Chapter 11 - The Downfall of Barbara
The arrest of Luke Vance made front-page news across every continent, but the dominoes didn't stop falling there.
The following morning, Barbara Vance was sitting in the lobby of the Route 9 motel, frantically trying to call old society acquaintances from her prepaid phone.
Every single call went straight to voicemail.
Her former bridge club friends, the women she had spent decades boasting to about her son’s brilliance and Samantha’s plainness, had blocked her number. The charity galas she used to preside over issued public statements dissociating themselves from the Vance name.
The glass doors of the motel lobby swung open.
Two female officers from the Westchester County Sheriff’s Department walked in, flanked by an investigator from the state Medicaid Fraud Control Unit.
Barbara stood up, clutching her faux-leather purse. “Can I help you, officers? If this is about Luke, he was framed! His lawyer is handling it!”
“Mrs. Barbara Vance?” the lead investigator asked, holding up a badge.
“Yes, of course I am Barbara Vance!” she huffed, attempting to summon her old haughty demeanor. “And I demand you show some respect!”
“Barbara Vance, you are under arrest for grand larceny, insurance fraud, and falsifying medical records,” the investigator announced dispassionately.
Barbara’s jaw dropped. “What? That’s absurd! I’m a patron of the arts!”
“Two years ago, you billed the VanceTech employee health trust for three hundred and eighty thousand dollars in experimental overseas medical treatments,” the investigator read from a warrant. “Our audit revealed those treatments were never performed. Instead, the funds were wired to an offshore clinic in Switzerland for elective cosmetic surgeries and private spa retreats. Furthermore, we have evidence that you fraudulently claimed disability benefits while actively holding undeclared corporate stock.”
The female officer stepped forward, grabbing Barbara’s manicured wrists and snapping the cuffs behind her back.
“Get your hands off me!” Barbara shrieked, kicking her slippers against the cheap linoleum floor. “Do you know who I am? My daughter-in-law is Samantha Sterling! She owns half of Manhattan! She won't let you do this to me!”
The investigator looked at her with pure disgust.
“Ms. Sterling was the one who signed the complaint, ma’am. She handed us the receipts herself.”
Barbara went limp.
As she was marched out of the motel lobby in full view of the truck drivers and motel guests, a local news crew was already waiting on the sidewalk, filming every second of her public humiliation.
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The woman who had looked down on me for wearing clearance dresses was being loaded into the back of a police cruiser in plastic sandals, crying out for the daughter-in-law she had spent three years trying to destroy.
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