Chapter 8 - The Interrogation Room Mirror-8
The interrogation suite in the basement of the Federal Building was colder than the sheriff's office.
Dean sat on the far side of a heavy steel table, dressed in an orange jumpsuit, his wrists and ankles secured by heavy iron shackles that clinked dismally whenever he moved. His hair was messy, his eyes bloodshot, and the arrogant, polished posture he had maintained for thirteen years was completely shattered.
Across the table sat Lead Federal Prosecutor Thomas Vance and Agent Sarah Croft.
I stood behind the one-way observation mirror in the dark viewing room, accompanied by Arthur Pendelton. I watched my husband through the glass—a glass that allowed me to see his every twitch, his every desperate swallow, while leaving me completely invisible to him.
“Dean,” Prosecutor Vance opened, placing a thick black binder flat on the metal table. “Five minutes ago, your legal team surrendered their representation after reviewing the digital audio files extracted from the memory card inside your office portrait frame.”
Dean’s head snapped up, his breath catching violently in his throat. “What... what memory card?”
“The card containing the recorded telephone call between you and your father on the night of September 12, 2017,” Agent Croft informed him coldly. “The call where you confirmed that you had administered a lethal dose of synthetic digitalis to Marcus Miller.”
Dean’s mouth opened, but no sound came out. The skin around his eyes twitched uncontrollably, his pale face turning a sickening, translucent shade of white.
“Your father, Walter Prescott, has already signed a preliminary confession in exchange for removing the death penalty from his indictment,” Vance continued, leaning in close across the table. “Vanessa Crowley has provided sworn testimony detailing your multi-million-dollar offshore laundering network. You are facing charges of First-Degree Premeditated Murder, Federal Wire Fraud, Bank Fraud, Corporate Identity Theft, and Grand Larceny under the RICO statutes.”
“No...” Dean whimpered, his hands rising to cover his face, the iron chains clanking loudly against the steel table. “No... Natalie... I need to talk to Natalie! Where is my wife?!”
“Your wife is no longer reachable by you or your legal representatives, Mr. Prescott,” Vance stated with absolute finality. “An emergency permanent protective order has been granted by the High Court. You are barred from having any contact, direct or indirect, with Natalie Prescott or Oliver Prescott for the rest of your natural life.”
“She’s my wife!” Dean screamed, slamming his cuffed hands against the table, tears spilling down his hollow cheeks. “She loves me! She wouldn't do this to me! She saved my company last night!”
Inside the dark viewing room behind the glass, I looked at the man weeping on the table.
He still didn't understand. He still believed that my love was a weakness he could exploit, a blind spot he could manipulate until the very end. He had mistaken my quiet, patient grace for vulnerability, completely blind to the reality that the woman who manages acquisitions for a living knows exactly when an asset has lost all value.
I reached out, pressed the intercom button on the wall, and spoke into the microphone.
My voice echoed through the speaker inside the interrogation room, cold, crisp, and clear:
“I didn't save your company last night, Dean. I bought the evidence that will put you in a cage for the rest of your life.”
Dean froze. He stared wildly at the dark one-way mirror, his eyes filled with a terror so profound, so absolute, that his entire body began to shake.
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“Natalie!” he shrieked, pressing his face against the glass. “Natalie, please! I’m Oliver’s father! You can't leave me in here! Natalie!”
I released the intercom button, turned my back on the glass, and walked out of the viewing room without looking back once.
