Chapter 5 - The Net Tightens
The county lockup in Pittsburgh was located in a grim concrete facility on Second Avenue, tucked beneath the roaring overpasses of the Parkway East. It had none of the marble, heated floors, or soft classical music of the Sewickley mansion. It smelled of industrial disinfectant, cold grease, and human despair.
By six o'clock that evening, Preston Whitmore sat in an interrogation room on the second floor.
His cashmere sweater had been confiscated as physical evidence because the cuffs bore microscopic traces of Emily's blood. In its place, he wore a rough orange canvas jumpsuit that hung awkwardly on his frame. His designer stubble was smeared with dried tears and sweat.
Across from him sat Assistant United States Attorney David Ross, flanked by Frank Vance. I sat quietly in the dark corner of the room, outside the cone of the fluorescent overhead lamp, leaning against the concrete wall with my arms crossed.
"Let's review the schedule of charges, Preston," Ross said, flipping through a thick legal binder. "Your state charges—attempted murder, aggravated assault on a pregnant person, and reckless endangerment—are currently being held in abeyance while the federal grand jury reviews the Title 18 racketeering indictment."
"I have the right to my lawyer!" Preston stammered, his teeth chattering uncontrollably from the room's chill. "Where is Vance? Why hasn't he posted bail?"
"Mr. Lawrence Vance withdrew as your legal counsel thirty minutes ago," Ross answered without looking up. "It turns out his legal retainer was paid out of the Keystone Vanguard operating account. Since those funds are subject to federal civil asset forfeiture under the anti-money laundering statutes, accepting that money would constitute receiving stolen federal property. In short: he's not working for free. And neither is anyone else."
Preston looked at Frank. Then his eyes drifted desperately into the shadows toward me.
"Robert... please," he pleaded, his voice breaking into a dry, ragged sob. "You're her father. Talk to them. Tell them to drop the federal charges! We can settle this! I'll give Emily the estate! I'll give her fifty percent... no, seventy percent of the company! She can have ten million dollars! Cash! Immediately!"
I didn't move. I didn't smile. I let the silence hang in the air for ten seconds before I answered.
"You don't have ten million dollars, Preston," I said quietly. "You don't even have ten dollars. The IRS Criminal Investigation Division executed tax liens on every property in your portfolio at four-fifteen this afternoon. The bank called your commercial paper. The vendors at your Cranberry development walked off the job site and filed mechanic's liens covering thirty-four million dollars in unpaid materials."
"My mother..." Preston gasped. "My mother has private trusts—"
"Your mother was booked into the Allegheny County female annex twenty minutes ago," Frank Vance said, turning a photograph around on the metal table.
The image showed Eleanor Whitmore. Her makeup was ruined by streaks of mascara, her tailored hair completely unraveled, standing against a height chart holding a booking placard bearing the number #84920-WPA. Her pearls had been removed. She was wearing the same rough orange canvas as her son.
"She tried to wire two point four million dollars to a private account in Zurich from her personal laptop while the marshals were searching her closet," Frank continued. "That triggered an immediate federal flight-risk hold. No bail. No bond. She's staying in a four-person holding cell until trial."
Preston put his face into his hands and began to weep—not with remorse for the girl he had nearly killed, but with the pathetic, self-pitying terror of a spoiled child whose playground had been taken away.
"Why are you doing this to me?" he cried. "I was good to her! I gave her a life she could never have dreamed of! She was just a kindergarten teacher from the south hills! She was nothing before me!"
I stepped out of the shadow into the white glare of the overhead bulb. I stopped two inches from the table, looking down at his bowed head.
"She was everything before you, Preston," I told him. "She had kindness. She had dignity. She had a father who loved her enough to let her live her own life. You thought her gentleness was weakness. You thought because I didn't brag about my past or wear five-thousand-dollar watches, that there was no one standing behind her."
I leaned down until my lips were inches from his ear.
"You made a mistake," I whispered. "You thought you were a lion because you lived in a big cage. But you forgot what lives in the woods outside."
May you like
I turned toward the steel door.
"Take his statement, David," I said to the prosecutor. "I'm going back to the hospital."
