Chapter 8 - The Prison Visit
Two months later, the heavy iron doors of the State Correctional Facility clicked shut with a loud, echoey metallic thud behind me.
The visitor’s room was cold, stark, and smelled faintly of floor bleach and industrial paint. Long rows of metal tables divided by thick plexiglass partitions stretched across the room.
I sat down on a plastic chair in Stall 4, wearing my dark tailored suit, waiting patiently.
A heavy door at the back of the room clicked open.
A prison guard guided a man wearing an orange jumpsuit across the room. His wrists were cuffed to his waist chain, his posture slouched, his silver hair unkempt, and his face lined with deep, permanent wrinkles of defeat.
It was my father, Malcolm.
He sat down heavily on the stool across from me, picking up the black plastic telephone receiver with trembling hands.
I picked up my phone, resting it against my ear.
“Why are you here, Emtt?” Malcolm rasped, his voice sounding thin, frail, and broken through the static speaker. “Came to watch me rot?”
I looked at the man who had ruled my childhood with an iron fist—a man who had called me a risk, a disappointment, and a disgrace.
“I brought you these, Malcolm,” I said smoothly, sliding a manila envelope across the counter to the guard standing nearby.
The guard inspected the envelope, opening it to reveal a set of legal documents.
“What is that?” Malcolm asked, frowning.
“That is a formal corporate release,” I explained flatly. “I purchased Oral Elite’s debt notes from your primary suppliers three weeks ago. I also paid off the outstanding legal fees for your defense team.”
Malcolm blinked, his eyes widening in absolute shock. “You... you paid off my defense fees? Why?”
“Because if those fees weren't paid, the state public defender would have negotiated a ten-year plea bargain,” I replied calmly. “With your legal team retained, your sentence was reduced to twenty-four months with early parole eligibility.”
Malcolm stared at me through the thick plexiglass, his lower lip trembling as a wave of overwhelming, suffocating guilt washed over his face.
“Emtt...” he choked out, tears welling in his hollow eyes. “I... I don't understand. After everything I did to you... after I tried to ruin your company... why would you help me?”
I leaned forward, looking my father straight in the eyes.
“I didn't do it for you, Malcolm,” I said softly, my voice completely free of anger or bitterness. “I did it for myself. Because I spent three years letting your hatred define my drive. I built Apex Route because I wanted to prove you wrong.”
I paused, letting the truth settle in the quiet space between us.
“Now, Apex Route is valued at fifteen million dollars,” I continued smoothly. “I own your house. I own Sterling’s former distribution hubs. I own your debt. And standing here today, I realized something important: I don't need to prove anything to you anymore.”
Malcolm buried his face in his cuffed hands, letting out a ragged, weeping sob that echoed softly through the plastic phone speaker.
“I was wrong about you, Emtt,” Malcolm wept, his voice muffled by his hands. “God forgive me... I was so wrong about you.”
I stood up from my plastic chair, smoothing the front of my tailored jacket.
“Your parole hearing is in eighteen months, Malcolm,” I said quietly, setting the phone receiver back onto its hook. “When you get out, there will be a small two-bedroom apartment waiting for you in the suburbs, fully paid for by my foundation. You will never have to worry about rent.”
I turned on my heel and walked toward the heavy exit doors.
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“Emtt! Wait!” Malcolm called out through the glass, his voice cracking with desperation.
I didn't stop. I walked out through the iron doors, stepping into the bright, warm afternoon sunlight, leaving the ghosts of my past behind me forever.
