Chapter 4 - THE JAILHOUSE VISIT
At 7:00 PM, I walked into the visitor center of the County Correctional Facility.
The room smelled of floor wax, cheap coffee, and disinfectant. A thick panel of bulletproof glass separated two rows of metal stools.
A moment later, the heavy steel door on the inmate side opened.
Christopher was led in by a corrections officer.
He looked horrific. His expensive linen shirt was missing two buttons, his hair was disheveled, and his eyes were bloodshot. The arrogant, untouchable heir to the Vance legacy was gone, replaced by a terrified man who looked like he hadn't slept a second.
He sat down heavily on the stool and grabbed the plastic phone receiver with trembling hands.
I picked up my phone and held it to my ear.
"Savannah!" Christopher sobbed, his voice cracking through the static of the line. "Savannah, thank God! You have to get me out of here! The people in here... they’re monsters! The guards won't listen to me! My lawyer isn't picking up!"
I looked at him silently, my face an unreadable mask.
"Savannah, please!" he begged, pressing his hand against the glass. "I know I lost my temper! I know I shouldn't have thrown the tea! It was a mistake! I was stressed about my mother's trip and the business—"
"You didn't lose your temper, Christopher," I said, my voice smooth and level. "You made a calculated power move. You thought because we were in our kitchen, because your mother was watching, and because you believed you owned the house, you could physically humiliate me into submission."
"It was an accident!" he wailed.
"It was on video," I reminded him. "Twelve members of my board saw it. The police saw it. The judge watched it two hours ago during your preliminary bail hearing."
Christopher’s breath hitched. "Bail... what did the judge set bail at?"
"Bail was denied," I said smoothly.
Christopher froze. "What? Why?!"
"Because my legal team presented evidence that you secretly accessed my financial accounts, transferred forty thousand dollars across state lines, and were preparing to purchase two one-way tickets to Zurich under your mother's name," I explained. "The court considers you an extreme flight risk."
"Zurich?!" Christopher stammered. "I... I was just setting up an offshore account for my mother's retirement!"
"With my money," I noted. "Which constitutes wire fraud, bank fraud, and federal embezzlement."
Christopher’s face turned an ashen white. He squeezed the plastic receiver so hard his knuckles turned yellow.
"Savannah... we're married," he whispered, trying to adopt the soft, manipulative tone he had used on me for seven years. "Seven years. We built a life together. You love me. You know me. I'm your husband. We can fix this! I'll go to anger management! I'll apologize to your board! I'll make my mother apologize to you!"
"Your mother was evicted four hours ago," I told him.
Christopher blinked in shock. "What?"
"She was escorted off my property by my legal team and two security guards," I continued. "Her luxury items have been seized pending forensic recovery. As of right now, Beatrice is staying at a two-star motel near the highway, using cash she borrowed from her sister."
"You... you threw my mother out onto the street?!" Christopher screamed, slamming his fist against the bulletproof glass. "You heartless bitch! She’s an old woman!"
"She’s a sixty-two-year-old thief who sat on my kitchen stool and told me that I was a punching bag for your frustration," I replied, my eyes hardening into flint. "She enabled your arrogance, Christopher. She taught you that women are disposable tools to fund your failures."
I pulled a thick white envelope from my coat pocket and pressed it flat against the glass.
"What is that?" Christopher choked out.
"Divorce papers," I said. "Along with a full asset forfeiture demand. You have twenty-four hours to sign them voluntarily. If you sign, my attorneys will request that the federal wire fraud charges be dropped, leaving you to deal only with the state felony assault charges."
"And if I don't sign?!" he spat.
"If you don't sign," I leaned closer to the glass, "I will personally fund the federal prosecution. You will do ten years in a federal penitentiary, and when you get out, you won't own the clothes on your back."
Christopher stared at me, trembling with a terrifying combination of rage and total helplessness.
May you like
I hung up the receiver, stood up, and adjusted my suit coat.
"Goodbye, Christopher," I whispered through the glass. "I hope the coffee in prison is cold."
