Chapter 7 - The Interrogation Room
Twelve hours later.
The interrogation room at the federal courthouse in downtown Baltimore was cold, sterile, and smelled faintly of industrial floor cleaner.
Jackson sat on one side of the metal table, dressed in a grey federal jumpsuit. His hands were cuffed to a ring bolted into the steel table. His hair was messy, his eyes bloodshot, and his arrogant demeanor was completely gone.
Across from him sat Special Agent Marcus Cole and myself.
I set a thick blue folder onto the table between us.
"Your father just signed a full confession, Jackson," I said softly, opening the folder to reveal thirty pages of signed statements. "He admitted that you personally forged my signature on the quitclaim deed. He also admitted that you authorized the payment to Trevor and his partner to break into my apartment."
Jackson stared at the pages, his bottom lip trembling. "Evelyn... please. I was desperate. My dad told me we were going to lose everything. He said if we didn't get your apartment as collateral, Moretti's people were going to hurt us."
"So you decided to hurt me instead," I said.
"I didn't think you'd get hurt!" Jackson cried out, tears spilling down his cheeks. "I just thought... I thought you'd sign it! You're my wife! Wives are supposed to support their husbands!"
I leaned forward, resting my forearms on the metal table, looking him dead in the eyes.
"A husband protects his wife, Jackson," I said, my voice cutting through his pathetic excuses like a scalpel. "A husband builds a life with his partner—he doesn't view her as an asset to be plundered when his own greed catches up with him."
Marcus pulled out a pen and slid a document toward Jackson.
"This is a unconditional divorce settlement and waiver of claims," Marcus explained. "You relinquish any and all claims to Evelyn's property, accounts, and military benefits. You agree to a permanent, lifetime order of protection. You sign this, and the federal prosecutor agrees not to file additional charges against you for witness tampering."
Jackson looked at the paper, then up at my face. He searched my eyes for even a sliver of the quiet, accommodating woman he thought he had married eight months ago.
He found nothing but the cold, unyielding steel of a United States Army officer.
With trembling hands, Jackson picked up the pen and signed his name on the line.
I picked up the signed document, checked the date, and slid it into my briefcase.
May you like
"Goodbye, Jackson," I said softly, standing up from the table. "Enjoy your time in federal custody."
As Marcus and I walked out of the interrogation room, Jackson's quiet sobs echoed behind us, bouncing off the steel walls until the heavy door clicked shut.
