Chapter 14 - Echoes in the Cell Block
Three weeks later, the chill of winter settled deep into the city concrete, but inside the county detention center, the atmosphere was far colder than any weather outside.
Julian sat on the edge of a narrow metal bunk in Cell Block 4B, staring blankly at the gray cinder-block wall across from him. His designer Brioni suit had been replaced coarse orange jumpsuit that smelled of bleach and institutional detergent.
The mighty real estate mogul had been reduced to inmate number 489-201.
His cell door rattled, and a corrections officer tapped a baton against the bars. “Vance. Visitor in Booth Three. You’ve got ten minutes.”
Julian didn't want to go. He knew who was waiting on the other side of the thick plexiglass partition. But isolation and despair had worn down his arrogance, leaving behind a pathetic, hollow shell of desperation.
He shuffled down the linoleum corridor, his orange slippers scraping against the floor, and slid into the molded plastic seat in Booth Three, picking up the heavy black telephone receiver.
On the other side of the glass sat Diane. Her hair was unstyled, devoid of dye and salon blowouts, revealing streaks of stark gray. Her eyes were sunken behind glass partitions, hollowed out by days of sleepless rage and fear.
“Mom,” Julian whispered into the receiver.
“They won’t even let me have my own prescription cream,” Diane hissed into her phone, her voice shaking with venomous fury. “That bitch ruined us, Julian. She took everything. Our accounts are frozen, our lawyers dropped us because we can't pay retainer fees, and the state is seizing our personal vehicles next week.”
“It’s not my fault,” Julian muttered defensively, the old habit of deflection flaring up even in a jail cell. “If you hadn't insisted on using that oversized stockpot for Sunday dinner—if you hadn't pushed me to get the papers signed—!”
“You pushed her!” Diane shrieked, slamming her palm against the glass partition so hard the guard outside flinched. “You lost your temper like a clumsy idiot and ruined our entire multi-million dollar play!”
“Shut up!” Julian snarled back, his eyes flashing with sudden, vicious hatred. “You raised me to take what we want! You told me weakness is a disease!”
They glared at each other across the glass—mother and son, co-conspirators in crime, bound not by love but by mutual destruction.
“Your time is up,” the guard announced, pulling the lever on the heavy steel door.
May you like
Julian dropped the receiver back onto its cradle without saying goodbye, staring at his own reflection in the grease-smudged glass, realizing too late that the monsters who create monsters always end up devoured by them in the end.
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