Chapter 8 - The Criminal Arrest
On Thursday morning, seventy-two hours after the wedding cake was smashed into my face, the criminal indictment was formally unsealed by the United States District Court for the Northern District of Illinois.
The charges were staggering:
Count 1: Wire Fraud. Count 2: Money Laundering Conspiracy. Count 3: Tax Evasion. Count 4: Bank Fraud. Count 5: Aggravated Identity Theft.
At 2:00 PM, federal marshals and local police officers executed a joint arrest warrant at Derek Sterling's Gold Coast penthouse.
Because Derek had refused to answer the door for two hours, the federal tactical team used a hydraulic breaching tool to take down the front entrance.
News cameras from three local television stations were stationed across the street, capturing the entire event live on broadcast television.
Lena, Marcus, and I sat in the living room of the Evanston house, watching the live news feed on the wall-mounted television.
The screen showed two heavily armed federal agents leading Derek Sterling out of his apartment building in handcuffs.
He was wearing a gray sweatshirt and sweatpants, his hands cuffed behind his back, his feet in unlaced sneakers. He held his head low, trying desperately to hide his face from the flashing cameras and shouting reporters.
"Derek! Did you launder money through Vance Development?!" a reporter yelled, thrusting a microphone toward him.
"Derek! Is it true your wife recorded you assaulting her on your wedding night?!" another journalist shouted over the noise of the crowd.
Derek didn't answer. As the agents guided him toward the back of an unmarked black van, he caught sight of a television camera pointed directly at his face.
For one brief second, his eyes locked onto the lens.
His face was filled with a terrifying combination of rage, shame, and utter helplessness. The invincible young executive who believed he could conquer Chicago real estate and crush his wife under his heel was completely gone.
"His bail hearing is scheduled for tomorrow morning," Marcus said, switching off the television with a click of the remote. "The federal prosecutor is requesting detention without bond, citing him as a flight risk due to his family's offshore bank accounts."
"Will he get bond?" I asked.
"Not a chance," Marcus smiled. "With the evidence of physical abuse, the recorded threats, and the passport seized from his apartment safe this morning, the judge will hold him in the Metropolitan Correctional Center until trial."
I leaned back against the sofa cushions, closing my eyes.
The Metropolitan Correctional Center was a stark, concrete tower in downtown Chicago—a bleak, fortress-like facility where high-profile federal defendants were held in strict confinement.
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Derek would spend his nights in a tiny concrete cell, sleeping on a steel bunk, wearing an orange jumpsuit, waiting for a trial that would end in a mandatory federal prison sentence of fifteen to twenty years.
The man who had tried to lock me in a cage of fear was now locked in a cage of steel.
