Chapter 5 - The Reckoning of the Rags
The Holiday Inn in Cicero, Illinois, smelled of old carpet, stale cigarette smoke, and the deep-fried grease from the twenty-four-hour kitchen down the hall.
Diane Morrison sat on the edge of the queen-sized bed, her face gray and drawn under the harsh fluorescent light. Her Chanel jacket was missing two buttons, and her hands were tucked into the pockets of her skirt to hide the fact that her luxury watch had been seized by the asset recovery team that morning.
Jessica stood by the small window, her eyes red from crying, her phone plugged into the wall charger. "Every single card is blocked, Diane! The Platinum, the corporate travel, even the small boutique card I had for the shoe store! The bank clerk told me the account was flagged for 'forensic investigation'! What does that even mean?"
The door to the room opened, and Brendan walked in, his shoulders slumped, his eyes looking like empty holes in his skull. He dropped onto the vinyl chair by the small desk, his hands hanging between his knees.
"Did you talk to her?" Diane demanded, standing up, her old voice rising into a sharp, desperate pitch. "Did you tell her we’ll sue? We’ll take her to court, Brendan! A wife cannot take her husband’s property without a trial!"
"It isn't my property, Mom," Brendan said, his voice a flat, dead rattle. "It never was. She bought the notes five years ago. She owns the company. She owns the building. She owns the car you drove here."
"That’s a lie!" Jessica shrieked, stamping her foot against the thin carpet. "She’s a nobody! Her father was a mechanic! She went to a state school! How could she have billions of dollars?"
"Because her grandfather wasn't a mechanic, Jessica," Brendan said, looking up at her with a look of pure, unadulterated bitterness. "Her grandfather was Lucas Vance. The man who founded Vanguard Steel before the restructuring in the nineties. She didn't marry me for money. She married me because she thought I was... she thought I was different from the corporate men she grew up with."
He let out a short, dry laugh that sounded like a cough. "And I gave her a twenty-dollar bill for a cab while she was sitting in a pool of dirty water."
The telephone on the bedside table rang, its loud, mechanical ring making all three of them jump. Diane reached for it with a desperate hope, her hand shaking as she pressed it to her ear. "Richard? Is that you? Did you fix it?"
"Mrs. Morrison," a cool, professional voice said from the other end—the voice of Arthur Pendelton. "I am calling to inform you that the moving van containing your personal clothing and items identified as non-corporate assets has arrived at the Cicero storage facility. The rent has been pre-paid for thirty days. After that, the contents will be auctioned to cover the outstanding cleaning fees for the Morrison boardroom."
"Arthur, please!" Diane cried, her voice dropping into a begging register she had never used in her sixty-five years. "My house—my medicine is in the master bedroom—"
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"The house has been cleared, Mrs. Morrison," Arthur said flatly. "The keys have been turned over to the new owner. And I suggest you look at the evening news. The District Attorney has just scheduled a press conference regarding the tax evasion charges for the Morrison Logistics subsidiary."
The line went dead, leaving nothing but the low, electronic hum of a disconnected family.
