Chapter 7 - The Arrest on Fifth Avenue
Three days later.
Dominic Thorne was sitting on a park bench across the street from the Plaza Hotel on Fifth Avenue, looking like a ghost of his former self.
His suit was filthy, his tie was missing, and his hair was unwashed. He had seventeen dollars left in his pocket. His mother and sister had kicked him out of Chloe’s apartment the previous night after realizing that my family was not going to give them a single penny, and that Dominic was officially ruined.
His investment firm was gone. His credit was destroyed. His reputation in Manhattan was completely obliterated. Every person who had once attended his dinner parties now refused to take his calls.
He pulled out his phone, staring at the old photo of us on our wedding day.
He remembered how quiet I had been. How I had never argued when his mother criticized my family. How I had quietly cooked meals, managed our home, and never demanded expensive jewelry or flash cars. He had mistaken my modesty for weakness. He had mistaken my silence for submission.
He now realized that the quiet woman he had left on the hospital sidewalk was the only pillar holding up his entire, fragile life.
Suddenly, two black unmarked sedans pulled up to the curb right in front of his park bench.
Four men in dark suits wearing federal badges stepped out of the vehicles, walking with purpose straight toward Dominic.
Dominic looked up, his eyes hollow and dead. “Are you here from General Brooks?”
The lead agent, a tall officer from the Special Investigations Division of the SEC, pulled out a gold badge and an arrest warrant.
“Dominic Thorne?” the agent asked coldly.
“Yes,” Dominic whispered.
“You are under arrest for federal securities fraud, wire fraud, and grand larceny,” the agent announced, pulling Dominic up from the bench and snapping heavy steel handcuffs around his wrists. “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law.”
A crowd of tourists and wealthy shoppers gathered on Fifth Avenue, taking photos and videos with their phones as the former high-flying Wall Street executive was pressed against the hood of a federal vehicle.
Standing among the crowd of onlookers across the street was Jonathan Vance, my lead attorney.
Jonathan held up his phone, captured a clean, high-definition photograph of Dominic being loaded into the back of the federal transport car, and sent it directly to my private satellite phone in Virginia.
Dominic caught sight of the lawyer standing across the street.
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“Tell her I’m sorry!” Dominic screamed frantically through the open window of the police vehicle as the engine revved. “Tell Audrey I’m sorry! Please! Tell her I love her!”
Jonathan Vance didn't respond. He simply adjusted his sunglasses, turned on his heel, and walked away into the Manhattan crowd.
