Chapter 6 - The Jailhouse Visitor
Two days later, the visitor room at the Cook County Department of Corrections smelled of floor wax, industrial disinfectant, and unwashed despair.
I sat on one side of the scratched Plexiglass partition, waiting quietly with my hands folded in my lap.
A moment later, a heavy metal door at the back clicked open, and two guards escorted Grant into the room. He was wearing an orange jumpsuit several sizes too big for him. His hair was uncombed, dark circles bruised the skin beneath his hollow eyes, and the arrogant, polished billionaire posture was completely gone, replaced by a defeated, slumped slouch.
When he sat down on the opposite side of the glass and picked up the heavy plastic telephone receiver, his hands were shaking.
I slowly lifted my receiver to my ear.
Neither of us spoke for a long, agonizing minute. Grant stared through the glass at me, his lips trembling.
“Claire,” he finally whispered, his voice cracking horribly. “Claire, please... you have to help me. My lawyers say the federal wire fraud charges carry a minimum of fifteen years. They froze every single personal account I have. I can’t even pay for a private defense team.”
I looked at him calmly, my expression as flat and unreadable as a sheet of safety glass.
“You told me to stand on the tarmac and watch the plane leave without me, Grant,” I said, my voice carrying clearly through the intercom speaker. “Remember?”
Grant squeezed his eyes shut, a tear finally breaking free and tracking down his stubbled cheek. “I was arrogant. I was stupid. I thought I had won everything. Please, Claire... we were married for eleven years. Have some mercy.”
“Mercy?” I repeated the word softly. “You spent eleven years treating my silence as weakness. You spent the morning of my mother’s funeral sleeping with your partner in crime while planning how to rob my family blind. And the moment I confronted you, you tried to throw me away like luggage.”
Grant let out a choked sob, pressing his forehead against the Plexiglass. “What am I supposed to do? They’re going to bury me in here.”
“You’ll do what millions of other white-collar criminals do,” I replied steadily. “You’ll sit in a cell, reflect on your choices, and realize that money only gives you power over people who allow themselves to be bought.”
I stood up, pushing my chair back with a soft scrape against the linoleum floor.
“Claire! Wait! Don’t leave me here!” Grant shouted, slamming his palm against the glass. The guards immediately stepped forward, grabbing his shoulders and pulling him back from the partition.
May you like
I didn't look back. I placed the receiver down on its cradle, turned around, and walked out of the visitation room into the bright, open sunlight of the Chicago afternoon.
---
