Chapter 5 - The Glass Partition
The lobby of the Prentice Pavilion was an expansive, two-story atrium of white terrazzo and glass, looking out over the gray, choppy waters of Lake Michigan.
At three-thirty on Sunday afternoon, the lobby was usually quiet—a few exhausted fathers carrying car seats, older couples waiting for discharge prescriptions, the occasional resident hurrying toward the skybridge with a paper cup of coffee.
Today, the atrium sounded like an open-air fish market.
Renata Castellin stood six inches from the bulletproof acrylic screen of the central visitor reception desk, her face the color of an overripe plum. She was still wearing the cream silk trousers and gold jewelry from the engagement party, though her hair was beginning to escape its stiff lacquer, several silver strands falling across her forehead like unspooled wire.
"I am her mother!" Renata shrieked, slamming her open palm against the glass with a force that made the intercom microphone buzz. "I have a right to know the status of my grandchild! That lunatic she is married to assaulted my son-in-law on the veranda! He is mentally unstable! I need to see the clinical chart immediately!"
Behind her, Bianca stood with her arms crossed over her designer trench coat, looking around the lobby with an expression of intense, petulant irritation.
"Mom, just tell them to call the hospital administrator," Bianca complained, checking her reflection in the glass of the gift shop window. "Mason has a tee time with the partners from Inland Real Estate at five. We don't have time to stand here while some minimum-wage clerk checks a computer."
Mason stood three paces back, his hands deep in the pockets of his camel-hair overcoat, his loafers clicking an impatient rhythm against the terrazzo. "Tell them we’re filing an emergency injunction, Renata. I have the county judge on speed dial. This hospital receives municipal tax abatements; they can't lock family members out of a public facility."
The security doors beside the reception desk clicked open with a heavy, magnetic thud.
Theo stepped through the threshold.
He didn't rush. He walked with that slow, measured, predatory confidence that makes people clear a path without knowing why they’re doing it. Behind him walked two uniformed officers from the Chicago Police Department’s 18th District, followed by a middle-aged man in a dark charcoal suit carrying a heavy, black leather briefcase.
Renata saw him and immediately pivoted, her face contorting into an expression of theatrical, wounded maternal grief.
"Theo!" she cried, stepping forward with her arms outstretched. "Oh, thank God! We have been out of our minds with worry! The way you ran out of the ballroom—it was so dramatic, so terrifying! How is our little girl? Is the baby alright? Bianca and I haven't slept a wink—"
"Stop moving, Renata," Theo said.
The tone wasn't loud. It had the dry, dead snap of a dry twig breaking in the forest.
Renata stopped three feet from him, her arms hovering awkwardly in the air before slowly dropping back to her sides. Her eyes darted from Theo’s face to the two police officers standing behind his shoulders.
"Theo, what is the meaning of this?" she stammered, her voice dropping an octave, the false warmth curdling into thin, defensive indignation. "You can't treat us like strangers. We are Naomi’s family. We came here to support her."
"You came here to find out if she survived the internal hemorrhage," Theo said.
The lobby went so quiet that the faint hum of the revolving door twenty yards away sounded like an industrial fan.
Bianca gasped. "Theo! How can you say something so disgusting?! Mom was just—"
"Your mother shoved an eight-month pregnant woman into a sharp-edged table because she asked why an eighty-thousand-dollar automobile was purchased with her father's estate funds," Theo stated, his eyes locking onto Bianca with an intensity that made the younger sister physically recoil, stepping behind Mason’s shoulder. "The trauma caused a grade-three placental abruption. Our daughter was delivered sixty minutes ago via emergency laparotomy. She is currently in an incubator with an arterial line in her umbilical stump."
Mason cleared his throat, taking half a step forward, trying to summon that oily, commercial real estate charm that worked so well on zoning boards. "Look, Theo, we’re all under a lot of stress here. Nobody wanted anyone to get hurt. It was an accident. Everyone saw Naomi lose her footing on the runner—"
The man in the charcoal suit stepped out from behind Theo.
"Mr. Reed," the man said, pulling a red-labeled manila folder from his briefcase. "My name is Arthur Pendelton. I am the senior litigation partner at Kirkland & Ellis, representing Naomi Castellin and the Estate of Arthur Castellin."
Mason’s jaw tightened. "I don't care who you are. This is a family dispute—"
"This is not a family dispute, Mr. Reed," Pendelton said, his voice as smooth and lethal as chilled mineral oil. "This is the execution of a civil freeze order issued forty minutes ago by Judge Carolyn Martinez of the Chancery Division of the Circuit Court of Cook County."
He handed a three-page document directly to Mason.
"Under the provisions of Illinois Compiled Statutes Chapter 735, Section 5/11-101, all assets, accounts, and operating entities controlled by White Rose Holdings LLC, Renata Castellin, and their designated agents have been placed under emergency receivership."
Renata’s hand flew to her throat, her knuckles white against her pearls. "Receivership? That’s... that's my personal money! My husband left that to me!"
"Your husband left that money to his daughters in an irrevocable trust dated August twelve, twenty-twenty-two," Pendelton replied, not even looking at her. "The will you forged, Mrs. Castellin, was authenticated using the signature of a deceased witness whose estate has already confirmed he was in an assisted-living facility in Sarasota on the date of execution. The probate court has vacated your letters of office."
"No," Renata whispered, the word barely a breath. "No, that's impossible. Frank told me—"
"Frank Donahue was disbarred by the Illinois Supreme Court at noon today," Theo interrupted, his voice dropping into that terrifying, final register. "He surrendered his files three hours ago to the Cook County State’s Attorney’s Financial Crimes Division. They have every ledger. Every bank transfer. Every check you forged with Arthur’s signature during his final month at Rush."
Theo took one step closer to Renata.
The two Chicago police officers moved to his flanks, their thumbs resting casually over their duty belts, their faces completely blank.
"The Mercedes outside," Theo said, pointing through the plate-glass doors toward the circular drive where a flatbed tow truck from the city’s auto pound was currently backing into position beneath the portico. "The commercial lease was voided sixty minutes ago for fraudulent application data. They're hooking the front axle right now, Mason."
Mason spun around, his eyes bulging as he watched the yellow lift lights of the tow truck begin their rhythmic, flashing rotation against the glass.
"Wait!" Mason yelled, lunging toward the doors. "My golf clubs are in the back! My laptop is in the console! You can't tow a leased vehicle from a hospital bay!"
"The vehicle is registered as an instrumentality of a felony wire fraud scheme, Mr. Reed," Pendelton noted smoothly, checking his gold pocket watch. "You may petition the federal magistrate for the return of your golf equipment in six to eight months."
Bianca began to cry—not the delicate, theatrical sniffle she used to get out of parking tickets, but the ragged, choking sobs of a child who has suddenly realized that the magic well has run completely dry.
"Mom," Bianca wept, grabbing Renata’s silk sleeve. "Mom, do something! Where are we going to stay? The lease on my apartment in Lincoln Park is up on Friday! You said you were going to write the check for the down payment on the brownstone!"
Renata didn't answer.
She stood on the white terrazzo floor, her hands trembling so violently that her gold bracelets sounded like dry bones rattling in a tin cup. Her eyes, wide and hollow with the sudden, absolute realization of her ruin, moved from the tow truck outside to the face of her son-in-law.
"Theo," Renata whispered, her voice cracking into a dry rattle. "Please. I'm her mother. You can't leave me with nothing."
Theo looked at her.
There was no triumph in his eyes. No joy. Only the cold, clean finality of a man who has finished balancing an account down to the last red cent.
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"You have the clothes on your back, Renata," Theo said. "Make sure they keep you warm."
He turned on his heel, the glass doors clicking shut behind him as he walked back toward the elevators, leaving the three of them standing alone on the cold marble floor while the tow truck’s winch screamed into the damp Chicago wind.
