Chapter 8 - The Interrogation of a Narcissist
A week later, Beatrice sat in a stark, gray interrogation room at the federal courthouse. Julian and I sat behind the one-way glass, watching the woman who had nearly destroyed our lives.
Her hair was unkempt, the roots showing gray. She wore a standard-issue jumpsuit. Without her wealth, her makeup, and her designer clothes, she just looked small. And pathetic.
Her lawyer—a public defender, since Grandfather had frozen all her assets—sat uselessly beside her as the federal prosecutor laid out the evidence.
“We have Marcus Vance’s full confession,” the prosecutor stated. “We have the wire transfers, the forged signature analyses, and the security footage of your driver planting evidence in Mrs. Hayes' apartment. We also have a paper trail of $250,000 paid to a DoD logistics contractor to manipulate Major Hayes’ deployment orders.”
Beatrice stared blankly at the table. “Marcus is a liar. He orchestrated the whole thing.”
“Marcus Vance doesn’t benefit from a trust fund in Lily Hayes’ name,” the prosecutor countered. “You are facing twenty-five years in federal prison, Mrs. Hayes. The prosecution is willing to offer fifteen years if you plead guilty and spare this family a trial.”
Beatrice suddenly looked up, staring directly at the one-way mirror. She knew Julian was there.
“Julian!” she yelled at the glass. “Julian, don’t let them do this to me! I’m your mother! I gave you everything! You owe me!”
Julian pressed the intercom button on the wall. His voice filled the small room.
“You gave me a life of manipulation,” Julian said coldly. “You stole my daughter’s food. You nearly got me killed by keeping me in a combat zone for money. I owe you nothing. Take the plea deal, Beatrice. Because if you force my wife to testify, I will make sure the judge gives you the maximum sentence.”
Beatrice slumped in her chair, her face burying into her hands. The illusion was shattered. She had no moves left.
May you like
“I’ll take the plea,” she whispered to her lawyer.
Julian took his finger off the button and turned to me. “It’s over.”
