Chapter 5 - The Legal Meatgrinder
Three weeks passed.
The legal machinery of the Dallas County Judicial System moved with terrifying, relentless precision once Arthur Vance took the wheel.
Because the crime involved stolen federal currency, interstate wire transfers, and aggravated felony assault on a pregnant woman, the District Attorney’s office refused to set bail for either Ryan or Evelyn. They were classified as flight risks—especially after David Chen discovered a hidden set of forged offshore bank documents in Ryan’s apartment, indicating he had planned to wire the proceeds of the gold bars to a non-extradition account in Panama once he secured control of Caruso Medical.
Sitting in a sterile, concrete holding cell with no air conditioning during the height of a August heatwave had completely destroyed Evelyn’s theatrical composure.
I didn't visit them. Not once.
Instead, I spent every single day at home, working remotely from the sunlit library downstairs while staying within arm's reach of Claire. I personally cooked her meals, monitored her medication, and sat beside her on the veranda as we listened to classical music to keep her blood pressure low.
On a Tuesday morning, Arthur Vance arrived at the house with a thick blue folder.
"The preliminary hearing is set for Friday," Arthur said, taking a cup of black coffee from the kitchen counter. "Ryan’s public defender—since he can no longer afford private counsel—tried to submit a motion for mental health diversion."
"On what grounds?" I asked, sitting across from him at the kitchen island.
"He claims he was suffering from 'extreme financial distress' caused by your refusal to provide him with an executive salary," Arthur scoffed. "The judge threw it out in four minutes. But your mother’s attorney is taking a different angle. She’s offering a complete guilty plea on the grand larceny charges in exchange for dropping the felony assault count."
"No," I replied instantly. "The assault count stays. That’s the charge that carries mandatory prison time."
"She’s terrified of state prison, Marcus," Arthur noted. "At her age, an eight-year sentence on a Class 2 felony means she will likely spend the rest of her natural life behind bars. Her lawyer called me an hour ago, practically begging for a sit-down. She says your mother wants to give you full written confession statements against Ryan if you drop the personal injury suit."
I looked down at my coffee cup, watching the black liquid swirl.
"She wants to sell out her favorite son to save her own skin," I said bitterly. "She spent thirty years treating Ryan like a prince while treating me like an unpaid bank account. The moment the gold ran out, she threw him to the wolves."
"That’s how sociopaths operate, Marcus," Arthur said gently. "Do you want to see her? One final time before the trial? It might give you the closure you need."
I was silent for a long moment. I looked up toward the stairs, hearing the faint, sweet sound of Claire humming as she folded tiny baby clothes in the nursery upstairs.
"No," I said, shaking my head. "I don't need closure from a parasite, Arthur. Tell her lawyer there will be no deals. No reduction in charges. No dropped counts. She will stand trial alongside her son, and she will hear the video recording played in open court before a grand jury."
"Consider it done," Arthur nodded, pulling out his phone. "Oh, by the way... the private auction for Ryan’s seized sports cars and luxury watches finalized this morning. We recovered three hundred and twenty thousand dollars from his liquidated personal accounts. I’ve directed the funds directly into a restricted educational trust for your daughter."
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I smiled—a real, genuine smile for the first time in weeks. "Using Ryan’s stolen vanity money to put my daughter through college. That’s poetic justice."
"It’s the only kind of justice that sticks," Arthur replied, rising to leave. "Get ready for Friday, Marcus. It’s going to be the final nail in the coffin."
