Chapter 7 - THE AFTERMATH AT THE PRECINCTMiles away from the glittering opulence of Michigan Avenue, inside the harsh, fluorescent-lit interrogation room of the Chicago Police Department, the atmosphere was thick with desperation and cheap coffee.
Marcus Vance sat handcuffed to a bolted metal table, his expensive Italian suit wrinkled, his hair disheveled, and his legal mind spinning wildly in circles.
The heavy steel door swung open, and Detective Miller—along with a federal prosecutor—stepped into the room, dropping a thick stack of manila folders onto the table with a sharp thud.
"All right, Vance, let's stop wasting everyone's time," Detective Miller said, pulling out a chair and sitting down heavily. "Your offshore accounts in the Cayman Islands have been frozen. The shell companies you registered under false names have been subpoenaed by the SEC. And your digital footprint? Every single email, encrypted chat, and wire transfer instruction between you and your co-conspirators has been downloaded, decrypted, and indexed."
Marcus forced a tight, nervous laugh, though his hands shook uncontrollably against the metal cuffs. "You're bluffing. I have constitutional rights. I demand to speak with my legal counsel immediately. You can't hold me without—"
"Without a mountain of ironclad evidence?" the federal prosecutor interrupted smoothly, opening a folder and sliding a glossy 8x10 photograph across the table.
Marcus glanced down. The photo showed a high-resolution screenshot of a digital wire confirmation transferring three million dollars from a Sterling Global subsidiary account into a private personal account bearing Marcus's exact passport number and electronic signature.
The color drained completely from Marcus’s face. His mouth opened, but no words came out.
"That's just page one, Marcus," the prosecutor continued calmly. "We have testimony from Claire Hargrove—who, by the way, is cooperating fully with the district attorney in exchange for a reduced sentence. She handed over every text message where you promised her a vice-presidency once Harold Whitmore was ousted and the Whitmore hotel group was liquidated."
Marcus slammed his hands against the table, the handcuffs rattling loudly. "She’s lying! Claire is a bitter, desperate woman trying to save her own skin!"
"She might be desperate," Detective Miller said dryly, leaning forward, "but her phone logs don't lie. Neither do the security servers at the Whitmore Grand. You orchestrated a multi-year corporate sabotage campaign, embezzled millions, and tried to fraudulently seize control of a historic enterprise using forged board proxies."
The prosecutor leaned back, crossing his arms. "Here is how this plays out, Marcus. You can plead not guilty, take this to trial, and watch a federal jury convict you on twelve counts of grand larceny and securities fraud. You'll be looking at a minimum of twenty-five years in a maximum-security federal penitentiary. Or... you can cooperate, give us the names of every other corrupt stakeholder involved in this syndicate, and we might recommend a slightly lighter sentence."
Marcus stared at the photograph on the table. The brilliant, untouchable corporate attorney—the man who thought he ruled Chicago from behind a glass desk—was gone. In his place sat a terrified criminal staring down an abyss of his own making.
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Slowly, Marcus slumped back into his chair, his shoulders sagging in absolute defeat.
"Give me... give me a pen," Marcus whispered hoarsely.
