Chapter 6 - The Interrogation Room Downstairs
-6-
Deep within the subterranean levels of the federal detention facility, the air smelled of stale coffee, industrial floor wax, and inescapable despair.
I sat across the brushed-steel table from Ethan in a secure consultation room reserved for corporate witnesses and federal investigators. A two-way mirror occupied the entire length of the far wall, reflecting the fluorescent glare back into our eyes.
Ethan looked unrecognizable. The tailored suits, the arrogant smirk, the casual confidence of a man who believed he was untouchable—all of it was gone, replaced by a gray, oversized detention jumpsuit that hung loosely off his stooped shoulders. His wrists were cuffed to a metal loop bolted directly to the center of the table.
When I slid the final settlement and divorce decree across the steel surface toward him, Ethan didn't look at the paper. He stared down at his own cuffed hands, his eyes hollow and dead.
“They’re offering twelve years,” Ethan whispered, his voice cracking horribly. “The prosecutor said if I plead guilty to wire fraud and corporate embezzlement and waive my right to trial, they’ll drop the secondary charges of money laundering against Mom.”
I didn't blink. I crossed my legs, resting my hands neatly over my knee, and watched him with an icy, clinical detachment.
“That’s actually quite generous of them, given that your mother actively solicited the stolen funds to save her house from foreclosure,” I replied quietly.
Ethan winced, flinching as if I had struck him physically. “She didn't know where the money was coming from, Rachel. She thought I was just doing well at work. She thought my bonuses covered her mortgage.”
“Don't lie to me, Ethan,” I said, my voice dropping an octave into a register that made him shrink back in his chair. “Your mother sat at our kitchen table, looked me in the eye, and demanded three thousand dollars a month because she claimed she had ‘invested’ in raising you and deserved a cut of my salary. She knew exactly whose money she was spending. She just thought she was entitled to it.”
Ethan let out a ragged, broken sob, burying his face in his cuffed hands. “I ruined everything. I had a good career, a brilliant wife, a comfortable life... and I threw it all away because I couldn't tell my mother ‘no’.”
“No, Ethan,” I corrected him, leaning forward until I was inches away from his face. “You threw it away because you believed you were smarter than the system, richer than your ethics, and more powerful than the person who was secretly keeping your head above water. For six years, I covered your shortfalls, managed your failures, and protected your reputation while you coasted on my hard work. The moment I finally achieved what I worked a decade for, your mother tried to put a tax on my success—and you helped her reach for the wallet.”
He looked up, tears streaming down his cheeks, his lower lip trembling uncontrollably. “Is there... is there any part of you that still cares? After everything? Can we... can we fix this, Rachel? Once I serve my time—”
I picked up the divorce decree, tapped the signature line with my pen, and slid it directly under his nose.
“Sign the papers, Ethan,” I said, my tone absolute and unyielding. “The divorce is finalized by default of your incarceration and financial malfeasance. The house is mine. My bank accounts are secure. And by the time you walk out of a federal penitentiary twelve years from now, I will be a distant memory you only read about in corporate history books.”
Ethan stared at the signature line for a long, agonizing minute. The reality of his existence finally settled over him like a lead shroud. With shaking, cuffed fingers, he picked up the pen provided by the guard, pressed it against the paper, and signed his name for the very last time as my husband.
I pulled the signed document back across the table, checked the signature, and slipped it into my leather portfolio.
I stood up, buttoned my coat, and turned toward the door.
“Rachel,” Ethan called out softly, his voice barely audible over the hum of the ventilation system.
I paused with my hand on the steel door handle, looking back over my shoulder one last time.
“Thank you,” he whispered, his eyes swimming with tears. “For... for not letting them take Mom to prison with me.”
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“Don't thank me, Ethan,” I said quietly. “Your mother didn't escape prison. She’s currently losing her house, her dignity, and her social standing out in the real world. And for a woman like Linda, losing her status is a much harsher sentence than a concrete cell.”
I pushed the door open, stepped out into the bright, sterile corridor, and left him in the dark.
