Chapter 9 - The Visit
Three days later, I drove the BMW X5 to the Cook County Department of Corrections.
I hadn't planned on visiting him. But his defense attorney, a heavy-set man named Richard Vance (no relation) who had handled Arthur’s corporate filings for a decade, had called my office six times, begging me to meet with his client before the formal indictment was unsealed by the grand jury.
The visitor’s room smelled of industrial floor wax, stale coffee, and cold iron.
I sat behind the thick partition of reinforced glass, my hands folded on the metal ledge.
A minute later, the heavy steel door opened, and Arthur Vance walked in.
He looked ten years older than he had three nights ago. The custom charcoal suit was gone, replaced by an ill-fitting orange jumpsuit. His thick gray hair was uncombed, his cheeks hollow, his eyes sunken and bloodshot behind his gold-rimmed glasses.
He sat down on the stool across from me, picking up the plastic telephone receiver with a hand that shook violently.
I picked up my receiver and held it to my ear.
“Evelyn,” he said. His voice was raspy, dry, completely stripped of the booming confidence that had once filled municipal boardrooms and hotel ballrooms. “You came.”
“I’m here, Arthur,” I said, keeping my voice entirely devoid of emotion. “You have five minutes.”
He leaned his forehead against the glass, leaving a faint grease smudge on the surface. “Evelyn... you have to talk to the prosecutor. Richard says if the grand jury returns the felony fraud charges along with the aggravated assault, I’m looking at twelve to fifteen years in state prison. I’m sixty-two years old. I won't survive that.”
I stared at him through the glass. I looked at his bloodshot eyes, his trembling mouth, his wrinkled orange jumpsuit.
“You forged my name on an eighty-five-thousand-dollar loan, Arthur,” I said quietly. “You stole two-point-four million dollars from your own workers’ retirement fund. And then you tried to smash my head open with a silver cake stand because I wouldn't give my car to Madison.”
“It was a mistake!” he shouted into the receiver, his face flushing dark red, the old, familiar rage flaring up for half a second before collapsing back into panic. “I lost control! I was under immense pressure! The bank was closing in, the contractors were demanding payments—I wasn't thinking clearly!”
“You were thinking perfectly clearly,” I corrected him smoothly. “You thought I was weak. You thought that because you raised me in a house where your word was law, I would shut up, take the blow, hand over my keys, and let you ruin my financial reputation so Madison could drive a luxury SUV to her coffee dates.”
Arthur pressed his hands against the glass, his eyes wild with desperate, pathetic pleading.
“Evelyn... we’re family. Blood is everything. Your mother is losing the house. The bank is foreclosing on the residential property in Lake Forest. Madison’s fiancé broke off their engagement yesterday. They have nothing left! You have to fix this!”
I looked down at my phone resting on the counter.
The screen lit up with a notification from the Cook County Circuit Court: Case #2026-CR-8802: State of Illinois vs. Arthur Vance. Grand Jury Indictment Returned - 14 Counts.
I raised my head and looked Arthur Vance straight in his eyes.
“Blood isn't a contract, Arthur,” I said softly. “It’s just biology. You taught me how to read balance sheets when I was sixteen years old. You taught me that when an account is insolvent, you close the ledger and write off the bad debt.”
I set the telephone receiver down on its cradle.
Arthur grabbed his receiver with both hands, slamming his fist against the glass, shouting words I could no longer hear through the thick soundproof pane.
May you like
“Evelyn! Evelyn! Come back! Evelyn!”
I stood up, smoothed the lapels of my tailored blazer, turned my back on the man in orange, and walked out through the heavy steel door.
