Chapter 7 - The Master of the Terminals
Hector Song did not look like a man who was about to be arrested. At fifty-eight, he was shorter than his brothers had been, his body thick and square under an overcoat made of midnight-blue cashmere that looked like it cost more than our house in Portsmouth. His hair was black, dyed to hide the gray, and his teeth were small, white, and perfectly straight as he smiled at Gideon from the doorway of the library.
"Gideon," Hector said, his voice carrying that booming, theatrical authority that belonged to the old men of the shipping docks. "What is this nonsense about freezing the New Jersey accounts? The terminal operators are waiting for the clearance codes. We have four container ships from Hamburg sitting outside the harbor right now."
He stopped when he saw me sitting on the sofa, his eyes skipping over my cashmere sweater to fix on the shape of my gray eyes. His smile didn't disappear; it turned into something hard, flat, and completely still, like grease freezing on a cold plate.
"Who is the girl?" Hector asked, his voice dropping into a lower register. "One of Julian’s production assistants? You shouldn't have outsiders in the room when we're discussing the trust balances, Gideon."
"Her name is Autumn Song, Uncle," Gideon said, walking behind the long desk and sitting down in the high leather chair. He didn't look up at the older man; he opened the leather-bound folder Harrison had left behind. "She’s Christopher Song’s only daughter. And she has the original hospital records from the Scioto County clinic dated October 12th, 2005."
Hector didn't move. His hand remained on the brass handle of the door, his leather glove tight against the metal. "Your father had a lot of obligations outside the borough, Gideon. If some girl from the provinces thinks she has a claim on the common stock because of an old birth certificate, she can file a petition with the surrogate office in Albany. It takes three years just to get a hearing date."
"She’s not filing a petition with the surrogate office, Hector," Julian said, stepping out from the shadow of the bookcase, his arms crossed over his chest. "She’s already filed a statement with the Special Precinct in Midtown. The forensic logs from her mother’s medical treatments have been delivered to the federal prosecutor’s office in San Ángel by dawn."
"The federal prosecutor?" Hector let out a short, bark-like laugh that didn't have any humor in it. "The federal prosecutor doesn't look at domestic custody cases from twenty years ago, Julian. You’ve been spending too much time on movie sets. The statute of limitations for civil fraud expired in 2011."
"It’s not civil fraud, Uncle Hector," Ethan said, standing up from the floor and holding his phone out in front of him, the screen displaying a live digital recording interface. "The signature on the 2004 custody deed was verified as a forgery by the Ohio State Police five minutes ago. Because the documents were used to secure federal infrastructure grants for the New Jersey port authority in 2016, the charge is grand wire fraud under the RICO statute. There is no statute of limitations for an ongoing criminal enterprise that involves the diversion of trust funds across state lines."
Hector Song’s face changed. It didn't turn pale; it turned a dark, congested red, the small veins around his nose standing out against his skin like purple threads. He dropped his hand from the door handle and took a step toward the desk, his fingers curling into fists inside his leather gloves.
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"You arrogant little vipers," Hector hissed, his voice dropping into a snarl that sounded like an old dog cornered in an alley. "You think you run this city because your father left you the computers and the glass towers? I was the one who cleared the concrete contracts with the unions when your grandfather was too sick to sign the checks! If I pull the shipping lines out of the Vanguard fund on Monday morning, your entire logistics portfolio will be worth less than the paper it’s printed on!"
"The shipping lines don't belong to you anymore, Hector," Gideon said, finally lifting his metallic gray eyes to look at the old man. "Harrison completed the secondary asset seizure at noon. Because the forged custody papers were used to guarantee the leases on the New Jersey terminals, the Vanguard Group has exercised its right of immediate foreclosure under Section 9 of the 2004 trust covenant. You don't have any stock, Hector. You don't have any ships. You have exactly twenty minutes before the federal marshals arrive at the front door of your house in Greenwich to collect your passport."
