Chapter 8 - The Interrogation of Julianna SterlingAt 9:00 AM the following morning, the autumn sun broke through the coastal fog over Lake Michigan in a brilliant sheet of gold.
Inside the subterranean holding cells beneath the federal courthouse in Chicago, the air was freezing, smelling of wet concrete and industrial disinfectant.
Julianna Sterling sat on an iron bench inside a reinforced security cell, her three-hundred-thousand-dollar Dior ballgown stained with black grease and dried wine, her acrylic nails broken, her bare feet shivering on the cold floorboards.
The heavy sliding iron door hissed open.
Alexander walked into the vault, accompanied by Assistant United States Attorney Marcus Vance and two federal marshals carrying thick evidence binders.
When Julianna saw Alexander, she scrambled to the bars, her bloodshot eyes wide with hysterical panic.
“Alexander! Please! Tell the marshals to release me! My father had a heart attack in federal custody this morning—he can't survive in a prison cell!”
Marcus Vance stepped forward, opening the primary federal indictment folder.
“Your father signed over every foundry, every railcar, and every dollar in Zurich four hours ago, Miss Sterling,” the prosecutor said, his voice flat as an iron slab. “The federal grand jury returned true bills across ninety-six counts thirty minutes ago. Aggravated maritime sabotage, capital murder in the 2014 Lake Shore Drive explosion, and the systematic embezzlement of pension funds.”
He showed her the decrypted banking ledgers and the wire confirmations recovered from her father's safe.
“Your trial begins in four weeks. You are facing twenty-five years at the Federal Correctional Institution in Danbury, Connecticut, for corporate fraud and interstate conspiracy.”
Julianna looked at Alexander, weeping in broken, hopeless defeat.
“Alexander... what are you going to do to me?”
Alexander looked down at his former associate with cold, absolute detachment.
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“I am not going to do anything to you, Julianna,” Alexander whispered, his voice quiet enough that the water dripping in the drain sounded like a metronome. “The law will do it for me. You will eat prison bread. You will scrub prison floors. And every morning when you wake up, you will remember that the woman you ordered to beg on her knees owns every foundry your father ever built.”
He turned on his heel and walked out of the holding block, leaving her frantic, weeping cries to echo against the damp concrete until the heavy iron door slammed shut forever.
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