Chapter 7 - The Eviction of Genesis
Three weeks after the disaster at the Municipal Tower, the crisp autumn cold of Minnesota had deepened into early winter.
I stood on the sidewalk outside a grand, two-story stone mansion in the wealthy suburban enclave of Hidden Hills—the Vance family estate. The red-and-gold leaves of the oak trees were covered in a light dusting of fresh snow, and the air was quiet, broken only by the loud, rhythmic thud of wooden furniture being set down on concrete.
Parked in the circular driveway were two massive county sheriff moving trucks.
Four uniformed sheriff’s deputies stood near the front portico, holding legal writs of execution, while a crew of professional movers systematically carried velvet armchairs, antique oil paintings, and racks of designer clothing out of the front entrance, loading them onto the trucks.
Standing near the rose bushes, wrapped in a heavy mink coat that was entirely inadequate against the biting wind, was Genesis Vance.
Her hair was unstyled, her designer sunglasses were crooked, and her face was lined with deep, dark shadows of exhaustion and defeat. Beside her stood Arthur, wearing a plain, cheap coat, staring blankly at the ground as the legal mechanics of their ruin unfolded before their eyes.
I stepped out of my car, wearing my long dark coat, leather gloves, and a simple black scarf. I walked slowly up the stone driveway, my boots crunching softly over the snow.
When Genesis saw me, her eyes flashed with a sudden, desperate, animalistic rage.
"You!" Genesis shrieked, taking three unsteadily steps toward me before a sheriff's deputy stepped into her path, holding up a warning hand. "You monster! Look at what you've done to my family! Look at what you've taken from us!"
I stopped five feet away from her, looking at the grand house that had once been the fortress of her social arrogance.
"I didn't take this house, Genesis," I said quietly. "The bank foreclosed on it."
Following the collapse of the Sterling Capital deal and the launch of the Attorney General’s investigation, Arthur Vance’s law firm had suffered a fatal, instantaneous collapse. Three major corporate clients had terminated their retainers in a single week, and the state bar association had suspended Arthur’s law license pending a formal disbarment hearing for corporate fraud.
Deprived of Arthur’s legal income, and facing millions of dollars in civil clawback lawsuits from Vanguard Urban Design, the secondary mortgages Arthur had secretly taken out on the Hidden Hills estate to fund Jackson’s failed business ideas had defaulted.
The bank had repossessed the property forty-eight hours ago.
"Where are we supposed to go?!" Genesis wept, her poisonous voice breaking into raw, genuine panic. "Arthur’s accounts are frozen! My friends won't answer my calls! We have nowhere to live!"
I looked at the woman who had sat at the head of a dinner table three weeks ago, calmly carving roast lamb while her son threw a plate at my head. I remembered her soft, arrogant voice telling me that I was expected to surrender my Grand Avenue loft to her and pay her $1,200 every month for her "care."
I reached into my coat pocket and pulled out a small, printed real estate flyer.
"I found an apartment for you, Genesis," I said softly, holding the flyer out to her.
Genesis snatched the paper from my hand, her eyes darting across the text.
It was a listing for a small, single-room basement studio apartment in a dingy building on the industrial outskirts of East St. Paul. The rent was $1,200 a month. It had three flights of steep, narrow concrete stairs, no elevator, and a view of a gravel parking lot.
"This... this is a dump!" Genesis gasped, her hands shaking as she stared at the flyer. "It has stairs! I told you I can't do stairs!"
"Then you’d better learn to walk carefully, Genesis," I replied, my voice completely devoid of pity. "Because that’s the exact amount of money you demanded from me. And unlike me, no one is going to give it to you for free."
Arthur walked up beside his wife, placing a hand on her trembling shoulder. He looked at me—not with anger anymore, but with the hollow, haunting gaze of a man who realized that his entire life had been built on a foundation of sand.
"How is Jackson?" Arthur asked softly, his voice raspy and broken.
"Jackson entered a formal plea agreement this morning, Arthur," I said. "He pleaded guilty to Second-Degree Domestic Assault and Attempted Corporate Fraud. The judge sentenced him to four years at the Faribault Correctional Facility. No parole for the first thirty months."
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Genesis let out a loud, strangled wail, sinking onto her knees in the cold snow, burying her face in her hands.
I didn't watch her cry. I turned my back on the falling ruins of the Vance family estate, walked down the driveway to my car, and drove away into the bright, white winter sun.
