Chapter 5 - The Reckoning at Cell Block 4BTwo days later, the rain was pouring down in sheets, drumming a relentless, heavy rhythm against the reinforced glass of the Cook County Department of Corrections visiting room.
The room smelled of stale floor wax, cheap disinfectant, and human desperation. Along the metal mesh divider, inmates in orange jumpsuits sat across from their visitors, shouting through the static-laced intercoms.
In booth four, Preston Price sat with his head in his hands.
His custom Tom Ford suit was gone, replaced by standard-issue orange cotton. His hair was uncombed, his face unshaven, and his eyes bloodshot. The arrogance that had defined him his entire life had completely evaporated, replaced by the hollow, paranoid stare of a man who realized the world no longer protected him.
A heavy security door clicked open, and I walked into the partitioned booth on the visitor’s side.
I didn't sit down immediately. I stood behind the reinforced glass, looking at him through the wire mesh.
Preston sluggishly raised his head. When he saw my face, a violent spasm of rage twisted his features. He scrambled forward, grabbing the steel partition, his voice broadcasting loudly through the speaker box.
“You!” he screamed, spraying spittle against the glass. “You did this! You planned all of it! You leaked the video to the press, you orchestrated the corporate takeover, you ruined my life over a stupid phone!”
I calmly adjusted my coat, sat down in the plastic chair, and picked up the heavy black telephone receiver. Preston snatched his receiver off the cradle with a violent yank, pressing it frantically against his ear.
“A stupid phone?” I asked, my voice coming through his earpiece, cold and measured. “Preston, you didn't just plant a phone. You used an eight-year-old child as a prop for your petty cruelty, and when she didn't fight back, you struck her with a piece of wood hard enough to fracture her skull. And then you watched her bleed while our parents told her it was her fault.”
“I’m a Price!” he snarled, his eyes bulging with hysteria. “Dad will fix this! Our lawyers are getting me out on appeal! You can’t touch me! We’re untouchable!”
“Your father doesn't have lawyers anymore, Preston,” I said softly.
Preston froze. The manic fire in his eyes flickered out, replaced by a cold, sudden dread. “What... what are you talking about?”
“As of this morning, Price Tower has a new name on the marquee,” I told him, watching every micro-expression of horror cross his face. “Arthur and Eleanor had to vacate their mansion by noon. Their accounts are frozen, their social clubs have revoked their memberships, and our dear mother is currently trying to figure out how to pay for a grocery bill without a black card.”
Preston slammed his fist against the glass partition. The metal frame rattled violently. “You bitch! You psychotic—!”
“Guard,” I said calmly, pressing the call button on the wall beside the booth.
Two corrections officers in heavy tactical vests stepped up behind Preston within three seconds, their hands resting on their utility belts.
“Time’s up, inmate,” the lead guard grunted, grabbing Preston by the shoulder and hauling him backward out of the chair.
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“Evelyn! Wait! EVELYN!” Preston shrieked as they dragged him away toward the heavy steel exit, his orange jumpsuit legs tangling beneath him. “Don't leave me here! Please! Evelyn!”
I didn't blink. I didn't say another word. I simply placed the phone back on its cradle, stood up, and walked out of the prison into the cool, cleansing rain.
