Chapter 10 - The Glass PartitionZ
The visitation room of the federal correctional facility in Allenwood, Pennsylvania, smelled faintly of industrial floor wax and stale coffee. Thick glass partitions divided the small cubicles, separating white-collar inmates in orange jumpsuits from their visitors.
I sat down on the hard plastic chair, adjusting my coat.
A moment later, the heavy steel door on the opposite side buzzed open. A guard led Harold Prescott into the cubicle.
The transformation was shocking.
The immaculate tailored suits, the polished designer shoes, and the pristine grooming were gone. Harold wore a ill-fitting orange jumpsuit. His grey-streaked hair was unwashed, his face was gaunt, and his hands were cuffed at the wrists. The posture of a arrogant Manhattan elite had completely collapsed into the hunched, defensive stance of a broken convict.
He sat down heavily across from me, his bloodshot eyes staring through the glass. He picked up the heavy black plastic phone receiver attached to the wall.
I picked up mine.
"You actually came," Harold said, his voice coming through the speaker distorted and thin. There was no remaining trace of the booming, charismatic tone he used when speaking to high-society donors.
"You said you had information, Harold," I said calmly, my face entirely impassive. "You have three minutes before I leave."
Harold gripped the receiver tightly, his knuckles turning white. "You think you’ve won, don't you? You sit there in your five-thousand-dollar coat, playing the brilliant CEO, while I rot in this hellhole!"
"You put yourself here, Harold," I replied. "You stole millions from a charity, tried to extort money from an international firm, and aligned yourself with Marcus Vance. I didn't frame you. I simply stopped lying for you."
"I made you!" Harold spat, pressing his face closer to the glass, his eyes wide with bitter desperation. "When I met you, you were a nobody! A broke, grieving girl working as a temp! I gave you a home! I gave you status! I put you at the center of New York society!"
"You put me beside Stage Left holding a clipboard," I corrected softly. "You used my labor to build your foundation, and when you thought you had squeezed every drop of value out of me, you tried to sell me for five hundred dollars to amuse a room full of strangers."
Harold flinched slightly, a flash of genuine embarrassment flickering across his hollow face before his anger consumed it again.
"It was a joke!" he lied defensively. "It was a damn fundraising joke to warm up the room!"
"It wasn't a joke, Harold," I said, my voice steady and cold as ice. "It was the absolute truth of how you saw me. You thought I was worth five hundred dollars. You never realized that the woman holding that clipboard was the only reason your entire life hadn't collapsed years ago."
Harold stared at me through the glass, his jaw trembling. "What about the trust? Marcus promised me twenty percent of the Vance assets if I kept you ignorant of your name! You owe me my share!"
I almost felt pity for him. Even now, wearing an orange jumpsuit in a federal prison, he still believed he was entitled to the fruits of my life.
"There is no share, Harold," I said smoothly. "The Prescott Foundation is gone. The Greenwich house is being converted into a school for underprivileged girls. And your legal appeal was rejected by the Second Circuit Court this morning."
Harold’s breath hitched. "No... no, my lawyers said—"
"Your lawyers resigned two days ago because your offshore accounts were frozen," I interrupted. "You have no money left to pay them."
I stood up slowly, smoothing the front of my coat.
"Wait! Anastasia, wait!" Harold screamed into the phone, slamming his handcuffed fists against the glass partition. "Don't leave me here! Talk to the prosecutor! Tell them I helped you with Marcus! You can drop the civil suits! Anastasia!"
The guard behind him stepped forward, grabbing Harold’s shoulder and forcing him back into his chair.
I held the phone to my ear for one final second.
"Good-bye, Harold," I said softly.
I hung up the receiver, turned my back on his frantic, silent screaming behind the glass, and walked out through the heavy steel doors into the bright afternoon sunlight.
Owen was waiting for me near the facility entrance, standing beside the black car. He took one look at my face and opened the door.
"How was it?" Owen asked as we pulled away from the prison grounds.
"It was quiet," I said, leaning my head back against the leather headrest. "He’s a small man who spent his life pretending to be big. I don't ever need to think about him again."
Owen reached across the seat and gently rested his hand over mine. His touch was warm, reassuring, and real.
"Where to now, Chairman?" he asked with a faint smile.
May you like
I looked out the window at the highway stretching ahead toward Manhattan.
"To the office, Owen," I said. "We have a new world to build."
