Chapter 5 - The Arrest
At six-thirty the following morning, the sun was just beginning to rise over the Historic District of San Antonio, painting the Victorian houses in soft shades of orange and pink.
At 414 Elm Street, Margaret Morgan was sitting in her sunlit breakfast nook, wearing a plush velvet robe, sipping black tea from a porcelain cup. She was reviewing her monthly investment statements, confident that Daniel would eventually calm down and come back to her, as he always had when they were younger.
Suddenly, the quiet morning air was shattered by the loud, heavy thud of fists pounding on her heavy oak front door.
"POLICE! OPEN THE DOOR! WE HAVE A WARRANT!"
Margaret set her tea cup down so hard it cracked against the saucer. Her face flushed with sudden anger. She stood up, smoothing her robe, and marched to the front foyer, throwing the door open.
"What is the meaning of this insolence?!" Margaret demanded, looking at the four uniformed police officers and Detective Vance standing on her porch. "Do you have any idea who I am? My late husband was a judge in this county!"
Detective Vance didn't blink. He pulled a rolled paper from his trench coat pocket and held it in front of her face.
"Margaret Morgan, I have a warrant for your arrest issued by the 223rd State District Court," Detective Vance announced calmly. "You are charged with Aggravated Assault with a Deadly Weapon, Injury to a Pregnant Individual resulting in Serious Bodily Harm, and Felony Unlawful Restraint."
Margaret’s eyes widened in sudden, absolute panic. "This is absurd! My daughter-in-law is a lunatic! She fell down those stairs! My son is being manipulated!"
"Save it for your lawyer, ma'am," Vance said coldly, stepping aside. "Officers, secure the suspect."
Two female officers stepped forward, grabbed Margaret’s arms, pulled them behind her back, and clicked heavy, cold steel handcuffs around her wrists.
"Get your hands off me!" Margaret screamed, flailing wildly as she was dragged down her own porch steps. "Daniel! Daniel, call my lawyer! You can't do this to me! I am your mother!"
Neighbors began opening their doors, stepping out onto their lawns in their bathrobes, pulling out their smartphones to record the prominent, arrogant Margaret Morgan being hauled into the back of a marked police cruiser in handcuffs, her velvet robe torn, her silver hair wild and disheveled.
As the police cruiser pulled away from the curb, its red and blue lights flashing against the oak trees, Detective Vance stood on the lawn, holding a search warrant for the cellar.
He walked down the narrow Victorian storm steps into the dark basement, pointing his flashlight at the bottom of the stairs.
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On the cold concrete floor, clearly visible under the bright beam of light, were dried dark spots of Rachel’s blood, along with the torn strap of her sandal lying where she had dropped it three weeks ago.
Vance took out his camera and began taking high-resolution photographs. "Got you," he muttered to the dark room.
