Chapter 6
The federal holding facility in downtown Boston was a bleak,
gray fortress,
smelling of bleach,
despair,
and cold iron.
Preston was stripped of his ruined tuxedo,
forced into a scratchy,
oversized orange jumpsuit,
his expensive watch and leather loafers confiscated and sealed in a plastic bag.
He was led down a long,
fluorescent-lit corridor,
the heavy steel doors echoing with loud,
metallic clangs behind him,
locking him deeper inside the labyrinth.
The guard shoved him into a small,
cramped cell,
the iron bars sliding shut with a sickening thud.
He stumbled forward,
catching his balance on the cold concrete wall,
looking around the dismal,
windowless room.
There was a thin mattress on a metal slab,
a stainless steel toilet in the corner,
and a single,
flickering bulb overhead.
He sat on the edge of the hard bed,
pulling his knees to his chest,
shivering,
not just from the cold,
but from the crushing weight of his reality.
For hours,
he sat in total silence,
waiting for his lawyer,
waiting for a phone call,
waiting for some miracle that would pull him out of this nightmare.
But the miracle never came,
because the only person who had ever performed miracles for him was me,
and I was the one who had locked him in here.
The guard walked by the bars,
tapping his nightstick against the metal.
You get one phone call,
the guard grunted,
opening a small slot and sliding a cordless phone through.
Preston grabbed it with shaking hands,
dialing the number of the high-powered defense attorney he had hired last year to handle a minor contract dispute.
The phone rang,
the sound echoing in his ear,
until a receptionist answered,
her voice crisp and professional.
I need to speak to Mr. Sterling,
Preston said,
his voice cracking,
desperate,
begging.
May I ask who is calling,
she inquired.
Preston Caldwell,
he replied,
expecting the name to carry the weight it once did.
There was a long pause,
the sound of typing on a keyboard,
and then she returned to the line.
Mr. Sterling is unavailable,
Mr. Caldwell,
and our firm is no longer retaining your services due to a conflict of interest.
Conflict of interest,
Preston whispered,
the realization hitting him like a physical blow.
I bought the firm,
I had Malcolm place a retainer on every top defense lawyer in the city early this morning,
ensuring that anyone who took his case would be fired by Whitmore Holdings.
He dropped the phone,
letting it dangle by the cord,
staring blankly at the concrete floor.
He was entirely isolated,
cut off from the legal defense he needed,
left to rely on a public defender who would be overwhelmed,
underpaid,
and completely useless against my army of corporate sharks.
He lay down on the thin mattress,
closing his eyes against the harsh fluorescent light,
wishing the concrete would open up and swallow him whole.
The cage was locked,
May you like
the key was thrown away,
and the trial hadn't even begun.
