Chapter 8 - The Interrogation of Mr. HendersonAt 9:00 AM the following morning, the blizzard over the Pine Barrens had blown out to sea, leaving the sky washed in a brilliant, crystal-clear sheet of sapphire and gold.
Inside the subterranean holding cells beneath the federal courthouse in Newark, the air was freezing, smelling of wet concrete and industrial disinfectant.
Mr. Henderson sat on an iron bench inside a reinforced security cell, his gray wool suit shredded and stained with black coal dust and dried meat-locker brine, his right wrist wrapped in a crude splint, his bare feet shivering on the cold floorboards.
The heavy sliding iron door hissed open.
Marco Santoro walked into the vault, accompanied by Assistant United States Attorney Marcus Vance and two federal marshals carrying thick evidence binders.
When Henderson saw Marco, he scrambled to the bars, his bloodshot eyes wide with hysterical panic.
“Don Marco! Please! Tell the marshals to release me! My wrist... the cold... I can’t survive in this cell!”
Marcus Vance stepped forward, opening the primary federal indictment folder.
“Your offshore accounts in Grand Cayman were seized by federal court decree three hours ago, Mr. Henderson,” the prosecutor said, his voice flat as an iron slab. “The federal grand jury returned true bills across sixty-four counts thirty minutes ago. Aggravated elder abuse, corporate extortion, conspiracy to commit murder, and the systematic embezzlement of five million dollars from the Santoro domestic treasury.”
He showed him the decrypted banking ledgers and the wire confirmations recovered from his private wall safe.
“Your trial begins in four weeks. You are facing thirty-five years at the Federal Correctional Institution in Danbury, Connecticut. You will eat prison bread. You will scrub prison floors. And every morning when you wake up, you will remember that the girl you called an invalid's servant owns every square foot of the estate you tried to loot.”
Marco looked down at the ruined manager with cold, absolute detachment.
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“You asked Elena if she heard you when you threatened her under the highway bridge, Henderson,” Marco whispered, his voice quiet enough that the water dripping in the drain sounded like a metronome. “She heard you. And now the entire Department of Justice has heard you, too.”
He turned on his heel and walked out of the holding block, leaving his frantic, weeping cries to echo against the damp concrete until the heavy iron door slammed shut forever.
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