Chapter 6 - The Broken Prince
Down in the subterranean bowels of the Mecklenburg County Jail, Preston Ferguson was discovering what the world looked like without a nine-figure bank account to cushion the impact.
His custom Tom Ford suit had been stripped away, replaced by an ill-fitting orange jumpsuit made of rough polyester. His gold watch, leather shoes, and dignity had been logged into property bin #4419. He sat on a cold concrete bench in an interrogation room, shivering against the chill of the air conditioning.
Across the metal table sat Detective Miller and Agent Vance. A video camera blinked in the corner, recording every drop of sweat running down Preston’s nose.
“I want my father,” Preston whined, his voice trembling. “Where is Arthur? I’m entitled to a lawyer! You can’t keep me in here like this!”
“Your lawyer came and went, Preston,” Vance said calmly, opening a manila folder. “Arthur Sterling withdrew from representing you thirty minutes ago. He realized that if he touched this case, he’d be disbarred for complicity in federal wire fraud.”
Preston’s mouth gaped. “What? That’s impossible! Dad pays him a million dollars a year!”
“Your father is currently sitting in a holding facility at the federal courthouse in Greensboro,” Miller interjected, leaning forward. “The feds raided your corporate tower at midnight. They found the off-the-books servers in the basement. They found the safety deposit box receipts. They found everything, Preston.”
“No… no, that wasn’t me! That was my father! It was his company!”
“Your signature is on the structural certification documents for the Fort Liberty barracks,” Vance countered, sliding a glossy photograph across the table. It was a high-resolution scan of Preston’s signature beneath a forged military engineer stamp. “That’s twenty years in federal prison right there. Add in fifteen years for wire fraud, ten years for defense procurement sabotage, and twenty years for attempted second-degree murder and strangulation.”
Preston grabbed his hair, his fingers digging into his scalp. “Attempted murder?! I didn’t try to kill her! She fell! She fell down the stairs, I swear to God!”
“We have the medical report, Preston,” Vance said, her voice dropping into an icy, cutting tone. “We have the finger marks on her throat. We have the petechiae in her eye. You strangled her until she passed out. In North Carolina, when you strangle an intimate partner into unconsciousness, prosecutors can and will charge attempted murder.”
“She wouldn't give me the password!” Preston screamed, completely unspooling. The polished heir of the Ferguson dynasty was gone; in his place sat a petulant, terrified child. “She was going to ruin everything! My father was going to disinherit me! You don’t know what he’s like! He told me if I didn’t get those files back, he’d throw me out on the street with nothing!”
“So you beat your wife half to death to save your allowance?” Miller asked, disgust dripping from every word.
“She’s my wife! She was supposed to be loyal to me!” Preston sobbed, tears cutting dirty streaks through the grime on his cheeks. “I gave her everything! The house, the cars, the trips to Europe! And she betrayed me for a bunch of stupid soldiers I’ve never met!”
Vance leaned back in her chair, shaking her head. “You just confessed on camera, Preston.”
Preston froze. His eyes darted to the red recording light on the ceiling corner.
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“And those ‘stupid soldiers’ you mentioned?” Vance added softly. “Their mothers and fathers are the people who are going to be sitting on your jury. Good luck.”
***
