Chapter 9 - Behind Closed Cells
Three weeks later, the initial media circus had settled into the grinding, unyielding gears of the justice system.
Thomas sat across from me in the soundproof interview room of the Cook County Jail. Stripped of his custom Italian suits, his expensive hair products, and his vanity, he wore a bright orange jumpsuit that swallowed his shrinking frame. He had lost ten pounds, his cheeks were hollow, and his hands shook continuously on the steel table.
"You really enjoy this, don't you?" he rasped, glaring at me through the reinforced glass partition. "Watching me rot in here."
"I don't feel joy, Thomas," I replied evenly, resting my hands on my purse. "I feel the quiet satisfaction of a homeowner who finally called the exterminator."
"Chloe betrayed me," he spat, his eyes wild with bitterness. "That miserable bitch took a plea deal. She’s getting five years in a minimum-security facility, and I’m looking at twenty-five to life. She poisoned that drink, Victoria! Not me! She was the one who handed it to you!"
"Because you told her to," I reminded him. "You promised her a life built on my corpse and my fortune. Did you really think an insecure, greedy woman would protect you when facing murder charges? You created a monster, Thomas, and she devoured you the moment she tasted the cage."
Thomas leaned forward, his face pressed near the small ventilation holes. "I have rights to our marital estate, Victoria! You can't strip me of everything! The prenuptial agreement guaranteed me thirty percent of our joint holdings upon dissolution of marriage!"
I smiled, a slow, cold curving of my lips that drained the last vestige of hope from his expression.
"Did you really not read the fine print of the prenuptial agreement my father’s lawyers drafted ten years ago?" I asked. "Article Twelve, Subsection B: In the event of infidelity, attempted bodily harm, or criminal fraud committed by either spouse against the other, all claims to marital property, alimony, joint equity, and legal defense funding are immediately and irrevocably forfeited."
Thomas stared at me, his breath hitching. "What?"
"You don't own thirty percent of the estate, Thomas. You don't even own the watch you wore to the gala. Every single asset, every offshore account, every property in Aspen, the Hamptons, and Chicago has been reclaimed or frozen by the federal government for restitution."
"I have nothing to pay my defense attorneys!" he panicked, his voice rising to a shrill squeak. "They’ll withdraw! I’ll be stuck with a public defender!"
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"Then I suggest you get familiar with whoever the state assigns you," I said, standing up and smoothing down my cashmere coat. "Because you're going to be spending a very long time in their company."
***
