Chapter 4 - The Visit to the Cell block
The Cook County holding facility was dark, cold, and smelled of industrial bleach and old concrete.
Because of the high-profile nature of the arrest and the heavy pressure exerted by the State Attorney's office, Barrett Hayes had not been granted immediate bail. He sat in a small, glass-partitioned visiting room on the second floor, wearing an orange jumpsuit that was three sizes too large for his lean frame.
His hands were cuffed at the wrists, the metal links clinking against the wooden table whenever he moved.
The heavy steel door on the opposite side of the glass opened, and I walked in.
I was not wearing an hospital gown. I was wearing a crimson tailored suit, my hair styled in soft, elegant waves, my lipstick flawless. Beneath the jacket, my chest was firmly bound, but my posture was straight, regal, and proud. Walking behind me was Rocco, who stood silently by the door with his arms crossed.
Barrett looked up. His eyes were red-rimmed, his face covered in dark stubble, his skin gray with shock and terror.
When he saw me—looking healthy, magnificent, and entirely out of his reach—a flash of desperate, pathetic hope lit up his face. He grabbed the plastic telephone receiver on his side of the partition with trembling hands.
I sat down calmly, picking up my receiver.
"Mallory!" Barrett’s voice came through the speaker, high-pitched and frantic. "Mallory, thank God! You have to fix this! This is a giant misunderstanding! The police... they treated me like a criminal! They dragged me out in front of the neighbors!"
I held the receiver to my ear, watching him with absolute, detached calm.
"You are a criminal, Barrett," I said, my voice completely smooth. "You broke three of my ribs. You dragged me across marble floors. You locked me in a basement and tried to steal four million dollars from my company."
"I was drunk! I wasn't thinking!" Barrett lied desperately, his hands beating against the glass partition. "Taryn... Taryn manipulated me, Mal! She was the one who came up with the transfer papers! She told me you were going to leave me! She seduced me! I love you, Mallory! I've always loved you!"
I let out a soft, genuine laugh—a sound so cold it made Barrett freeze in his tracks.
"You love me?" I asked softly. "Is that why you told Taryn I was 'nothing without you'? Is that why you watched me bleed on concrete while you listened to music upstairs?"
"Mal, please..." Barrett wept, tears smearing across his dirty face. "Talk to your father! Tell him to drop the charges! My father's firm is collapsing! The banks pulled our credit lines this morning! My father had a heart attack an hour ago when the IRS seized his accounts! They're destroying my family!"
"Your family destroyed itself, Barrett," I corrected him sharply. "Your father built his career on fraud and political kickbacks. You built yours on my father's money and my sweat. You thought I was a helpless little artist you could kick down the stairs whenever you were bored."
I reached into my briefcase, pulling out a sleek blue legal folder. I pressed the pages against the reinforced glass.
"These are final divorce papers," I stated clearly. "Along with a complete, unconditional surrender of all claims to Romano-Hayes Design, the Greenwich estate, and your remaining personal assets. You sign them now, in front of the guard."
Barrett looked at the papers, his jaw trembling. "And... and if I sign them? Will your father drop the assault charges?"
I leaned in close to the glass, looking into his pathetic, broken eyes.
"If you sign them," I whispered, "my father will allow you to serve your five-year prison sentence in a state facility instead of a maximum-security federal penitentiary. That is the only mercy you will ever receive from my family."
Barrett stared at me, realizing with absolute, horrifying finality that there was no way out. The man he had ignored, the woman he had abused, and the system he had thought he owned had completely crushed him.
With shaking, handcuffed hands, Barrett picked up the pen provided by the corrections officer. He signed his name on every page, his tears dripping onto the legal parchment.
When he finished, the guard slid the signed documents through the bottom slot to me.
I picked up the folder, checked every signature, and stood up.
"Mallory... please..." Barrett begged, pressing his face against the partition. "Don't leave me here..."
I looked at him one last time—not with hatred, not with anger, but with the cold, absolute indifference he deserved.
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"Goodbye, Barrett," I said.
I turned my back on him, stepping through the heavy steel door out into the bright winter sunlight, where my father was waiting in the back of a warm, quiet sedan.
