Chapter 8 - The Confrontation at the Club
Instead of waiting for Monday morning, Marcus decided we were going to deliver the opening blow on Saturday night.
Every weekend, Warren Voss, Judge Thorne, and the wealthy political bosses of Hartwell County gathered at the Hartwell Country Club—a gated mansion on the lake where they ate expensive steaks, smoked cigars, and decided who got city contracts.
At 8:30 PM, Marcus’s black SUV pulled through the brick gates of the country club. The teenage valet tried to step out to stop us, but Marcus’s driver simply showed a silver badge through the window, and the boy backed away into the bushes.
Marcus, two of his senior investigators, and I walked through the double glass doors into the main dining room.
The room was filled with soft piano music, crystal chandeliers, and eighty people in tuxedos and evening gowns cut from imported silk.
In the center alcove, sitting at the largest round table near the fireplace, was Warren Voss, his son Daniel—who had a white bandage slapped over his nose from the broken glass—and Judge Thorne, laughing over crystal glasses of scotch.
The piano player stopped mid-note as Marcus walked straight across the polished parquet floor, his heavy leather shoes striking the wood with deep, measured thuds. I walked right beside him, wearing my clean dark work trousers and a dark brown leather jacket.
Warren Voss looked up, his face hardening as he saw me. He set his scotch down, leaning forward in his chair.
“Sam Reed,” Warren sneered, his voice carrying clearly across the quiet dining room. “You’ve got a lot of nerve coming into my club. Security!”
Two heavy security guards in black blazers moved in from the bar, but Marcus’s two investigators stepped smoothly into their path, pulling open their jackets to reveal federal credentials pinned to their belts. The guards froze where they stood.
“Sit down, Warren,” Marcus said, his voice dropping into the room like a iron anvil.
Judge Thorne stood up, his face red with indignation. “Who the hell are you? I’m the Chief District Judge of this county, and you are trespassing on private—”
Marcus reached into his breast pocket, pulled out a blue legal folder, and slapped it down right in the middle of their table, knocking over Daniel’s glass of scotch.
“I am Marcus Vance, Senior Partner of Vance & Associates, Washington D.C.,” Marcus announced, his voice ringing out so loud every guest in the dining room turned to look. “And that document on your table, Judge Thorne, is a copy of a federal indictment for wire fraud, bribery, and tax evasion that was filed forty-five minutes ago with the United States District Court for the Northern District of Georgia.”
Judge Thorne’s eyes widened in sheer terror. He dropped back into his chair as if he’d been shot through the heart.
Daniel scrambled backward, his chair tipping over, spilling his plate of steak into his lap. He looked at me, his lip trembling, his face turning pale as milk.
Warren didn't panic immediately. He stared at Marcus, his jaw working violently. “This is garbage. You have no jurisdiction in this county!”
“The FBI does, Warren,” Marcus smiled, leaning over the table until he was two inches from Warren’s nose. “A federal tactical team is currently executing a search warrant on your main office downtown. They’re seizing your servers, your hard drives, and your offshore bank records as we speak.”
Warren’s hands began to shake. He looked past Marcus at me.
May you like
I took one step forward, leaning my hands flat on the edge of his table.
“You told my girl nobody would believe her because her daddy was nobody,” I said softly, my voice completely clear in the dead silence of the country club. “Take a good look around this room, Warren. Nobody’s coming to help you.”
