Chapter 9 - The Empty Ballroom
Inside Courtroom 4100, the reality of the Prescott family’s downfall was laid bare under harsh fluorescent tubes.
Derek was led in through the heavy side door by two armed federal marshals.
He looked broken. The tailored Italian wool trousers he had worn to Christmas Eve dinner were rumpled, stained with dirt around the knees, and his crisp white dress shirt had lost two buttons at the collar. He had no belt, no shoes—only orange paper slip-on slippers—and his wrists were shackled together by a heavy steel chain secured around his waist.
His eyes were bloodshot, his face gray and sunken. When he saw Margaret sitting on the gallery bench, a pathetic, strangled whimper escaped his throat.
"Mom..." he whispered.
"Silence in the court!" the bailiff barked.
Derek turned his head and saw me.
For a fraction of a second, relief flashed across his features, as if he expected me to rush forward, wave my hand, and fix everything with a company check, just as I had done when he crashed his sports car or defaulted on his private club memberships.
"Vanessa," Derek mouthed, his eyes begging. "Please."
I looked at him with an expression so vacant, so completely stripped of feeling, that his face visibly crumpled. He realized, in that single, crushing heartbeat, that the woman who had loved him for eight years was gone. The bank was closed.
Magistrate Judge Marcus Thorne ascended the bench with a heavy rustle of his black robes. He was a broad, square-jawed man in his late fifties with steel-gray hair and eyes that looked like two drill bits behind rimless spectacles.
He didn't waste ten seconds.
"We are here for the initial appearance and detention hearing in *United States v. Derek Prescott*, Case Number 24-CR-882," Judge Thorne announced, his voice booming through the empty, wood-paneled room. "The defendant is charged with two counts of Bank Fraud under 18 U.S. Code § 1344, one count of Wire Fraud under § 1343, and one count of Aggravated Identity Theft under § 1028A. Counsel, enter your appearances."
An Assistant United States Attorney, a sharp young woman named Miller, stood immediately. "Sarah Miller for the government, Your Honor."
At the defense table, Victoria Ashworth sat with her hands clasped tightly, but she did not stand.
Instead, a frantic, red-faced public defender who had been dragged in from the standby pool jumped to his feet. "Harold Klein, Your Honor, appointed for the limited purpose of today's arraignment. The defendant enters a plea of not guilty to all counts."
Judge Thorne peered over his glasses at Victoria Ashworth, who sat silently in the first row of the gallery behind the defense table.
"I see Ms. Ashworth is present," Judge Thorne remarked, his voice dry and dangerous. "I have received the administrative conflict notice filed by the corporate trustee of Mercer Crest Holdings. Ms. Ashworth, am I correct in assuming you are not entering an appearance for this defendant?"
Victoria stood up, her voice rigid, barely concealing the humiliation burning beneath her skin. "That is correct, Your Honor. Due to potential witness overlap, my firm has advised the defendant to seek independent white-collar defense counsel."
Margaret let out a sharp, audible gasp from the gallery. *"Victoria! How could you?!"*
"Quiet in the gallery!" Judge Thorne snapped, slamming his gavel once. The sharp *CRACK* echoed through the room like a rifle shot. "One more outburst from the gallery and I will have the marshals clear the room."
Margaret sank back into the oak bench, clutching her moth-eaten mink around her throat, looking around like a trapped animal. The great Victoria Ashworth—the woman Margaret had spent years praising as the pinnacle of elite loyalty—had just cut Derek loose the second federal heat touched her own doorstep.
"Government's position on detention?" Judge Thorne asked.
AUSA Miller stood tall. "The government moves for pretrial detention, Your Honor. The defendant forged the signature of his spouse to encumber an asset valued at nearly four million dollars, subsequently wire-transferring hundreds of thousands of dollars through international shell entities in Zurich and Grand Cayman. Furthermore, documents seized from the defendant's private safe indicate an impending flight plan to Geneva booked for December twenty-eighth."
Derek jerked his head toward the prosecutor, panic flaring in his eyes. *"That was a ski trip!"* he yelled, his voice cracking. *"It was a vacation!"*
"Mr. Prescott, shut your mouth," Judge Thorne commanded instantly.
Rachel leaned over and whispered in my ear. "He booked a one-way ticket to Switzerland three days ago, Vanessa. He was planning to abandon you and Chloe the second the foreclosure went through."
A cold, deadly numbness settled into my bones. He had sat across the table from me last night, drinking scotch, telling me not to ruin Christmas, while holding a one-way ticket to Geneva in his pocket. He was going to let Victoria seize the house, leave me with the debt, and run away to Europe with the stolen eight hundred thousand.
"Given the weight of the evidence, the magnitude of the financial fraud, and the clear indicators of international flight risk," Judge Thorne ruled, writing decisively on his docket sheet, "the defendant will be remanded to the custody of the United States Marshals Service without bond pending formal indictment. Next hearing is set for preliminary examination on January fourth."
"No!" Margaret wailed, rising from the bench. "No! You can't keep him! He is an Arthur Prescott's son! He has an annual dinner tonight! The Prescott Christmas Gala is tonight!"
Judge Thorne looked up, his gaze fixing upon Margaret with utter, merciless contempt.
"Marshals," the judge said calmly. "Remove that woman from my courtroom."
Two burly marshals moved in instantly, taking Margaret by her elbows and marching her out into the hallway as she screamed incoherently about her father, the Georgetown Historical Society, and the mayor.
Derek was pulled backward through the heavy steel door, his chains rattling loudly against the concrete threshold, his eyes fixed on me until the deadbolt clicked shut.
When Rachel, Marcus, and I walked out of the courthouse, the snow had begun to fall in earnest, coating Pennsylvania Avenue in a thick, silent blanket of white.
Victoria Ashworth was waiting near the granite columns, shivering beneath her cashmere coat, her phone pressed to her ear as she argued furiously with someone on the other end.
As I walked past her, she snapped the phone shut.
"You think you won today, Vanessa?" Victoria whispered, her face pale with fury. "Derek is an idiot. He always was. But the note held by St. Jude Capital Partners is valid and enforceable. The forged signature doesn't invalidate the third-party debt under Cayman maritime commercial law. If $2.2 million isn't wired to our escrow account by five o'clock on December thirty-first, Mercer Crest loses the O Street property forever. And you will be personally liable for the deficiency balance."
I stopped at the top of the courthouse steps and looked down at her.
"Victoria," I said, my voice steady, cold, and clear in the freezing air. "You spent thirty years relying on family names and private clubs to get what you wanted. I spent seven years building a company from nothing while cleaning up the messes Derek left behind. You have five days to figure out which federal prison cell you want to share with him. Because when Marcus finishes the international trace on that eight hundred thousand, you won't be seizing my house. You’ll be wearing an orange jumpsuit."
May you like
I didn't wait for her to answer. I walked down the steps into the falling snow, flanked by my lawyer and my trustee, leaving the disgraced heiress standing alone on the frozen stone.
***
