Chapter 9 - Justice Served
The heavy steel doors of the Illinois State Penitentiary closed with a sharp, final metallic clang.
In the small visitor room, I sat behind a thick glass partition, waiting.
A moment later, Jason was led into the room by two corrections officers. He was wearing a plain navy-blue prison uniform. His once-perfectly styled hair was cut short, his posture was slumped, and his face carried the hollow, tired expression of a man who had finally realized the world no longer cared about his name.
He sat down on the metal stool across from me and picked up the red telephone receiver.
I picked up mine.
“Why did you come, Iris?” he asked, his voice flat and devoid of its old charm. “To gloat?”
“No,” I said calmly. “I came to bring you the final paperwork.”
I held up a document against the glass: the final decree of absolute divorce and financial severance, signed and sealed by the Cook County Circuit Court.
“It’s over, Jason,” I said. “The mansion in Winnetka has been sold. The proceeds were donated to the Chicago Emergency Burn Center. Mitchell Medical Technologies no longer exists. Its name has been legally erased from every registry.”
Jason stared at the paper, his eyes blank. “And my uncle?”
“Dominic was sentenced yesterday,” I informed him. “Thirty-five years in federal prison without parole. His assets have been seized under federal forfeiture laws. The Mitchell family name has no influence left in this city.”
Jason let out a long, ragged sigh, resting his forehead against the cool glass partition. “I had everything, Iris. We had everything.”
“No,” I corrected him softly. “I had a dream, and you had an appetite. You thought you could destroy me and keep the life I built for us. But you forgot that a house built on theft and violence eventually collapses on the thief.”
He looked up at me, a single tear running down his cheek. “Do you hate me?”
I looked at him for a long moment, searching my heart for the lingering pain, anger, or fear that had plagued me for years.
I found none.
“I don't hate you, Jason,” I said honestly. “Hate requires feeling something for you. Today, you are just a stranger sitting behind a pane of glass.”
I set the telephone receiver back on its cradle, stood up, and turned my back on him.
“Iris! Wait!” he shouted through the glass, his voice muffled and desperate. “Iris!”
I didn't look back. I walked down the long concrete corridor, out through the security gates, and stepped into the warm summer air outside.
Noah was waiting by the car, standing under the shade of a large oak tree. He opened the passenger door for me as I approached.
May you like
“Is it done?” he asked softly.
“It’s done,” I said, taking a deep breath of the fresh, clean air. “It’s finally over.”
