses forty-eight hours ago, Brendan,” I explained softly. “The Swiss authorities froze the cold wallet yesterday morning. Every single cent has been returned to the Pinnacle corporate treasury.”
Brendan stared at the paper, his face turning an ash-gray color. The final illusion of his leverage had been completely annihilated.
“Here is what is going to happen,” I continued, replacing the paper in my portfolio. “My lawyers have drafted an unconditional divorce agreement. You will sign over all claims to any marital property, waive all rights to alimony, and confess fully to the financial fraud charges in exchange for the prosecutor dropping the highest-tier racketeering charge. You will serve seven years in state prison.”
“Seven years?!” Brendan gasped, shaking his head frantically. “No! No, I can't do seven years! I’ll die in here!”
“Then you can go to trial,” I said, preparing to hang up the receiver. “With thirty-four eyewitnesses, 4K security footage, full banking records, and Sabrina’s grand jury testimony, you’ll get twenty years. The choice is yours.”
I stood up from the stool.
May you like
“Sydney! Wait! Please! Sydney!” Brendan screamed into the phone, slamming his handcuffed fists against the glass partition.
I placed the receiver back onto its hook, turned around, and walked out of the visitation room without looking back once.
