Chapter 5 - The Reckoning at Rikers
Three weeks passed.
The autumn wind off the East River was freezing as I stepped off the ferry at Rikers Island.
I wore an elegant burgundy coat, my face completely healed except for a tiny, faint silver line on my lower lip—a permanent reminder of 3:07 AM. But the swelling was gone, the bruises had faded, and my dark eyes were completely clear, radiant with an unshakeable inner peace.
Inside the visiting facility’s private consultation room—a room reserved for corporate victims facing trial defendants—I sat behind a thick glass partition.
The heavy steel door on the opposite side opened.
Brandon Sterling was led into the room by two corrections officers.
He was unrecognizable.
The six-thousand-dollar suit was gone, replaced by a drab, oversized orange jumpsuit. His hair was messy and unwashed, his skin pale and breakout-ridden, his eyes hollowed out by three weeks of terrifying reality inside a maximum-security remand facility. His hands were bound at his waist by heavy steel chains that clanked loudly with every step.
He sat down heavily on the stool, staring at me through the glass. When he reached for the plastic phone receiver, his hand shook violently.
I picked up my phone.
"Clara..." Brandon wept, his voice cracking instantly, tears streaming down his unwashed cheeks. "Clara, please... please God, you have to help us. You have to tell the DA to drop the RICO charges. It's hell in here, Clara! They... they put me in a general population cell block! I can't survive in here!"
I held the receiver silently, watching his pathetic breakdown with the calm detachment of a scientist observing a specimen under a microscope.
"Lara is in the women's facility," Brandon sobbed, pressing his forehead against the glass. "She’s fifty-eight years old, Clara! She’s having panic attacks every night! They won't let her have her silk robes or her blood pressure medication! She’s breaking down!"
"Lara had a very satisfied smile when she watched you break my jaw, Brandon," I said softly, my voice crystal clear through the receiver. "She told me I looked 'disgusting.' She asked me whose house it really was."
"I was wrong!" Brandon shrieked, slamming his chained hands against the shelf beneath the glass. "I was insane! My mother manipulated me! She was the one who came up with the Crestview plan! She forced me to sign those transfers! It was all her!"
I let out a soft, genuine laugh. "You're turning on your own mother to save yourself?"
"She ruined my life!" Brandon cried, tears dripping off his nose. "Clara, I love you! I still love you! We can fix this! You can take back the company, take back the house, take everything! Just drop the criminal charges! Let me come home! I'll be the husband you always wanted! I'll do whatever you say!"
I leaned closer to the glass, looking straight into his broken, pathetic eyes.
"Do you know what I was looking at while you were beating me that night, Brandon?" I asked.
He blinked, terrified, shaking his head.
"I was looking at the blinking blue light of the smoke detector," I whispered. "And while my blood was filling my mouth, I realized something wonderful. I realized that physical pain lasts for a few days... but absolute justice lasts forever."
I set the phone receiver down on its cradle.
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Brandon began frantically beating his fists against the glass, screaming my name through the thick barrier, but no sound reached my side of the room. The corrections officers stepped forward, roughly pulling him off the stool, forcing his arms behind his back, and dragging him back toward the dark hallway of the cell block.
I stood up, adjusted my burgundy coat, and walked out of the visitor center into the bright, crisp afternoon sunlight.
