Chapter 2 - The Suite at the Drake
By noon, we were checked into a two-bedroom suite at The Drake Hotel overlooking Lake Michigan. The contrast between the freezing, cramped interior of the Honda Civic and the soaring ceilings, plush carpeting, and warm radiator heat of the historic hotel was staggering. Caleb and Noah stared wide-eyed at the king-sized beds, immediately launching themselves across the comforters in a burst of pent-up energy that defied Noah’s low-grade fever.
I had ordered a doctor on call through the concierge, and within forty-five minutes, a pediatrician named Dr. Hayes arrived with a medical bag. After a thorough examination, she confirmed that Noah had a severe case of bronchial inflammation exacerbated by cold-weather exposure, prescribing a course of antibiotics and strict indoor rest.
While Dr. Hayes wrote out the prescription, I walked Daniel into the adjoining sitting room and closed the heavy mahogany door.
“All right,” I said, pulling my phone from my coat pocket. “Before I retired, I spent twenty years managing union contracts and arbitrations. I know how people try to bend the rules when they think the other guy doesn't have the stomach for a fight. Who is the best family law and corporate litigation attorney in Chicago?”
Daniel looked hesitant. “Good lawyers cost thousands of dollars just to retain, Dad. My accounts are frozen, my credit cards are maxed out, and—”
“Did I ask about your bank account?” I interrupted, my tone sharp enough to cut glass. “I asked for a name. I have my pension, and I brought my checkbook. If we need to liquidate my truck or take out a second mortgage on my house in Seattle to fund this war, we’ll do it. But we are not letting Lauren and her father steal my grandsons’ future without a fight.”
Daniel swallowed hard, moisture pooling in his eyes again. For a man who had carried the crushing weight of failure alone for months, the realization that he no longer had to bear it in isolation hit him like a physical wave. He pulled out his phone, scrolling through his contacts until he stopped at a number.
“Marcus Vance,” Daniel said softly. “He’s a partner at Vance & Sterling downtown. He represented one of my college roommates during a messy custody battle. People say he’s ruthless in the courtroom, but his retainer is fifteen thousand dollars upfront.”
“Call him,” I said.
Ten minutes later, Daniel was speaking with Marcus Vance’s administrative assistant. Because I instructed him to mention that we were prepared to wire a full retainer immediately and file an emergency injunction for child endangerment and corporate fraud, our appointment was scheduled for 3:30 PM that very afternoon.
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As Daniel hung up the phone, he looked at me with a mixture of awe and terror. “Dad... what if Vance tells us we don't have a case? What if Richard’s bank connections protect them?”
“Then we dig deeper,” I said, walking over to the window to watch the gray waves of Lake Michigan crash against the stone breakwater. “Nobody commits financial fraud and corporate theft without leaving paper trails. People like Richard Whitaker think they’re untouchable because they wear tailored suits and sit on country club boards. But arrogance makes mistakes. And today, we’re going to start collecting them.”
