Chapter 8 - The Handcuffs Click
The heavy double doors of the penthouse opened one final time.
Assistant United States Attorney Sarah Jenkins stepped into the boardroom, flanked by six uniformed FBI agents and four state troopers.
"Margaret Carter. Brandon Carter," Prosecutor Jenkins declared, pulling two sealed red folders from her leather coat. "I have in my possession federal arrest warrants issued by the United States District Court for the Western District of Texas."
Jenkins stepped up to the head of the table, reading the charges aloud in a voice that carried absolute, legal finality:
"You are charged with thirty-four counts of federal wire fraud, twenty-two counts of grand larceny, twelve counts of corporate embezzlement, obstruction of justice, witness tampering, and one count of conspiracy to commit premeditated murder."
Two FBI agents stepped up behind Brandon.
"Wait! No! You don't understand!" Brandon wept, shrinking back against the window, his hands shaking hysterically as the agents grabbed his arms. "It was my mother! She planned everything! She told me to push her! She said we had to get the phone! It wasn't my idea! Don't take me to prison! MOTHER! TELL THEM!"
Margaret didn't even look at her weeping son. Her cold, arrogant mask had slammed back into place, though her eyes were hollow and dead.
"Say nothing, Brandon," Margaret said coldly as an agent pulled her arms behind her back, clicking heavy steel handcuffs around her manicured wrists. "Our lawyers will handle this circus within the hour."
"Your lawyers won't be handling anything, Mrs. Carter," Prosecutor Jenkins informed her with a cold smile. "Judge Miller has executed an emergency federal asset freezing order. Every bank account, credit line, real estate title, and legal retainer associated with Carter Enterprises, Aegis Holdings, and your private estate has been frozen as of six o'clock this morning. You will be assigned public defenders at your arraignment this afternoon."
Margaret froze. The word public defender hit her harder than any physical blow could have. The woman who had spent forty years buying people, judges, and law enforcement officers was now completely, utterly stripped of her wealth.
As the agents led Brandon and Margaret down the center aisle of the boardroom, Brandon passed right beside me. He looked at me with red, tear-filled eyes, pleading like a broken child.
"Victoria... please," Brandon sobbed, his voice cracking. "Tell them it was an accident... please... I loved you..."
I looked into the eyes of the man who had pushed me off a balcony twenty-four hours ago without a single second of hesitation.
"You didn't love me, Brandon," I said softly, my voice devoid of anger, holding only deep, final pity. "You loved your mother's money. Now you have neither."
He was dragged out through the double doors, his weeping echoes fading down the marble hallway.
Margaret walked past me next. She didn't weep. She held her head high, but as her eyes met mine, she saw the truth reflected in my gaze: she was going to spend the rest of her natural life in a federal prison cell, wearing a coarse orange jumpsuit, surrounded by the cold stone walls she so richly deserved.
She was led away, and the heavy doors clicked shut behind them.
The boardroom remained dead silent for five long seconds. Then, Arthur Sterling turned to me, his voice trembling as he gestured toward the head of the table.
"Victoria..." Sterling said softly. "The board... we need an interim Chairwoman to manage the receivership and restore the workers' pension fund. There is only one person in this building with the integrity to lead this company through the storm."
May you like
I looked at the mahogany head chair where Margaret had sat for twenty years.
"I will take the chair, Arthur," I said, stepping up to the podium, placing my hands on the clean wood. "And the first order of business is restoring every single dollar stolen from our factory workers."
