Chapter 6 - THE UNRAVELING OF THE DEFENSE
-6-
The federal detention center’s visiting room smelled of floor wax, cheap disinfectant, and the stale, recycled air of a building that had seen too many desperate men and broken promises.
Julian Vance sat on the metal stool behind the reinforced glass partition, wearing a bright orange jumpsuit that swallowed his shoulders. He looked ten years older than he had just a week ago. His hair was greasy and uncombed, his skin sallow, and his eyes bloodshot from sleepless nights spent staring at the concrete ceiling of his holding cell.
When the heavy steel door clicked open and I stepped into the visitor's booth, Julian’s head snapped up. For a fraction of a second, a pathetic flicker of hope crossed his face, as if he expected me to walk in with a team of high-priced criminal defense attorneys, ready to clear his name and post bail.
Then he saw the calm, unreadable expression in my eyes. The tailored charcoal power suit I wore. The expensive leather briefcase resting against my leg.
He picked up the heavy plastic telephone receiver attached to the wall. I slowly lifted mine, pressing it against my ear.
"Phoebe..." Julian’s voice cracked through the small speaker, sounding thin and desperate. "Phoebe, thank God. You have to get me out of here. This place... it's insane. They won't listen to me. My lawyer is an idiot; he says the federal prosecutor has a mountain of ironclad evidence. But you know how this works, Phoebe! You can talk to your father, you can use your connections—"
"I don't have connections for white-collar criminals, Julian," I interrupted smoothly, my voice cutting through his frantic rambling like a scalpel. "And I certainly don't have lawyers willing to commit perjury to cover up bank fraud."
Julian’s face twisted into an ugly, desperate grimace. He slammed his palm against the glass partition. "I’m your husband! We share a life! If I go down for twenty years, you're implicated too—the home-equity loans, the joint tax returns, the lifestyle we built together! You think the feds aren't going to look at you?!"
"The feds already looked at me, Julian," I said, a faint, cold smile touching my lips. "In fact, they reviewed every single personal and corporate tax document associated with my name before they ever slapped those handcuffs on your wrists."
He stared at me, his eyes wide with sudden, sickening realization. "You... you cut a deal with the prosecutor before you even had me arrested."
"In corporate compliance, you don't survive by waiting for the crash, Julian. You survive by auditing the wreckage before anyone else even smells smoke," I said, leaning closer to the glass. "I handed the U.S. Attorney’s office a fully compiled, cross-referenced dossier on Northstar Consulting three days before Christmas. Every forged signature, every unauthorized wire transfer, every shell company. I didn't just implicate you—I gave them the blueprint to put you away for a very, very long time."
Julian’s jaw dropped. The desperate pleading vanished, replaced by a dark, venomous hatred that burned in the depths of his bloodshot eyes. "You bitch," he hissed, his voice trembling with fury. "You set me up. You waited until I was vulnerable, until you lost your job, and then you systematically destroyed everything I built just to satisfy your pathetic little ego!"
"No, Julian," I said, my voice dropping into an absolute, unyielding register. "You destroyed yourself the moment you decided that my career was disposable, my parents deserved contempt, and our assets were your personal slush fund to finance your ego and your brother's illegal schemes. I merely accelerated the timeline."
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Before Julian could scream another obscenity, the electronic buzzer sounded, signaling the end of our allotted visiting time.
I set the heavy plastic receiver back onto its cradle with a clean, satisfying clack. I didn't look back as I turned on my heel and walked out of the visiting room, leaving my soon-to-be ex-husband sitting alone in the dark, rotting inside the very prison he had so carefully engineered for himself.
