Chapter 3 - The Jailhouse Visitors
The county detention center smelled of industrial floor wax and despair. In the visitors' partition of the holding block, Mark sat behind the scratch-resistant plexiglass, wearing an orange jumpsuit that clashed violently with his manicured, country-club appearance. His hair, normally parted with razor-like precision, was greasy and disheveled. Across from him sat Richard Vance—not Julian, but Julian’s younger associate, sent merely to deliver papers, while Mark’s high-priced retained attorney, a man named Sterling, sat beside him sweating through his collar.
"This is an absolute constitutional outrage," Mark hissed into the plastic receiver, his fingers digging into the counter until his knuckles turned white. "It was an argument! A domestic squabble over our father’s medical guardianship! Derek lost his temper, that’s all! I was attempting to de-escalate the situation!"
"Mark, shut up," Sterling muttered through his own receiver, rubbing his temples. "They have the dispatch audio. Have you lost your mind? The dispatch tape has you telling Derek to say she stole cash from your father’s drawer. It has you explicitly stating that by morning, the house would be yours. The state attorney is reviewing the tape right now. They’re talking about kidnapping in the second degree, elder abuse, and witness tampering."
"They can't prove intent to kidnap!" Mark snarled, his voice rising in pitch until a guard behind him placed a heavy hand on his shoulder, forcing him back down. Mark swallowed hard, leaning closer to the glass. "Listen to me, Sterling. The only thing that matters is the property. Dad has an old will. Under that will, if anything happens to Elaine—if she’s discredited, if we can prove she’s unstable—I am the primary executor. We post bail, we go to Dad’s house, and we get his signature on the deed before Julian Vance can interfere."
The door to the visitor room clicked open. Julian Vance himself walked in, moving with measured, unhurried steps. He carried no briefcase—only a single, legal-sized folder bound with a red ribbon.
Mark glared through the glass. "Julian! Did you bring Dad? Where is he? Tell these idiots to drop these ridiculous charges! You know me—I’ve managed Dad’s portfolio for five years!"
Julian picked up the secondary receiver on the wall, resting it against his ear with infinite patience. He looked at Mark not with anger, but with the cold, clinical detachment one might afford an insect under glass.
"Mark," Julian said, his voice clear through the receiver. "Your father is asleep in my guest bedroom. He has been evaluated by a physician and is resting under medical supervision. He will not be coming to see you today. Or tomorrow. Or ever again in this lifetime, if I have any say in the matter."
"You don't have the legal standing to isolate him from his sons!" Mark snapped. "I am his eldest son! I hold his healthcare proxy from 2015!"
"You held a healthcare proxy," Julian corrected calmly. "A document that was formally revoked twenty-four months ago, witnessed by two independent notaries and filed with the county clerk."
Mark’s face drained of color. "What are you talking about? Dad never told me that."
"Why would he tell a wolf that the sheep had moved to another pasture?" Julian replied. "Your brother Derek is currently in the lower intake wing. He has just finished signing a twenty-page sworn proffer with Detective Miller and the Assistant District Attorney. In exchange for the prosecution waiving the life-sentence kidnapping enhancement, Derek has surrendered every text message, every spreadsheet, and every recorded phone call between the two of you over the past six months."
Mark slammed his free hand against the glass. "Derek is an idiot! He’s a terrified child! None of what he says is legally binding without corroboration!"
"Oh, there is corroboration," Julian said softly. "Elaine’s thumb drive. The audio recordings of you threatening to commit your father to a locked dementia ward unless he signed the deed to your shell company. The fake notary seal you purchased online, which the deputies found in your coat pocket inside the garage. And, of course, the live audio from the sedan’s emergency dispatch system, which recorded you laughing while your sister choked on exhaust dust in the trunk."
Mark’s mouth opened, but no sound came out. His chest rose and fell in shallow, panicked heaves.
"You thought you were playing a game of corporate leverage, Mark," Julian continued, leaning forward until his eyes were inches from the glass. "You thought our small town was still operating on the handshakes of the 1980s. But Arthur knew what you were. He watched you run your first business into bankruptcy and leave your partners with the debt. He watched you borrow thirty thousand dollars from your mother’s cancer treatment fund and never pay back a dime. Did you really think he would leave his life’s work at your mercy?"
"I am his heir," Mark choked out, though his voice had lost its knife-edge sharpness. "He can't cut me out completely. The statutory inheritance laws in this state—"
May you like
"The statutory inheritance laws," Julian interrupted, "do not protect felons who attempt to murder or incapacitate their fellow beneficiaries. Tomorrow morning at the preliminary hearing, I will place this file on the judge’s bench. When I do, Mark, you will not only be denied bail—you will be legally dead to your family’s legacy."
Julian set the receiver down on its metal cradle with a soft, final click. He did not look back as he turned and walked out of the visiting room, leaving Mark pounding frantically against the soundproof glass, his screams muffled by two inches of reinforced acrylic.
