Chapter 6 - The Arrival of the Law
The estate's general manager, Monsieur Laurent, did not knock before entering Suite 304.
He walked in flanked by two Newport County sheriff’s deputies and Arthur Callahan, who was carrying a black leather legal satchel stamped with the gold seal of the Rhode Island Bar Association. Laurent’s expression was that of a man who had spent thirty years managing five-star properties and had just discovered a sewage leak beneath the ballroom floorboards.
"Mr. and Mrs. Vance," Laurent said in a crisp, icy French accent that could have sliced through sheet metal. "At ten-forty-eight this morning, our corporate banking terminal received an automated stop-payment notice from Chase Commercial Security regarding authorization voucher number eight-eight-four-one."
He held up a thermal register slip printed on pink paper.
"The forty-two-thousand-five-hundred-dollar balance for this event remains entirely unpaid. Furthermore, Mr. Thatcher Sterling has formally revoked the primary master contract, which was secured under his family’s commercial guarantee."
Laurent glanced around the suite—at the torn dresses, the scattered pearls, the half-empty bottles of champagne, and Sloan sitting on the chaise lounge in her ruined lace robe like a discarded doll.
"The catering staff has been recalled from the service pavilions," Laurent continued with clinical efficiency. "The kitchen gas lines have been shut off. The floral displays on the terrace are being disassembled by our grounds crew. You have forty-five minutes to clear your personal belongings from the third-floor suites before the county locksmith secures the doors."
"You can't do that!" Blythe shrieked, jumping to her feet, her hands clawing at the fabric of her silver gown. "We paid a twenty-thousand-dollar deposit! The guests are arriving! The Sterling family friends are already on the highway from Boston!"
"The twenty-thousand-dollar deposit was forfeited three weeks ago when your secondary check failed to clear the clearinghouse, madame," Laurent replied, not blinking an eye. "And the Sterling family has already dispatched a private security team to the front gates on Bellevue Avenue. Every vehicle arriving for this wedding is being turned around at the stone pillars with a formal notice of cancellation."
"A notice?" Sloan gasped, her voice cracking into a high, hysterical screech. "What does the notice say?!"
Arthur Callahan stepped forward, opening his leather portfolio, and pulled out a single sheet of heavy white cardstock.
"It says," Callahan read aloud, his gravelly voice echoing off the high plaster ceilings, "'The marriage between Thatcher Sterling and Sloan Vance will not take place. The Vance family is currently assisting the Newport County Sheriff's Department with an ongoing investigation into felony assault and grand larceny. The Sterling family requests privacy during this time.'"
Judson let out a low, guttural groan and collapsed onto the bed, burying his face in his hands.
Deputy Miller, the older officer with graying hair who had escorted Callahan upstairs, stepped toward the center of the room, unhooking a pair of stainless-steel handcuffs from his tactical belt with a sharp, metallic clink.
"Judson Vance?" the deputy asked.
My father didn't lift his head.
"Sir, stand up and place your hands behind your back," Deputy Miller ordered. "I have a warrant for your arrest issued by the Second Division District Court. Identity fraud under Section 11-49.1-3, and forgery of a commercial financial instrument over five thousand dollars."
"No!" Blythe screamed, throwing herself across her husband's shoulders like a theatrical shield. "Don't touch him! He's a diabetic! He has a heart condition! Judson, don't say a word until Arthur calls his partners!"
"Arthur is my partner, Blythe," Callahan remarked dryly, gesturing to his business card. "And I don't represent your husband. I represent Merritt Vance and Apex Marine Underwriting. Deputy, please execute the warrant."
The second deputy moved in, taking Blythe by the upper arm and peeling her off her husband with the effortless leverage of a trained patrolman. Judson was pulled to his feet, his tailored morning coat bunching around his neck, his hands forced behind his back as the steel ratchets clicked shut around his wrists.
As the deputies turned my father toward the door, his eyes finally met mine.
There was no arrogance left in his face. No patronizing lectures about my "unfeminine" career. No dismissive hand waves about my hard-earned savings. There was only the raw, naked terror of a sixty-two-year-old country club fixture realizing that the country club had no jail cells, and the state penitentiary had no valet parking.
"Merritt..." he whispered, his lips trembling against his teeth. "Please. Talk to them. Tell them it was a misunderstanding. I’m your father."
"You were my father when you took three thousand dollars out of my savings account for Sloan's apartment twelve years ago, Judson," I said, leaning forward in my wheelchair, my voice steady as an anchor chain. "You were my father when you watched me lie at the bottom of that marble staircase last night and asked the photographer if he got the shot. And you were my father when you stole my corporate card to pay for her champagne."
May you like
I looked at Deputy Miller.
"Take him down the freight elevator, Officer. We wouldn't want him to make a scene in front of the caterers."
