Chapter 8 - Behind the Ballistic Glass-8
The visitor’s room at the federal detention center was a windowless concrete bunker divided by a thick, seamless pane of reinforced ballistic glass. The air was freezing, smelling of stale floor wax, industrial disinfectant, and the hollow, heavy atmosphere of a tomb.
I sat down on the cold metal stool, placing my hands flat on the stainless-steel counter, my posture straight and unyielding. A second later, the heavy iron door on the opposite side opened, and two armed federal marshals escorted Celeste Vance into the room.
She sat down heavily on the stool, lifting her chained hands with an immense effort to pick up the plastic intercom phone. I picked up my receiver, holding it to my ear in total silence.
"You look beautiful, Sarah," Celeste whispered through the line, her voice a raspy, broken shadow of its former self, her throat damaged by the smoke inhalation from the transit bay fire. "I see the civilian clothes suit you just as well as they did when you were playing the quiet victim at my table. I suppose I should thank you for leaving your son his nominal trust shares. It was a remarkably generous act for a woman who called her an overreacting failure."
"I didn't do it for you, Celeste," I said, my voice completely flat, devoid of any anger or hatred. "I did it for the law. You're going to prison for life, Celeste. The company is gone. Your money is gone. Truett is currently cooperating with the feds to secure a reduced sentence in a maximum-security facility, and your family's lifestyle has been completely bankrapped by the federal asset seizures."
Celeste let out a sharp, bitter bark of laughter that degenerated into a ragged coughing fit, her chained hands shaking against the steel counter. "You think you won, Sarah? You think this little courtroom victory makes you safe? You think you can just take your investment dividends and go back to your quiet little life as a senior acquisitions director with your son?"
May you like
She leaned close to the glass, her eyes flashing with a sudden, malicious intensity that reminded me of the night she stood in her Oakhill kitchen.
"The Nicosia pipeline... you only pulled the top layer of the ledger, Sarah. The real owners of that syndicate... the international cartel behind those Cypriot holding firms... they don't care about federal court verdicts. They care about their capital. Eighty-five million dollars of their money is currently frozen in the Vanguard receivership account because of your fire ax sting."
