Chapter 7 - Patricia’s Humiliation
Patricia Whitmore lay in the medical observation wing of the women’s detention center, clutching an ice pack to her powdered forehead and groaning whenever a guard walked past. For forty-eight hours, she had staged an elaborate performance of an aristocratic dowager brought low by the cruelty of the legal system.
"You don't understand," she wailed to the nurse administering her blood pressure check. "My late husband was an alderman! I am on the executive board of the Westchester Symphony! I chair the annual St. Jude’s Charity Gala! When the governor hears about this barbaric treatment, you will all be cleaning bedpans in a veterans' hospital!"
The heavy steel door at the end of the ward unlocked with a mechanical thud.
Marcus Vance entered, flanked by Jonathan Croft and two plainclothes process servers. The nurse immediately gathered her tray and hurried out, locking the door behind her.
Patricia scrambled upright in her narrow cot, her greasy gray roots visible beneath her disheveled blonde dye job. "Marcus! Oh, Marcus, thank God! Have you come to talk sense into Claire? You must explain to her that family does not air dirty laundry like this! The Whitmore name is an institution!"
Marcus stood at the foot of her bed, his silver walking stick resting firmly on the linoleum floor. He stared at her with a revulsion so absolute that Patricia’s voice choked back into her throat.
"The Whitmore name," Marcus said quietly, "is an administrative error that will be corrected by sundown."
"What do you mean?" Patricia breathed, clutching her institutional blanket to her chest.
Jonathan Croft opened an oversized manila folder and began reading:
"Item one: The deed to your four-bedroom luxury condominium at the Ritz-Carlton Residences in White Plains. Foreclosed this morning due to four consecutive months of unpaid common charges and mortgage defaults totaling 1.8 million dollars, which were previously covered under a discretionary fund managed by Claire Sterling."
Patricia gasped. "She... she cut off my condo?!"
"Item two," Croft continued unblinkingly. "Your membership at the Winged Foot Golf Club and the Manhattan Ladies’ Cosmopolitan League have been revoked effective immediately, citing the viral livestream video depicting your active participation in the torture and extortion of a member in good standing."
" Torture?!" Patricia screeched. "I was holding a phone! I never laid a finger on her!"
"You directed the camera, Patricia," Marcus interjected, his voice dropping into a register of frigid fury. "You told twelve thousand people that my niece was a greedy whore who deserved to be dragged through gravel. You laughed while your son tied her to an iron bumper. You mocked her heritage, unaware that every crust of bread you have eaten for eleven years was purchased by the blood, sweat, and legacy of Arthur Sterling."
"I... I can apologize!" Patricia whimpered, tears of absolute terror finally leaking down her wrinkled cheeks, cutting tracks through her caked-on foundation. "I will do a public apology video! I will tell everyone that Nathan forced me! Claire loves me! I took her to tea every second Tuesday!"
"Claire was observing you," Marcus countered. "She gave you eleven years of opportunities to show a single spark of human decency, warmth, or gratitude. Instead, you stole her family’s silverware, you insulted her dead parents, and you plotted to leave her penniless on the street so you could maintain your pathetic, leased country-club facade."
Croft handed a final sheaf of documents to the process server, who dropped them squarely onto Patricia’s lap.
"Civil lawsuits have been filed in New York and federal jurisdictions," Croft announced. "Intentional Infliction of Emotional Distress, Defamation Per Se, Aiding and Abetting Grand Larceny, and Civil Conspiracy. The damages sought total forty-five million dollars. Every bank account, pension fund, and luxury vehicle registered in your name has been placed under a prejudgment attachment order."
Patricia stared down at the documents, her hands trembling so violently that the papers slipped off her knees and scattered across the filthy floor.
"I have nothing left," she whispered, her voice finally breaking into an empty, hollow croak. "Where am I supposed to go?"
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"The county provides shelter accommodations for indigent defendants upon release," Marcus said coldly, turning toward the heavy metal door. "I believe there is an open cot in the Yonkers municipal facility. They serve meals three times a day. Be sure to livestream it, Patricia. Your followers wouldn't want to miss a single moment."
***
