Chapter 7 - The Interrogation
The Hillsborough County Detention Center smelled of concrete dust and industrial floor wax.
I sat in a private attorney consultation room on the second floor, resting my arms on the heavy oak table. Sitting across from me was Assistant State Attorney Marcus Vance—a sharp, thirty-four-year-old prosecutor who had sent some of Florida’s most dangerous criminals to prison.
Beside me sat Jonathan Sterling.
The heavy steel door opened, and Gabriel Montgomery was led into the room by two armed corrections officers. He was wearing an orange orange jumpsuit, his hands cuffed at his waist, his hair matted, his eyes sunken and red from a night in a holding cell.
When he saw me sitting at the head of the table in my tailored suit, he stopped dead, a look of profound hatred flashing across his face.
"I have nothing to say to you," Gabriel spat, sitting down heavily in the metal chair across from us, his handcuffs clanking against the wood. "My lawyer will be here in ten minutes."
"Your private attorney dropped you forty-five minutes ago, Mr. Montgomery," prosecutor Marcus Vance said smoothly, opening a thick blue case file. "When Vanguard Private Wealth froze your assets, your retainer check bounced. You are currently represented by the public defender's office."
Gabriel’s face went completely white. "What...? No... my mother has funds—"
"Your mother's personal accounts have been attached to a six-million-dollar civil lawsuit filed this morning by twenty-four investors from Montgomery Capital," Jonathan Sterling added with a thin, icy smile. "She can't even afford her hair stylist, let alone a private defense counsel."
Gabriel slumped back into his chair, his breathing fast and shallow, the full weight of his total isolation crashing down on him.
"Why are you here?" Gabriel whispered, staring at me with hollow eyes. "You already took my house... you took my firm... you took my son... what else do you want?!"
I leaned forward, resting my chin on my folded hands, looking straight into his trembling eyes.
"I want you to understand why this is happening to you, Gabriel," I said softly.
"Because you're a billionaire who plays god?!" Gabriel yelled, his voice cracking with pathetic rage. "Because you lied to everyone! You acted like a poor old redneck so you could trap me!"
"I acted like a simple man because I wanted my daughter to be surrounded by genuine love," I corrected him, my tone chillingly steady. "You had everything, Gabriel. You had a brilliant, beautiful, kind wife who loved you unconditionally. You had a healthy son. You had a prestigious name. But you were so empty, so consumed by greed and insecurity, that you thought power meant beating a defenseless woman in the dark."
Gabriel looked away, his jaw twitching violently.
"The state is offering you a plea deal, Gabriel," prosecutor Marcus Vance spoke up, tapping the file. "Count one: First-degree felony domestic battery. Count two: Kidnapping and false imprisonment. Count three: Illegal possession and administration of a Class IV controlled substance. Count four: Grand larceny and securities fraud."
"What’s the deal?" Gabriel asked, his voice barely audible.
"Twenty-five years in state prison," Marcus Vance said flatly. "With zero possibility of parole for the first fifteen years."
"Twenty-five years?!" Gabriel shrieked, jumping out of his chair, his handcuffs slamming violently against the table. "I’m twenty-eight years old! That’s my whole life!"
"Sit down, defendant!" the corrections officer barked, placing a heavy hand on Gabriel’s shoulder and forcing him back into the seat.
"If you refuse the plea," Marcus Vance continued without breaking stride, "we go to trial in ninety days. With the toxicology reports, the medical forensic exams, the 911 audio, and the SEC financial evidence, I will seek the maximum sentence on all counts. You will be facing fifty-two years."
Gabriel began to weep—pathetic, desperate, breathless sobs that filled the cold interrogation room. He looked at me, reaching his cuffed hands across the table in a desperate gesture of supplication.
"Charles... please..." Gabriel begged, tears streaming down his face. "Please talk to her... tell Chloe I'm sorry! I was stressed! The business was failing! I didn't mean to hurt her! I love her, Charles! I love my wife!"
I stood up slowly, adjusting my suit jacket, looking down at the weeping wreck of a man who had terrorized my daughter for six long years.
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"My daughter’s name is Miss Vance," I said softly. "And if you ever speak her name again, I will ensure those twenty-five years are served in the maximum-security facility at Union Correctional."
I turned my back on him and walked out of the interrogation room, the sound of his hysterical weeping fading behind the heavy steel doors.
