PART 4: The Prison Visit
PART 4: The Prison Visit
A fallen king begs for scraps.
Forty-eight hours after the boardroom purge, I received a formal request from the Manhattan Federal Detention Center.
Adrian Voss, currently held without bail on charges of federal wire fraud, grand larceny, and corporate embezzlement, had used his single daily attorney call to beg for a ten-minute visitation with me.
I almost declined. I had no desire to see the man who had tossed a check into my kitchen and insulted my child. But Sarah advised me that settling the final asset division required his signed consent on two secondary offshore titles that my trust needed to liquidate.
At 2:00 p.m. on Thursday, I sat behind a thick pane of bulletproof glass in the visitor's room of the federal facility.
When the heavy steel door opened, two guards guided Adrian to the metal stool across from me.
I barely recognized him.
The custom charcoal suits, the bespoke Italian shoes, and the arrogant, slicked-back hair were completely gone. He wore a drab, ill-fitting orange jumpsuit. His face was gray, sunken, and unshaven. His hands trembled violently as the guard secured his handcuffs to the table ring.
He picked up the heavy plastic phone receiver with shaking fingers.
I picked up mine.
"Mara..." his voice came through the receiver, raspy, broken, and pathetic. "Mara, thank God you came. Please... you have to help me get bail. The public defender they gave me is useless. He doesn't understand corporate law!"
I looked at him through the glass, feeling no rage, no satisfaction, and no lingering grief. I felt only a profound, hollow detachment.
"You had forty-eight hours to retain private counsel, Adrian," I said, my voice completely flat. "Where are the lawyers you boasted about in my kitchen?"
Adrian’s face twisted into a grotesque mask of despair. "They won't take my calls! The moment the judge frozen my personal accounts, every firm in the city dropped me! Vanessa... Vanessa stole my private safe keys! She took my emergency cash!"
"I know," I said softly. "She tried to sell me a trojan drive for ten million on Tuesday night."
Adrian gasped, his bloodshot eyes widening in disbelief. "That bitch... I gave her everything! I ruined my life for her!"
"No, Adrian," I corrected him, my voice dropping into a razor-sharp whisper that made him flinch behind the glass. "You didn't ruin your life for her. You ruined your life because you are a weak, arrogant narcissist who mistook your wife's quiet brilliance for stupidity."
He pressed his forehead against the glass, weeping openly now, his tears smudging the thick plastic.
"Mara, please... think of our marriage! Seven years! I made a mistake! I was confused! The pressure of the company... Vanessa seduced me! I didn't mean those things I said about Ethan!"
"Don't you dare say his name," I said, my tone instantly dropping temperature.
Adrian choked on his sob, pulling back slightly. "He's my son, Mara..."
"He was your son," I said, leaning closer to the glass. "Until you looked at a seven-year-old boy who loves you, tossed a check in front of his face, and called him defective because his mind works in ways yours could never comprehend."
I pulled out the two secondary offshore release forms and pressed them against the glass.
"Sign these documents, Adrian," I instructed. "They transfer the remaining Dubai property titles back to the Voss Meridian pension pool."
"And if I don't?" he rasped, a tiny, pathetic flicker of his old defiance surfacing. "What if I refuse to sign?"
"If you sign," I said smoothly, "I will instruct my legal team not to file private civil lawsuits against you for personal recovery, which will reduce your federal sentencing guidelines from thirty years to fifteen. If you refuse, I will personally fund the state prosecution team until you spend the rest of your natural life in a maximum-security cell."
Adrian stared at the documents, then up at my face. He saw no mercy, no hesitation, and no avenue of escape.
He slowly lowered his head, grabbed the pen provided by the guard, and signed his name on both lines through the bottom document slot.
"Will... will you let me see Ethan before I'm transferred to the federal penitentiary?" he whispered, his voice barely audible.
I took the signed papers back, checked the signatures, and slipped them into my leather portfolio.
I stood up from the stool, buttoned my jacket, and picked up my purse.
May you like
"Ethan asked for blueberries this morning, Adrian," I said, looking down at him through the glass one last time. "He doesn't remember your name."
I turned my back on him and walked out of the visitor's room, leaving his desperate, muffled screams echoing against the reinforced steel door behind me.
