Chapter 9 - The Injunction at Sunset
Booth Four was a narrow concrete cubicle partitioned by a slab of scratched plexiglass and fitted with two heavy black handsets bolted to the wall.
On the other side of the glass sat my brother.
Grayson was no longer wearing his shearling suede jacket or his designer denim. He was wearing an oversized two-piece jumpsuit made of coarse orange cotton, stamped with *DCSO* across the chest. His hair was greasy and uncombed. His expensive sunglasses were gone, revealing the pale, puffy skin around his eyes and the red blotches of stress breaking out along his jawline.
When he saw me sit down, he lunged forward, grabbing the handset on his side with trembling hands.
I picked up the receiver and held it to my ear.
“Clara!” Grayson’s voice burst through the earpiece, wet with tears and terror. “Clara, oh thank God. Did Mom fix it? Did Dad talk to the DA? You have to get me out of here, Clara. The guys in the holding pod... they took my shoes. They stole my shoes, Clara! The guards didn't even care!”
I looked through the glass at my thirty-two-year-old brother—the golden child who had spent his entire life being shielded from the consequences of his own arrogance.
“Your shoes are the least of your problems, Grayson,” I said.
He blinked, his mouth slightly open, confused by the coldness in my voice. “What do you mean? It’s just furniture, Clara! It was an Ashley HomeStore line! We can just return it! I’ll sign the papers, we'll give the sectional back, and you tell the police it was an internal family mix-up!”
“It wasn't a mix-up,” I said. “You used my Social Security number. You used my name. You had seven thousand dollars of luxury furniture delivered to your loft while my son was eating fast food in a parking lot because you kicked him out of Christmas dinner.”
“Mom was stressed!” Grayson yelled, his voice cracking. “You know how she gets! Why are you punishing *me* for what Mom did?”
“Because you signed the invoice, Grayson. You looked Detective Miller in the eye and wrote my name on the delivery manifest.”
He pressed his forehead against the plexiglass, sobbing openly now. “Clara, please. I have an SBA loan review next week. If I have a felony charge on my record, the bank will accelerate the balance! They’ll call the forty-five thousand dollars due immediately! I’ll lose Vanguard!”
“You already lost Vanguard,” I said quietly. “I revoked my personal guarantee on that loan five days ago. First Tennessee Bank initiated default proceedings yesterday morning.”
Grayson jerked his head back, staring at me with wide, horrified eyes. “You... you did what? That’s my company! That’s my life!”
“No,” I said. “It was my credit line. It was my paycheck. It was Mark’s money that Dad stole to keep you living in the Gulch while you treated August like dirt on your heel.”
Grayson stopped crying. A dark, ugly realization settled over his face, replaced suddenly by the petulant malice he had inherited from Arthur.
“Dad will crush you,” Grayson whispered, his teeth grinding against the receiver. “You think you’re smart? Dad knows every judge in Williamson County. He’ll make sure you never see a dime. He’ll take August away from you. He’ll tell Child Services you’re unstable—he’s done it to people before!”
“Your father doesn't own Williamson County anymore, Grayson,” I said, leaning closer to the glass. “Chancellor Sterling just signed an injunction freezing Carlisle Crest. Marcus is the receiver. Dad’s bank accounts are seized. In about twelve hours, Dad is going to be sitting in a holding cell two doors down from yours for trust fraud and extortion.”
Grayson’s jaw went slack. The receiver slipped an inch in his sweat-slick fingers.
“Uncle Marcus?” he whispered, his voice shrinking back into that of a frightened child. “Dad... Dad’s getting arrested?”
“He is,” I said. “And nobody is coming to post your bond, Grayson. Mom’s credit card was declined at the window. Dad can't write a check. You’re going to sit in that orange jumpsuit until your preliminary hearing on Monday.”
“Clara, wait!” Grayson began slamming his free hand against the glass, leaving smudges of sweat on the partition. “Clara, don't leave me here! I’m sorry! I’ll apologize to August! I’ll buy him whatever he wants! Clara! Please!”
I didn't answer.
I hung the black plastic receiver back on its metal cradle.
Through the glass, Grayson was screaming, his face red and contorted, his voice completely silenced by the thick plexiglass barrier. Two sheriff’s deputies stepped behind him, grabbing his arms and pulling him backward away from the booth. He kicked and writhed, screaming words I couldn't hear, before the heavy steel door slammed shut behind him.
I walked out of the visitation corridor and into the intake lobby.
Marcus was waiting by the front doors, holding a certified copy of the county clerk’s docket.
“It’s recorded,” Marcus said, looking at me with quiet respect. “The Sheriff’s Department in Franklin has the writ of sequestration. Deputies are on their way to Carlisle Crest right now to serve Arthur with the freeze order and secure the property.”
I looked at Alana, then at Marcus.
May you like
“Let’s go to Franklin,” I said. “I want to watch them serve it.”
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