Chapter 8 - The Shark in the Suit
The Montgomery County Common Pleas Courthouse was an imposing block of grey limestone that felt more like a fortress than a hall of justice.
By 9:30 a.m., the drizzle had turned into a steady, freezing downpour. I walked through the metal detectors wearing the only professional clothes I had in my overnight bag from Columbus: a charcoal blazer, a black silk blouse, and tailored slacks.
Beside me walked Rachel Diaz.
Rachel was thirty-five, sharp-featured, and had been my closest friend since our college days at Ohio State. More importantly, she was a brutal, relentless litigator specializing in high-asset divorce and child custody defense. When I called her at seven in the morning, sobbing in Jill’s pantry, she had canceled two depositions and driven forty miles in the rain to meet me on the courthouse steps.
“Listen to me carefully, Mara,” Rachel said as we stepped onto the third-floor elevator. Her voice was rapid-fire, her heels clicking rhythmically on the marble. “Arthur Vance plays in the mud. He is going to paint you as an unstable, career-obsessed mother who neglected her home, pushed her husband to the brink, and used her sister to execute an illegal snatch-and-grab to manufacture a domestic crisis.”
“I have the phone logs, Rachel,” I said, clutching my leather folder to my chest. “I have the text where Derek claimed he tucked them into bed at eight thirty.”
“Phone logs are good. Bonnie’s statement is better,” Rachel countered, the elevator doors sliding open with a soft chime. “Vance’s entire game plan this morning is shock and awe. He wants an ex parte order granting Derek temporary physical custody for forty-eight hours so they can establish the marital home as the status quo. If Derek gets them back into that house, it will take us six months to dig him out.”
We turned the corner into the hallway outside Courtroom 302.
And there they were.
Derek was sitting on a wooden bench, wearing a pressed navy suit, a conservative burgundy tie, and his hair neatly combed. He looked like the picture of suburban respectability—a grieving, bewildered father trying to make sense of a tragedy.
Sitting beside him was Arthur Vance. Vance was in his late sixties, with silver hair slicked back, a double-breasted charcoal suit, and eyes like a reptile behind rimless gold spectacles.
And standing by the water fountain, holding two paper cups of coffee, was a woman.
She was thirty-something, slender, with glossy raven hair falling over the shoulders of an expensive camel-wool coat. She wore red lipstick that stood out sharply against her pale skin.
Even without the sunglasses, I recognized the silhouette Lucy had described.
Vanessa Vance.
As we approached, Vanessa didn't look away. She took a slow sip from her paper cup, her eyes sweeping over me with cold, dismissive curiosity, as if I were a stain on a rug she was planning to purchase.
Derek looked up. His expression was a masterpiece of mournful disappointment.
“Mara,” he said, standing up. “Please. Can we just talk about this before we go in there? The kids need to be home.”
“Don't speak to my client,” Rachel snapped, stepping between us like a wall of granite. “Mr. Vance, I assume you have the courtesy to serve us with your emergency petition before the bailiff calls the docket?”
Arthur Vance smiled—a thin, bloodless slit across his wrinkled face. He produced a blue-backed legal document from his leather briefcase and handed it to Rachel.
“Filed at eight o'clock sharp, Counselor Diaz,” Vance said, his voice a smooth, southern-tinged baritone that sounded like bourbon poured over gravel. “A tragic situation. A father desperately trying to maintain stability while his wife suffers what appears to be an acute psychological episode triggered by career burnout.”
“Acute psychological episode?” I hissed, taking half a step forward before Rachel’s arm blocked me. “Your client stole over one hundred thousand dollars from our joint accounts last night, Vance! He forged my name on a home equity loan!”
Vance didn't even flinch. He adjusted his gold cuffs with maddening elegance.
“Marital assets, Mrs. Benton. Managed by the head of the household to protect business investments during a pending corporate acquisition. Every dime is accounted for in corporate escrow under V.V. Logistics.” He glanced at his daughter, who offered a serene, practiced smile. “My daughter’s firm has provided bridge financing for Mr. Benton’s construction developments for nearly six months. Everything is entirely above board.”
“He left our children in a diner!” I shouted.
Several people in the hallway turned to stare. A bailiff stepped out of Courtroom 302, resting his hand on his duty belt.
“Keep your voices down,” the bailiff warned.
Arthur Vance tilted his head toward the courtroom door, his eyes glittering with cold malice.
May you like
“Let’s see what Judge Harrison thinks of your dramatic performance, Mrs. Benton,” Vance whispered. “Because in about twenty minutes, your husband is going to drive over to your sister’s house with a sheriff’s deputy and take his children home.”
***
