Chapter 8 - VISITING THE FALLENZ
Before I could board a plane for Europe, there was one final debt of memory I needed to settle.
It was a cold, overcast Thursday morning when I walked through the stark, sterile security checkpoint of the United States Penitentiary in Atlanta. The heavy steel doors slammed shut behind me with a loud, metallic clang that reverberated through my bones.
I was escorted by a guard into a small visitor room divided by a floor-to-ceiling glass partition. On my side was a simple wooden chair; on the other, a metal stool bolted to the floor.
I sat down, placing my handbag on my lap, and waited.
A minute later, the heavy door on the opposite side of the glass opened. A guard led Patrick into the room.
He was unrecognizable. The sleek, tailored wool suits and custom leather shoes were gone, replaced by a drab, oversized khaki prison jumpsuit. His hair was cropped short, his face was pale and hollow, and heavy dark circles bruised the skin beneath his eyes. He was handcuffed at the wrists, the metal chain clinking against his belt as he moved.
He sat down on the stool, looking at me through the glass. He didn't pick up the phone handset at first. He just stared at me with a mixture of burning resentment and profound defeat.
I picked up my handset and held it to my ear, watching him calmly.
Slowly, reluctantly, Patrick lifted his cuffed hands, picked up his receiver, and brought it to his ear.
"Come to gloat, Eleanor?" his voice rasped through the speaker, devoid of the slick arrogance he had possessed for years. "Come to see the ruined animal in his cage?"
"No, Patrick," I said smoothly. "I didn't come to gloat. I came to look you in the eye one last time."
Patrick let out a harsh, bitter laugh. "You think you won, don't you? You and your dead husband's cute little trap. You ruined my life! You destroyed my business! You turned my own wife against me!"
"You destroyed your own life, Patrick," I corrected him, my tone completely flat. "You ruined your business the moment you decided to steal from elderly retirees and federal tax programs. And as for Sarah... you didn't love her. You used her. You used her as a corporate shield to sign fraudulent documents so you could escape accountability if the house of cards collapsed."
Patrick leaned closer to the glass, his eyes flashing with a spark of his old malice. "She’s a weak, pathetic snitch! She ran to the feds the second things got hot! She betrayed her husband!"
"She saved her soul, Patrick," I said. "Something you sold off years ago for a Buckhead mansion and a German sports car."
Patrick slammed his cuffed hands against the ledge beneath the glass, making the plastic handset crackle with static. "I’m looking at fifteen years, Eleanor! Fifteen years in a federal penitentiary! Do you have any idea what that means?!"
"It means you will have five thousand, four hundred and seventy-five days to think about the moment you sat on my sofa, smiled in my face, and told me my retirement money was gone," I said, leaning closer to the glass. "It means you will have fifteen years to remember that an elderly widow, grieving her husband, stripped you of everything you possessed because you mistook her kindness for weakness."
Patrick stared at me, his mouth opening slightly, but no words came out. The bitter rage in his eyes slowly flickered out, replaced by a cold, terrifying realization: I was not afraid of him. I had never been afraid of him. He had fought a battle against a ghost—Arthur—and a woman who had been forged in forty-three years of iron-clad love, and he had been completely annihilated.
"Sarah is divorcing you, Patrick," I added quietly. "The papers were filed yesterday."
A single tear cut through the dirt on his cheek, but I felt no satisfaction in it. Only the grim realization of how easily a man could destroy his own life out of pure, unadulterated greed.
"I am flying to Italy next week," I said, preparing to hang up the phone. "I am going to live the rest of my life in peace, comfort, and joy. And when I return, I will never think of you again."
"Eleanor... wait," Patrick stammered, his voice suddenly small, pleading like a frightened child. "Please... talk to the prosecutor. Tell them I cooperated... tell them to reduce the sentence... please..."
"Arthur gave you a choice on my back porch, Patrick," I said, holding his desperate gaze. "He told you to just watch. You should have listened."
I hung up the handset, placing it back onto its cradle.
I stood up, adjusted my coat, and walked toward the exit door without looking back. Behind the glass, Patrick picked up his hand-irons and beat them against the wall, but his cries were muted by the thick bulletproof glass.
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When I stepped out of the prison building into the cool morning air, the sun broke through the gray clouds, casting a bright, warm light across the pavement. I drew a deep, full breath of fresh air into my lungs.
The past was finally locked away. The future was waiting.
