Chapter 6 - The Fall into Ruin
Three days later, the rain returned to the city, turning Park Avenue into a slick expanse of gray slate.
Nathan Cross stood behind the reinforced plexiglass partition in the visitors' room of the Manhattan Detention Complex, commonly known as The Tombs. He was wearing an ill-fitting, faded orange jumpsuit. The bruises under his eyes were deep purple, and his clean-shaven, handsome jawline was now covered in patchy, ragged stubble.
His public defender—a tired, overworked young woman named Sarah Jenkins—sat across from him with a tablet.
“Where is my private counsel?!” Nathan hissed, his voice trembling with fury and panic. “Where is Bradley Sterling? I left four messages at his firm!”
Sarah Jenkins didn’t even look up from her notes. “Mr. Sterling resigned from your defense yesterday morning, Mr. Cross. Your retainer check bounced. The court appointed me to handle your preliminary bail hearing this afternoon.”
Nathan grabbed the metal edge of the counter. “My check bounced?! That’s impossible! I have millions in my personal account!”
“Your personal accounts have been seized under a federal civil forfeiture order,” Sarah said flatly. “The SEC, the IRS, and the Southern District have frozen every penny tied to your Social Security number. You currently have forty-two dollars and sixteen cents in your commissary account, courtesy of your sister in Ohio.”
Nathan slumped against the plexiglass, his breath fogging the transparent barrier. “My sister? That’s all?”
“Your sister also told us that if you call her collect again, she will block the facility’s number,” Sarah added without sympathy. “Now, we need to discuss your plea. The District Attorney has offered twelve years at Fishkill Correctional Facility in exchange for a guilty plea on aggravated felony assault, witness tampering, and corporate embezzlement. If you take this to trial, Claire Whitmore’s legal team has preserved every piece of digital evidence. You are looking at twenty-five years minimum.”
“Twelve years?!” Nathan screamed, slamming his palms against the partition. A guard in the corner immediately shifted his grip on his baton, stepping forward. Nathan shrank back, trembling. “She’s my wife! We were married! You can’t put a man in prison for twelve years over an argument in his own kitchen!”
“She wasn't just your wife,” Sarah said, finally looking him in the eyes. “She was the sole owner of the roof over your head and the capital in your business. And according to the medical examiner, the force required to snap her metacarpal bones was equivalent to a deliberate, calculated crush injury. You didn't have an argument, Mr. Cross. You committed a violent felony against an heiress who has the resources to ensure you serve every single second of your sentence.”
Meanwhile, outside the federal courthouse across town, Vanessa Hale was experiencing her own public execution.
She had managed to post a reduced bail using her parents’ mortgaged suburban home in New Jersey. As she walked down the granite steps of the courthouse, wearing a trench coat with the collar turned up to hide her face, she was instantly surrounded by a mob of fifty journalists, camera crews, and paparazzi.
Microphones were shoved into her face.
“Vanessa! Did you know Nathan Cross was embezzling from the Whitmore Trust?!”
“Vanessa! Are you testifying against Nathan in exchange for immunity?!”
“Vanessa! How does it feel to lose your consulting firm overnight?!”
Vanessa tried to push past them, her face contorted in tears and rage. “Get away from me! Nathan lied to me! He told me he owned everything! He told me his wife was a nobody! He ruined me!”
As she reached the curb, a process server stepped cleanly through the throng of reporters, slipping a thick stack of legal papers directly into her trembling hands.
“Vanessa Hale,” the process server said loudly enough for every microphone to catch. “You are officially served. Claire Whitmore has filed a civil suit against you for sixty-five million dollars for tortious interference, conversion of stolen property, and intentional infliction of emotional distress.”
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Vanessa stared down at the documents, her knees buckling. She collapsed onto the wet concrete of the sidewalk, the cameras flashing mercilessly in her tear-stained face, capturing every second of her public ruin for the evening news.
***
