Chapter 8 - The Interrogation of Marcus VanceAt 10:00 AM the following morning, the autumn sun broke through the coastal clouds over New York in a brilliant sheet of sapphire and gold.
Inside the subterranean holding cells beneath the federal courthouse on Foley Square, the air was freezing, smelling of wet concrete and industrial disinfectant.
Marcus Vance sat on an iron bench inside a reinforced security cell, his tailored pinstripe suit stained with black grease and dried bilge water, his 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 Marcus saw Alexander standing tall, he scrambled to the bars, his bloodshot eyes wide with hysterical panic.
“Alexander! Please! Tell the marshals to release me! I have forty million in bearer bonds in Liechtenstein—I will sign it all over to you!”
Prosecutor Vance stepped forward, opening the primary federal indictment folder.
“Your accounts in Liechtenstein were frozen by international decree three hours ago, Mr. Vance,” 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 high treason, industrial sabotage, and the attempted poisoning of an American citizen.”
He showed him the decrypted audio files and the digital telemetry recovered from the titanium chair's battery housing.
“Your trial begins in four weeks. You are facing consecutive life terms without the possibility of parole.”
Marcus looked at Alexander, weeping in broken, hopeless defeat.
“Alexander... what are you going to do to me?”
Alexander looked down at his former chief of operations with cold, absolute detachment.
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“I am not going to do anything to you, Marcus,” 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 spend 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 laundry maid you tried to silence owns every container berth your family ever built.”
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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