Chapter 6 - The Federal Cage
The visitor’s room at the Federal Correctional Institution in Milan, Minnesota, was cold, sterile, and smelled of cheap floor wax and stale sweat.
I sat on one side of a thick plexiglass partition.
Two minutes later, the heavy steel door on the opposite side opened, and two guards escorted Jackson into the room.
He looked unrecognizable. The expensive designer suits he used to brag about were gone, replaced by a dark orange jumpsuit. His hair was cropped short, his face was pale and hollow, and his hands were cuffed to a chain wrapped around his waist. The smug, arrogant posture he had carried for five years was completely crushed.
He sat down heavily on the plastic chair, staring at me through the glass. He picked up the black telephone receiver mounted on the wall.
I picked up mine.
"Are you satisfied, Nora?" Jackson asked, his voice rough, raspy, and filled with deep, poison bitterness. "You destroyed my family. My mother is living in a two-bedroom rented apartment in St. Cloud. Liam had to take a job driving delivery trucks to pay her rent. You took everything."
"You took it from yourself, Jackson," I said calmly, resting my elbow on the counter. "You forged signatures. You stole millions from innocent small business owners. You assaulted your wife in front of twenty people. You built a house made of lies, and now you're shocked that it caught fire."
Jackson slammed his cuffed hands against the counter, causing the guard in the corner to step forward warningly.
"I offered you a life!" Jackson hissed through the phone. "I let you into my family! You were just a dull, obsessed architect who spent all her time looking at concrete and steel! I gave you status! I gave you social standing!"
I let out a soft, genuine laugh that made Jackson’s jaw tighten.
"Status?" I asked, raising an eyebrow. "Jackson, your mother's 'high society' life was funded by credit card debt and stolen money. Your 'investment firm' was a fraud. You were living off my paycheck, using my credit score to buy your leased luxury cars, and treating me like an employee in my own home."
"My lawyer says you bought the Hidden Hills house," Jackson growled, his eyes narrowing. "What are you going to do with it? Sell it and hoard the cash?"
"No," I smiled softly. "I’m not selling it."
Jackson frowned, confused. "What?"
"I’ve spent the last three weeks working with the Ramsey County Housing Authority," I explained, leaning closer to the glass. "I am converting the Hidden Hills estate into The Genesis House—a long-term residential sanctuary and legal aid center for women escaping domestic violence and financial abuse."
Jackson’s face twisted in pure, unadulterated horror. "You... you named a battered women's shelter after my mother?!"
"It was the least I could do for her," I said smoothly. "Her mahogany dining table—the one where your brother sat and watched you hit me—has been moved into the main group therapy room. Every week, twenty women who survived men like you will sit around that table, sharing their stories and rebuilding their lives using my funding."
Jackson stared at me, his eyes wide, his lips trembling, completely unable to process the poetic brutality of what I had done.
"You're a demon," Jackson whispered, his voice trembling with genuine fear. "You're a psychotic demon."
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"No, Jackson," I said, setting the phone receiver back onto its hook. "I’m just an architect. And I always finish what I design."
I stood up, smoothed down my jacket, and walked out of the visitor's room, leaving Jackson screaming incoherently behind the thick glass as the guards forced him back toward his cell.
