Chapter 7 - The Poisoned Well at RikersWhile the federal case was building, Eleanor remained inside the specialized women’s unit at Rikers Island. But even behind bars, a cornered viper still possesses venom.
Two days after the discovery of the safe, I was sitting in our re-secured, fully renovated Park Slope apartment. We had hired top-tier private security contractors to guard the building twenty-four hours a day. Maya was resting in the nursery with baby Liam, who had gained weight and was finally thriving, his health restored.
At 2:00 p.m., my phone rang. It was an unlisted number from the Brooklyn District Attorney’s office.
“Mr. Vance?” Assistant District Attorney Karen Choi spoke urgently. “We have an emergency. An hour ago, an undercover informant inside Rikers intercepted a written communication passed from Eleanor Vance to a visitor.”
“What was in the note?”
“She used a proxy account funded through an offshore shell company in the Cayman Islands to hire an outside operative. The target isn't you, David. It’s Maya’s medical recovery clinic in Manhattan.”
My blood ran cold. “Maya has an appointment there tomorrow morning at nine for her post-sepsis checkup!”
“Eleanor paid two hundred thousand dollars to a disgraced former nurse to introduce a lethal potassium chloride dose into Maya’s IV drip during her routine follow-up,” ADA Choi explained. “The police are moving to arrest the operative right now, but you need to know—Eleanor is burning down everything. She knows the murder attempt charges are solid, and she wants to inflict maximum damage before she goes down.”
I walked into the nursery. Maya was holding Liam, singing softly to him. The sunlight streamed through the window, illuminating their peaceful faces.
I looked at my family—the only real family I had left in this world.
I called Detective Reed back immediately.
“Reed,” I said, my voice dangerously steady. “Set up the sting at the clinic tomorrow morning. Let the operative walk into the room. Let her touch the syringe. I want this caught on infrared audio and video.”
“David, that’s risky for Maya—”
“Maya won't be in that room,” I replied. “A police dummy will be in that bed. I will be sitting in the observation room behind the two-way mirror.”
The next morning at 8:45 a.m., at the Manhattan Medical Pavilion, the trap was sprung.
A woman dressed in scrubs slipped into Room 402, carrying a tray with a high-dose syringe. As she reached for the IV line attached to the mannequin under the sheets, SWAT officers blew the door off its hinges.
“POLICE! DROP THE SYRINGE! DOWN ON THE GROUND!”
The operative fell to her knees, screaming as hand-cuffs snapped shut over her wrists.
The entire attempted assassination was broadcast live to the Brooklyn State Supreme Court judge presiding over Eleanor’s case.
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By noon, Eleanor Vance was stripped of all visitation rights, placed in solitary confinement, and charged with an additional count of Murder for Hire and Conspiracy to Commit First-Degree Murder.
Her legal defense team resigned en masse that afternoon, citing unresolvable ethical conflicts.
