Chapter 9 - Behind the Glass
The visitation room of the Hennepin County detention center smelled of industrial disinfectant and stale despair.
I sat on one side of the scratched Plexiglass partition, my leather briefcase resting neatly on my lap. Across the thick glass, the heavy metal door clicked open, and two guards guided Alistair Finch into the small booth.
He looked like a ghost of the man I had married seven years ago. His hair was unwashed, his orange jumpsuit hung loosely over his frame, and the arrogant, confident smirk that had once defined his corporate persona was entirely gone, replaced by a hollow, desperate panic.
Alistair sat down heavily on the metal stool, snatched up the heavy plastic telephone receiver, and jammed it against his ear. I slowly picked up my own receiver, holding it a few inches from my face.
“Jacqueline,” Alistair breathed out, his voice cracking with raw desperation through the static of the speaker. “Jacqueline, you have to help me. They’re talking about twenty years, Jq. Twenty years in federal prison! My lawyer—Marcus says there’s nothing he can do unless you agree to drop the civil claims!”
I didn't move a muscle. I simply watched him through the scuffed plastic barrier, my expression as cold and flat as a winter morning.
“Your lawyer is right, Alistair,” I said softly. “There is nothing he can do. Because you aren't just facing civil claims anymore. The U.S. Attorney picked up the 2014 probate fraud case this morning.”
Alistair’s face went completely slack. The color drained from his skin until he looked practically translucent.
“The... the probate files?” he whispered, his eyes widening in horror. “How... how did you find out about that?”
“Your mother called me,” I replied evenly. “Turns out, when you spend years treating people like disposable instruments for your ambition, they eventually decide to throw you under the bus to save their own skin. Familial loyalty runs deep in the Finch household, doesn't it?”
Alistair slammed his fist against the Plexiglass partition, the loud thud echoing through the small booth. “She told you? My own mother sold me out?”
“She tried to,” I corrected. “She offered to hand over all her personal assets if I agreed to bury the 2014 filings and let her walk away scot-free. But I told her the same thing I’m telling you now: every single person who participated in stealing my family’s legacy is going to pay the maximum penalty allowed by law.”
Tears welled up in Alistair’s bloodshot eyes, spilling over his cheeks as the crushing reality of his situation finally broke through his delusions.
“Jacqueline, please,” he sobbed, pressing his forehead against the glass partition. “We were married for seven years. I loved you. I made mistakes, I know I did, but we built something together—”
“You didn't build anything, Alistair,” I interrupted, my voice cutting through his crying like a scalpel. “You stole. You stole my grandfather’s estate, you stole my professional reputation, you stole my trust, and you tried to steal my future to fund a suburban life with Paige and a child you hid from me.”
I stood up, sliding my briefcase handle over my arm and adjusting my jacket.
“Jacqueline, wait! Don't leave me here!” Alistair screamed into the receiver, banging his hand against the glass again as the guards stepped forward to restrain him. “What about Paige? What about Matty? They’re innocent in all of this!”
I paused, looking back through the scratched plastic at the man who had tried to destroy my life.
“Paige packed her bags and left the Wayzata townhouse an hour ago,” I said quietly. “Turns out, once the credit cards stopped working and she realized you were facing federal prison, she didn't love the ‘independent genius’ founder quite as much as she thought she did.”
Alistair let out a ragged, broken cry, sliding off the metal stool and collapsing against the floor of the booth as the guards pulled him away from the glass.
May you like
I hung up the receiver, turned my back on him for the final time, and walked out into the bright afternoon sunlight.
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