Chapter 5 - Counter-Strike
The battle, however, was far from over.
At eight o'clock that morning, I stood in the kitchen of my townhouse, brewing a pot of strong black coffee. Claire was asleep upstairs, exhausted from the physical pain and the emotional toll of the night’s events. The house was quiet, but the peace was illusory.
My phone rang, a private number flashing on the screen.
I answered it. "Margaret Vance."
"Margaret," a smooth, cultured voice purred on the other end. "It’s Richard Vance. I believe we have some business to discuss."
Richard Vance was one of the most expensive, ruthless defense attorneys in the state. He was a man who specialized in making white-collar crimes and domestic atrocities disappear for the wealthy and powerful. He was also Thomas Vance’s cousin, though Thomas possessed a shred of decency that Richard had long since traded for a penthouse overlooking the park.
"I figured you’d be representing the Mercer family, Richard," I said, leaning against the counter. "I assume you’ve spent the morning reviewing the charges?"
"I’ve seen the preliminary filings," Richard said, his tone conversational, as if we were discussing a golf game. "Domestic assault, coercion, corporate theft, embezzlement... quite a colorful list. But you and I both know how these things go, Margaret. A heated domestic dispute, some minor physical contact, some disputed financial documents... it’s all very dramatic, but it rarely holds up under the harsh light of a trial."
"Minor physical contact?" I let out a soft, dangerous laugh. "He fractured her clavicle, Richard. We have high-resolution photos, a medical report from a licensed physician, and a full toxicology screen. And as for the financial documents, we have the master keys and his physical signature on transactions totaling seven point four million dollars."
"Ah, yes, the recording," Richard said, his tone remaining infuriatingly smug. "A recording obtained without a warrant, using a device designed to mimic a watch. We will file a motion to suppress that recording on the grounds of entrapment and violation of privacy laws."
"Try it," I challenged. "State law is clear: one-party consent applies to any conversation where the recording party has a reasonable expectation of safety, or where the recording is used to document a felony in progress. Grant was actively holding us against our will and threatening our physical safety. The recording is entirely admissible, and you know it."
There was a brief, telling pause on the line. Richard’s smugness faltered for a fraction of a second before he recovered.
"Even if the judge admits it, Margaret, think of the cost," Richard said, his voice dropping to a low, conspiratorial whisper. "If this goes to trial, Claire’s entire life will be dragged through the mud. We will subpoena her medical records. We will paint her as an emotionally unstable, pill-popping wife who became hysterical and injured herself, then fabricated a story to exact revenge on a husband she suspected of having an affair. We will drag out every private detail of her life, every argument, every insecurity. Is she really strong enough to survive that kind of public vivisection?"
The threat was clear. It was a classic defense tactic: threaten to destroy the victim's character until they agree to drop the charges or accept a pathetic settlement. I had seen it done a hundred times.
But this time, they were playing against a mother who had spent her career writing the playbook on how to defeat men like Richard Vance.
"Let me tell you what is going to happen, Richard," I said, my voice dropping to a freezing, absolute whisper. "You are going to advise your client to plead guilty to the felony domestic assault and the financial fraud charges. In exchange, we will ask the prosecutor to recommend a sentence on the lower end of the guidelines—though he will still be doing real time in a state penitentiary."
Richard laughed. "And if we decline this generous offer?"
"If you go to trial, I will personally assist the district attorney’s office as a special consultant," I said. "I will ensure that we introduce not only the financial records from Mercer Dynamics, but also the records of the Cayman Islands holding company. I’ve already contacted my former colleagues in the federal prosecutor's office. They are preparing a federal indictment for interstate wire fraud and money laundering. Those charges carry a mandatory minimum of twenty years in a federal facility."
I took a slow sip of my coffee, letting the weight of my words sink in.
"Furthermore," I continued, "if you attempt to defame my daughter in court, I will personally file a civil lawsuit against Grant, Evelyn, and your firm for defamation, intentional infliction of emotional distress, and conspiracy. I will make sure the press covers every single day of the proceedings. I will make Grant Mercer the most despised man in this state. By the time I am done with him, he won't have enough money left to pay your retainer."
The silence on the other end of the line was deafening.
"You're bluffing," Richard whispered, though there was no conviction left in his voice.
May you like
"I spent thirty years in the DA’s office, Richard," I said softly. "I don’t bluff. Tell Grant to get comfortable in his cell. The storm is just getting started."
I hung up the phone, set my coffee cup down, and stared out the window. The rain had stopped, and the first rays of sunlight were beginning to break through the clouds.
