Chapter 5 - The Depths of Deceit
The holding facility in downtown Portland was cold, sterile, and smelled faintly of floor bleach. I sat on one side of a thick acrylic glass partition, waiting.
The heavy metal door opened, and Jackson was led in by a correction officer. He wore a bright orange jumpsuit. The polish, the expensive haircuts, the air of effortless superiority—all of it had vanished. He looked hollow, his eyes darting frantically around the room.
He sat down and slammed the intercom receiver to his ear. I picked up mine.
"You came to gloat?" Jackson spat, his voice metallic through the speaker. "Are you happy now, Carter? Mom is having a nervous breakdown. Dad had to sell his boat just to retain my defense attorney! You ruined this family!"
"You did this to yourself, Jackson," I said softly, my voice completely devoid of the anger he so desperately wanted to provoke. "I gave you every chance to walk away. You had a career. You had a fiancé. You had a family that worshipped the ground you walked on. But you wanted the one thing that wasn't yours."
"It should have been mine!" Jackson screamed, slamming his fist against the glass. The guard stepped forward, but I held up a calm hand, signaling I was fine. "Grandpa built that house for the family! He gave it to you out of spite because I didn't want to spend my summers painting rusty dock poles!"
"He gave it to me because I loved it," I replied. "And because he knew who you really were. He knew about the money you stole from his account while he was lying in a hospital bed with cancer."
Jackson froze. The rage drained from his face, replaced by a ghost-like pallor. "What... what are you talking about?"
"The green box, Jackson," I said. "Grandpa tracked every dollar you took. He kept the bank ledgers. He kept the wire transfer logs. He kept it all because he hoped that one day you’d change. But if you didn't, he left it to protect me."
Jackson leaned his forehead against the cool acrylic glass, letting out a ragged, shaking breath. "Carter... please. Brooke left me. She took her ring and packed her bags yesterday. The bank is foreclosing on my condo. If I go to trial on these fraud charges, I’m facing seven to ten years."
"Then you should start thinking about how to plead," I said.
"Help me!" he wept, the golden boy finally crumbling into a pathetic shadow. "Tell the prosecutor you won't testify! Tell them it was a family misunderstanding! I’m your brother!"
I looked at him—really looked at him—for the last time. The invisible chains of obligation, guilt, and quiet submission that had bound me to my brother for thirty years finally snapped.
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"You stopped being my brother the moment you poured that glass of champagne on my head and told two hundred people I didn't matter," I said.
I hung up the phone, stood up, and walked out of the visitor's room without looking back.
