Chapter 5 - The Interrogation RoomThree days later, I was strong enough to sit in a wheelchair. With General Sterling standing silently behind me like a sentinel, I was wheeled into the observation gallery overlooking the military brig's high-security interrogation room.
On the other side of the double-sided glass, Marcus Vance sat handcuffed to a stainless-steel bolt in the floor.
Gone was the charismatic, impeccably groomed executive who poured wine for high-society dinner guests. His designer shirt was replaced by an orange jumpsuit; his hair was unwashed, and his eyes darted frantically around the sterile, windowless room as the heavy metal door clicked open.
Two military investigators entered, dropping a heavy metal briefcase onto the steel table with a deafening clatter.
"Captain Vance," the lead investigator said, his voice flat and devoid of emotion. "Let’s review the charges. Kidnapping, aggravated assault resulting in severe bodily injury, unlawful imprisonment, torture, treason, and misappropriation of classified defense funds."
Marcus slammed his cuffed hands onto the table, rattling the hardware. "This is a kangaroo court! You have no jurisdiction over me! I demand a civilian lawyer! I demand to see a federal judge!"
"You're under the Uniform Code of Military Justice because your embezzlement targeted defense infrastructure, and your residence was built using federally subsidized contractor kickbacks," the investigator replied smoothly, opening the briefcase to reveal stacks of printed bank statements, property deeds, and high-resolution photographs of the basement cage.
"And as for your wife," the investigator added, leaning forward, "we recovered the hard drives from your home security system. Every single hour of footage you recorded of her torture has been downloaded, timestamped, and cataloged as Exhibit A through Z."
Marcus froze. The color drained completely from his face, leaving him looking like a corpse under the harsh fluorescent lights.
"No..." Marcus whispered, shaking his head frantically. "No, the local police... my friends... they know me. They'll say she was unstable—"
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"Your friends are currently sitting in holding cells downstairs answering questions about where the rest of the embezzled funds went," the investigator interrupted coldly. "Your mother has already started singing an aria about how you planned the entire thing to avoid a messy divorce settlement that would have exposed your financial ruin. You're entirely alone, Marcus."
In the observation gallery, I watched my husband—the monster who had laughed as he shoved rotten fruit through iron bars—begin to quietly sob, his shoulders shaking as the reality of his total, absolute destruction finally settled in.
