Chapter 7 - The Visitor in Orange
Three weeks later, I sat behind a thick glass partition in the visitor room of the county correctional facility.
On the other side of the glass sat Arthur Caldwell.
He was wearing a bright orange jumpsuit. His hair, usually meticulously combed and styled, was untrimmed and messy. The posture of absolute authority he had maintained for sixty years had slumped into a bitter, defeated hunch.
He picked up the silver telephone receiver. I picked up mine.
“You came to gloat,” he said, his voice flat through the small speaker.
“No,” I replied. “I came to bring you your formal termination papers from the board of directors.”
His jaw clenched. “I built that company with my hands, Chloe. You had no right to hand it over to Harrison.”
“You didn't build it, Dad,” I corrected him calmly. “You leveraged it to the hilt, lied to your investors, and stole from your own family. Harrison and I are saving it.”
He leaned closer to the glass, his eyes narrowing with deep-seated resentment. “Your mother is living in a motel. Madison had to sell her jewelry to pay rent this month. Is this what you wanted? To see your family in the gutter?”
“You put them there, Dad,” I said. “You spent fifteen years teaching them that rules didn't apply to the Caldwells. You taught Madison that she was entitled to whatever she wanted, even if it belonged to someone else. You made them dependent on stolen money.”
“I did everything for you girls!” he yelled, slamming his hand against the counter, causing a correctional guard nearby to shift his stance warningly.
“You didn't do it for us,” I said, keeping my voice cold and calm. “You did it for your own ego. You wanted to be the big man in the room. And when I dared to say 'no' to you in front of your friends, you tried to crack my skull open with a silver plate.”
Arthur looked down at his cuffed hands, a rare flicker of something resembling shame passing over his features before his pride quickly shut it down.
“The prosecutor offered a plea deal today,” I informed him. “Eight years in federal prison for wire fraud and tax evasion, plus three years state time for the assault, running concurrently.”
He looked up, shocked. “Eight years? I won't survive eight years in there!”
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“Then I suggest you take the deal,” I said, standing up from my stool. “Because if we go to trial, I will personally testify as the prosecution’s lead expert witness. And I guarantee you’ll get fifteen.”
I placed the termination papers against the glass and hung up the receiver.
