Chapter 7 - Begging in the Rain
Three days later.
A heavy rainstorm slammed into Los Angeles, pouring relentless sheets of cold water over the concrete highways and hills of Bel Air.
At the massive wrought-iron gates of the Crawford Private Estate in Holmby Hills, a lone figure stood soaked to the bone.
Spencer Albright looked like a ghost of the man he used to be.
He had been released on a temporary five-hundred-thousand-dollar emergency bail bond—money he had been forced to borrow from a shady hard-money lender at forty percent interest because all his personal accounts remained frozen by the federal government.
His Tom Ford tuxedo was gone, replaced by a drenched, oversized hoodie he had bought from a gas station. His eyes were sunken, dark circles hollowed out beneath them. His high-end hair was matted against his forehead, and his body shivered violently in the freezing wind.
"Gwen!" Spencer screamed through the iron bars of the gate, his voice hoarse and cracking. "Gwen! Please talk to me! I know you're in there!"
Inside the guardhouse, two heavily armed Crawford security personnel monitored him through thermal cameras, sipping hot coffee, completely ignoring his desperate shouts.
"Gwen! Please!" Spencer sobbed, falling onto his knees in the mud outside the gate. "They are going to send me to prison for twenty years! My mother is staying in a public shelter in downtown LA! Cassandra left state jurisdiction and the police are hunting her down! I have nothing left, Gwen! Nothing!"
Suddenly, the heavy iron gates began to hum.
The two massive gates swung open slowly.
Spencer’s eyes lit up with a pathetic flash of hope. He scrambled to his feet, wiping mud from his face. "Gwen! I knew you still loved me! I knew you wouldn't let me—"
A sleek black Rolls-Royce Phantom rolled slowly down the winding driveway, stopping three feet inside the open gate.
The rear window slid down two inches.
Inside the warm, leather-scented interior, Gwen sat quietly, wearing a ivory cashmere coat, holding a cup of hot tea. Beside her sat Marcus Vance, her lead attorney.
"Gwen!" Spencer cried, rushing toward the car, but Thomas stepped out from the front passenger seat, holding a large black umbrella, his hand resting firmly on his holstered firearm.
"Stay back, Mr. Albright," Thomas warned coldly.
Spencer stopped, shivering, water pouring down his nose. "Gwen... Please... I'm begging you. Tell the U.S. Attorney to drop the fraud charges. I'll sign full custody of Hazel over to you! I'll never ask for child support! I'll never come near you again! Just give me enough money to pay off the loan sharks!"
Gwen pressed a button, lowering the window all the way.
She looked at Spencer kneeling in the mud, dripping with filthy water, looking like a drowned rat.
"Do you remember six days ago, Spencer?" Gwen asked, her voice soft, almost soothing, yet colder than the rain falling around them. "When I asked you for fifty dollars to buy Hazel new shoes for school?"
Spencer choked on his own breath. "Gwen... please..."
"You threw twenty dollars on the kitchen floor," Gwen continued, "and told me that if I wanted more money, I should work as a maid for Cassandra."
"I was wrong! I was stupid! I was seduced by her!" Spencer screamed, slapping his own face violently in a frantic display of remorse. "She tricked me! It was all Cassandra's fault! I loved you, Gwen! I always loved you!"
Gwen reached into her pocket.
She pulled out his old wedding ring—a simple platinum band he had given her when they got married in a cheap Las Vegas chapel six years ago, back when she still believed he was a good man.
She held it out the window.
Spencer reached out his wet, shaking hand, expecting a lifeline.
Gwen let go.
The ring fell into the dark, thick mud beneath the Rolls-Royce's tires.
"Marcus," Gwen said calmly.
"Yes, Miss Crawford?"
"File the civil suit for damages against Mr. Albright for six years of emotional abuse, fraud, and physical neglect. Seek maximum restitution."
"It will be filed within the hour, ma'am," Marcus replied.
Gwen looked at Spencer one last time.
"Goodbye, Spencer."
May you like
The window slid back up, sealing out the sound of his pathetic screams.
The Rolls-Royce accelerated smoothly through the gate, its heavy rear tire rolling directly over the platinum ring, pressing it six inches deep into the filthy mud, where it belonged.
