Chapter 4 - The Courthouse Floor
At eight-thirty on Monday morning, the marble hallways of the Los Angeles County Courthouse were packed with reporters, attorneys, and morning commuters.
Grace Vance stood near the heavy oak doors of Department 12, wearing a dark navy Chanel suit and oversized sunglasses, furiously whispering to her chief criminal defense attorney, Harold Vance-Smith. Beside her, Richard Vance was nervously pacing back and forth across the polished floor, holding a briefcase containing the certified check for Jackson’s bail.
They looked triumphant. They believed that a quick night in a holding cell would teach me my place, and that their expensive legal team would reduce the felony assault charge to a minor misdemeanor with probation.
When the elevator doors at the end of the hall clicked open, the entire Vance party turned, expecting to see their low-level bail bondsman.
Instead, I stepped out into the corridor.
I was wearing an immaculate charcoal-grey pantsuit, my posture straight as an iron bar, my hair styled carefully around the surgical tape covering the stitches on my temple. Flanking me were four men in sharp suits—my lead corporate litigator, two forensic accountants from Marcus’s firm, and Marcus Vance himself.
Grace’s mouth dropped open under her sunglasses. She pushed past her lawyer and stomped toward me, her heels clicking loudly against the marble.
“How dare you show your face here, Chloe?!” Grace hissed, her voice pitched low so the nearby reporters wouldn't hear. “Look at what you’ve done to my son! He spent the night in a cell with criminals because you couldn't control your pride over a stupid apartment!”
I stopped three feet from her, staring down at her with total, unyielding detachment. “Your son belongs in a cell, Grace. And before the end of the day, he’s going to have company.”
Richard Vance stepped forward, his face dark with arrogant fury. “Listen to me, you ungrateful girl. I’ve already spoken to the District Attorney. We’re posting Jackson’s bond in ten minutes. If you drop these ridiculous assault charges right now, we might refrain from suing your architecture firm for defaming our family name!”
My lead attorney, Arthur Pendelton—a legendary trial lawyer who charged twelve hundred dollars an hour—stepped forward, pulling a thick stack of blue-bound legal documents from his leather briefcase.
“Mr. Vance,” Pendelton said, his voice echoing clearly down the corridor. “I suggest you read these emergency filings before you make any further public statements.”
Richard frowned, snatching the papers. “What is this nonsense?”
“That is an emergency ex-parte injunction issued sixty minutes ago by the Superior Court of California,” I informed him softly. “It freezes every corporate account, personal trust, and real estate asset associated with Vance Global Holdings, including the Beverly Hills estate.”
Richard’s face went instantly pale. “You... you can’t do that!”
“We also filed a formal notice of lis pendens against your home,” Marcus Vance added, stepping out from behind me with a cold smile. “Hello, brother. It’s been a long time.”
Richard gasped, his eyes wide with absolute horror as he recognized his brother. “Marcus?! What the hell are you doing with her?!”
“I’m helping your daughter-in-law clean up your messy books, Richard,” Marcus said softly. “The IRS Criminal Investigation Division was handed your complete offshore tax ledgers two hours ago. Along with the forged quitclaim deed you used to steal her Minneapolis property while she was in Tokyo.”
Grace let out a strangled, squealing gasp, clutching her husband’s arm so hard her knuckles turned white. “Richard... what is he talking about?! What quitclaim deed?!”
Before Richard could answer, the heavy double doors of the courtroom swung open.
Two armed federal marshals stepped out into the hallway, followed by a representative from the United States Attorney’s Office. Behind them, two bailiffs led Jackson out in handcuffs, his orange jumpsuit hanging loosely off his shoulders, his face bruised and exhausted from a night in the holding facility.
Jackson looked up, seeing his mother and father standing in the hall. “Mom! Dad! Did you post the bond?! Get me out of here!”
The lead federal marshal stepped between Jackson and his father, pulling a signed federal warrant from his jacket.
“Jackson Vance?” the marshal announced loudly, his voice cutting through the bustling hallway. “You are under arrest by order of the United States District Court for federal wire fraud, bank fraud, aggravated identity theft, and conspiracy.”
Jackson blinked, his mind struggling to comprehend the words. “What?! No! There’s been a mistake! My dad posted bail for the plate incident!”
“Your bail on the state assault charge is revoked due to pending federal indictments,” the marshal replied, pulling Jackson’s arms behind his back to apply heavy iron wrist-restraints.
Jackson’s head snapped toward me. He saw me standing next to his uncle Marcus, holding the blue-bound legal files, completely unbothered by his panic.
“Chloe!” Jackson screamed as the marshals began dragging him toward the service elevator. “Chloe, tell them it’s a mistake! Talk to them! We’re married!”
May you like
I took three slow steps forward, stopping right in front of him as the marshals held him steady. I looked into his terrified, bloodshot eyes—the eyes of a man who had thought he could smash a plate into my head and force me into submission.
“We were married, Jackson,” I whispered, cold and clear. “My divorce petition was filed at seven AM. You have no home. You have no money. And you have no wife.”
