Chapter 5 - THE SIEGE OF HIGHLAND PARK
At 3:00 PM, Grant pulled his Bentley up to the security gate of his Highland Park mansion.
His eyes were bloodshot and swollen from the pepper spray. His clothes were stained with sweat. He was running on pure, unadulterated desperation. He needed to get into the safe in his master bedroom closet—inside was two hundred thousand dollars in physical cash, six gold bars, and three unregistered passports he had secured three years ago as an emergency insurance policy.
He punched his personal access code into the gate keypad.
ERR.
The code was invalid.
Grant cursed loudly, stepping out of the car and vaulting over the six-foot iron fence, landing heavily on the manicured lawn. He ran across the driveway toward the front doors.
Standing on the front porch were two uniformed Dallas County Sheriffs, alongside Marcus Thorne and a moving crew loading boxes into a large Vance Logistics trailer.
"Stop right there, Mr. Whitmore," Sheriff Davis said, stepping down the stone steps with his hand resting on his holster.
"Sheriff, this is my house!" Grant yelled, wiping his streaming eyes with his sleeve. "I have personal property inside that safe!"
"You are currently violating a temporary restraining order issued by the 191st District Court," Sheriff Davis replied sternly. "Furthermore, a writ of asset attachment has been executed on this residence. Everything inside this property is now under the custody of the court-appointed receiver."
"I have cash in that safe!" Grant screamed, trying to push past the officer. "That's my private cash!"
The second deputy stepped forward, grabbing Grant’s arm and twisting it behind his back, forcing him down onto the cold stone steps.
"Grant Whitmore," Sheriff Davis announced, pulling handcuffs from his belt. "You are under arrest for violation of a protective order, criminal trespass, and an outstanding federal warrant for corporate wire fraud."
CLICK-CLACK.
The steel cuffs snapped tightly around Grant’s wrists.
From the second-floor balcony of the mansion, Claire stepped out into the afternoon air.
She looked down at him lying face-down on the stone steps, surrounded by police officers and movers carrying out his expensive paintings, his designer suits, and his Italian leather shoes.
Grant lifted his head from the stone, spitting blood from a scraped lip, looking up at her.
"Claire!" he yelled, his voice cracking with desperation. "Claire, please! Tell them to stop! We can talk about this! I was wrong! I was crazy! Vanessa manipulated me!"
Claire stood at the balcony railing, her hands folded calmly in front of her. She watched him with the quiet curiosity of someone looking at a strange insect under glass.
"You weren't crazy, Grant," Claire called down, her voice clear and carrying over the noise of the street. "You were just weak. And you thought I was weaker."
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"Claire, I love you!" Grant wept, the tears mixing with the pepper spray residue on his face, burning his skin. "I’ll give everything back! I’ll sign whatever you want! Just don't let them take me to jail!"
Claire did not answer. She turned her back on him and walked back inside the mansion, closing the French doors behind her.
