Chapter 13 - The Jailhouse Glass
The Wake County Detention Center on Hammond Road smelled of industrial floor stripper, cold grease, and the dull, metallic funk of institutional air.
Arthur Vance did not like the facility. He walked through the security checkpoints with the stiff, offended posture of a man accustomed to the federal courthouse on New Bern Avenue, handing his Bar card to the corrections deputy with two fingers as if the laminated plastic might carry a contagion.
"Visitor booths are full in pod Charlie," the deputy said, chewing gum with rhythmic disinterest. "You’ve got professional booth number four for twenty minutes, counselor. Inmate Miller is on suicide watch tier two because of the assault charge. He’s in a turtle suit."
Arthur glanced at me. "You don't have to go in there, Gloria. Under Rule 4.2 of the North Carolina Rules of Professional Conduct, I can conduct this deposition without you present."
"I’m going in, Arthur," I said.
The heavy steel door of interview room four clicked open. Inside, behind a pane of two-inch-thick, scratch-clouded ballistic glass, sat Todd Miller.
He was wearing the heavy, sleeveless green quilted smock they give to prisoners who might try to hang themselves with their own clothing. His hair, normally styled with expensive pomade into an artfully messy crest, was flattened against his skull, greasy and matted. His left cheekbone was dark with a massive, yellowing contusion—a souvenir from the restoration contractor he had attacked with a pipe wrench. His hands were cuffed to a steel ring welded into the stainless-steel counter.
When the heavy door slammed shut behind us, Todd looked up. His eyes, small and rodent-quick, darted from Arthur to me. A flicker of his old, smug defiance flashed across his face, then vanished beneath the grey, clammy mask of panic.
Arthur picked up the black plastic receiver on our side of the glass. He gestured for me to take the other one.
I lifted the phone to my ear. Todd’s breathing on the other end was rough, wet with the dry heat of the detention center.
"Gloria," Todd croaked, his voice cracking against the receiver. "You gotta get me out of here. This is bullshit. That Mexican contractor came into my house without a warrant. He had no right to touch my water shutoff. He pushed me first. The police didn't even take my statement, Gloria. They just threw me on the floor and put their knees in my back."
"The contractor’s name is Hector Morales," I said, my voice level. "He is fifty-two years old, he has three grandchildren, and he was there at the emergency request of the City of Raleigh Water Department because your frozen pipes were discharging twelve hundred gallons of water an hour into the municipal storm system. You hit him in the forehead with a fourteen-inch steel wrench while he was turning the street valve."
Todd’s eyes bulged. "He was trespassing! It’s my house!"
"It isn't your house, Todd," Arthur interrupted, his voice dropping into the receiver with the cold weight of an anvil. "The trustee under the first deed of trust, Movement Mortgage, has accelerated the note following your failure to provide proof of hazard insurance. The city has issued an emergency order of condemnation due to structural instability and black mold contamination in the crawlspace. And at eleven o’clock this morning, Mrs. Evans executed an entry of default on her forty-seven-thousand-dollar primary purchase lien."
Todd leaned forward, his handcuffs rattling against the steel ring with a violent clatter. "You can't do that! I’m Raina’s husband! We have kids! You're going to put your own grandchildren on the street?"
"My grandchildren," I said, looking straight into his bloodshot eyes, "are currently eating hot blueberry muffins in Sylvia Vance’s kitchen. Oliver is doing his third-grade math homework, and May is taking an afternoon nap in a room where the temperature is seventy-two degrees. They are not on the street, Todd. But you are."
He sneered, a pathetic, trembling attempt at bravado. "Raina won't let you do this. Raina loves me. She’ll hire an attorney and pull the kids back so fast your head will spin."
"Raina is currently sitting in the lobby of the Wake County District Attorney’s office," Arthur said smoothly.
Todd froze. The sneer died on his lips. His skin turned the color of damp parchment.
"What?" he whispered.
"She arrived at my office at eight-forty-five this morning," Arthur continued, turning a single sheet of paper from his leather file so Todd could see it through the glass. "Accompanied by an independent court-appointed public defender. She has spent the last two hours executing an eight-page sworn proffer under North Carolina General Statute 15A-1054. She has handed over the Delaware corporate filings for TM Logistics Management. She has provided the bank statements for the dummy account at First Citizens Bank in Garner. And she has identified Marcus Vance’s signature on the fraudulent Cary escrow agreement."
Todd’s chest stopped moving. He stared at the paper through the scratched glass, his mouth slightly open.
"She wouldn't," Todd breathed. "She wouldn't do that to me. I did it for her! I did it so we could have the house on Bramblewood! I did it so we wouldn't look like losers!"
"You did it because you are a thief, Todd," I said. Harold’s voice seemed to echo in my ears, quiet and steady as an autumn evening. "You took two hundred and twelve thousand dollars that belonged to my husband. You took the money Harold earned while you were still in middle school. You used it to buy yourself a three-thousand-dollar espresso machine, lease a truck you couldn't afford, and buy fifty-dollar steaks to cook on a gas grill while you told me I was suffocating you."
"Gloria, please," Todd’s voice broke into a high, wheezing whine. The bravado was completely gone now, replaced by the naked, sniveling terror of a schoolyard bully who had finally run into the principal with a pair of handcuffs. "The money’s gone! Most of it went to Marcus Vance for his fee! And the rest... I lost it in crypto options, Gloria! I was trying to double it so I could give it back to you! I swear to God, I was going to pay you back before you found out! If they charge me with felony exploitation, I’m looking at eight years in Central Prison! My brother won't even post five hundred dollars for my bail! You have to tell the DA it was a family misunderstanding!"
"A family misunderstanding?" I said.
I looked at him through the glass. I thought about Thanksgiving night. I thought about the smell of my sweet potato casserole on the table. I thought about the way Todd had cut himself that thick slice of pecan pie, without offering me a cup of coffee, without saying thank you for the laundry I had folded or the five hundred dollars of groceries I had bought that Tuesday. I remembered the cold, arrogant smirk on his face when he said, *'We just think it would be better for everybody to have some breathing room.'*
"You wanted your breathing room, Todd," I told him. "This room is eight by eight. It has an eight-foot ceiling and a concrete floor. You’ll have plenty of air in there."
"Gloria! Don't do this! Raina! Tell Raina not to sign the plea!" he screamed, his hands jerking violently against the chains as two corrections officers stepped into the booth behind him.
"Goodbye, Todd," I said.
I hung the receiver back on its hook.
May you like
Arthur didn't say a word. He gathered his documents, slipped them into his red-rope file, and held the door open for me. As the heavy steel latch slammed shut, cutting off the sound of Todd Miller’s shrieks, I walked down the long, gray hallway of the detention center into the blinding Carolina sunshine, feeling the winter wind on my face, clean and sharp and entirely free of debt.
***
