Chapter 7 - Patricia’s Bail and the Bitter Truth
At nine o'clock the following morning, the front gates of the county detention facility buzzed open.
Patricia Vance stepped out into the blinding morning sun. Her pastel cashmere cardigan was wrinkled, stained with cheap jail coffee, and missing a button. Her immaculate French manicure was chipped, her hair was a tangled nest of graying roots, and her eyes were puffy from a night spent weeping on a vinyl cot surrounded by women she would have crossed the street to avoid.
Standing by the curb was not her son’s luxury German sedan, nor was it a private car service.
It was a yellow municipal taxi.
Standing beside the open cab door was Uncle Greg.
“Greg!” Patricia gasped, stumbling toward him on her designer flats. “Oh, thank God! Where is Daniel? Why didn't Daniel come to get me? Did he post my bail? The magistrate said someone paid the ten percent cash bond at dawn!”
Greg looked at his sister with a face carved from stone. He didn't offer an embrace. He didn't take her designer purse, which had been returned to her in a clear plastic property bag.
“Get in the car, Patricia,” Greg said flatly.
“Where is Danny?!” she demanded, her voice shrill and cracked. “Where is my son? Why isn't he here with the car? I need to go home, shower, and have my lawyer file charges against that monster he married!”
“You don't have a lawyer, Patricia,” Greg said, opening the cab door wider. “And you don't have a home to go back to.”
Patricia froze, her hands trembling. “What are you talking about? Daniel’s house—”
“Is Claire’s house,” Greg interrupted, his voice dropping into a harsh, unforgiving register. “It was always Claire’s house. Daniel never owned a single brick of it. He was fired on Friday for stealing over a hundred grand from her family’s company. Brittany’s car got repo’d last night, and she’s currently being processed for grand larceny at the precinct across town.”
Patricia shook her head violently, refusing to let the reality penetrate her carefully constructed fantasy. “No. No, that’s impossible! Daniel is an executive! He promised me! He said we would never have to worry about money again!”
“Daniel is a con artist who lived off his wife’s hard work,” Greg spat. “And you enabled every second of it. You treated that girl like dirt under your shoe while she paid for your country club, your medical bills, and that ridiculous emerald ring on your finger.”
Greg pointed at the sparkling green stone on her hand.
“Claire filed an asset attachment on that ring this morning, by the way,” Greg added coldly. “The court clerk told me Daniel bought it using a corporate expense account registered to Claire’s firm. If you don't surrender it to the sheriff’s office by tomorrow afternoon, they’ll issue another warrant for receiving stolen property.”
Patricia clutched her hand to her chest, her knees buckling. She had to lean against the taxi’s yellow fender to keep from collapsing onto the asphalt.
“I paid your bail, Patricia,” Greg said, turning to climb into the front passenger seat. “Not Daniel. Daniel couldn't even scrounge up five hundred dollars for the bond fee because every single card in his wallet was canceled. I paid it out of my retirement savings, because you’re my sister, and our mother would roll over in her grave if I left you in a jail cell.”
He looked out the open window at her.
“But this is the end of the line. I’m taking you to a budget motel near the highway. You have three days paid for. After that, you’d better find an apartment you can afford on your meager state pension, because you’re never stepping foot on Claire’s property again.”
“Greg… please,” she sobbed, tears cutting tracks through her smeared foundation. “He’s my son! Daniel will take care of me! Where is Daniel right now?!”
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“Daniel,” Greg said, “is currently sitting on the curb outside Claire’s house with four trash bags full of clothes, waiting for a bus.”
***
