Chapter 7 - The Interrogation Room and the First Confession
The fluorescent lights of the county jail interrogation room buzzed with a low, monotonous hum that grated against the nerves. Across the gray metal table sat Richard Hawthorne, his tailored tuxedo replaced by an orange jumpsuit that hung loosely on his once-imposing frame. His hair was disheveled, the gray stubble on his jaw making him look ten years older than his actual age.
He stared across the table at me, his eyes bloodshot and desperate, stripped of the arrogant bluster he had wielded like a weapon for three decades.
'Claire,' Dad croaked, his voice cracking as he leaned forward, pressing his cuffed wrists against the cold steel surface. 'Please. Drop the charges. Your lawyer—that pitbull Ethan hired—is telling the prosecutor to push for maximum sentencing. Ten years for fraud, embezzlement, and conspiracy. I'm an old man, Claire. I'll die in this place.'
I didn't flinch. I sat back in my hard plastic chair, my hands folded neatly over the manila folder resting in my lap. I wore a simple black turtleneck and tailored slacks, looking every bit the corporate executive I had always been before my family reduced me to a perpetual victim.
'You didn't care about dying when you struck me across the face in the hospital room, Dad,' I replied, my voice as cold as arctic ice. 'You didn't care about my life when you watched Brooke spray a toxic chemical compound into my face on my wedding day.'
'It was a mistake! Brooke was just having a panic attack!' Dad babbled, desperation creeping into his tone. 'She’s your sister! Families stick together no matter what! That’s how we raised you!'
'No, that’s how you enabled Brooke to become a monster while you embezzled two hundred and fifty thousand dollars of my grandmother’s inheritance to fund her lifestyle,' I countered, sliding a bank statement across the table. 'My forensic auditors tracked every single dollar, Dad. The shell companies, the unauthorized wire transfers, the fake investment portfolios. It’s all documented. The district attorney doesn't need my permission to prosecute you anymore. The state’s case is air-tight.'
Dad stared at the bank statement, his lower lip trembling. The fierce, overbearing patriarch was gone, replaced by a pathetic coward facing the consequences of his own hubris.
'If you plead guilty and cooperate with the prosecutors by testifying against Brooke’s involvement in the premeditated poisoning,' I continued, leaning forward slightly, 'my legal team will recommend a reduced sentence of probation and restitution rather than maximum federal prison time.'
Dad’s eyes widened in horror. 'Testify against Brooke? Turn against my own daughter? How could you ask me to do that?'
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'Because Brooke is the one who sprayed me, and you are the one who covered for her and assaulted me,' I said, standing up smoothly and gathering my files. 'You have twenty-four hours to decide whether you want to spend the rest of your life behind bars protecting Brooke, or save yourself.'
As I turned toward the heavy metal door, Dad slammed his cuffed hands against the table, screaming in absolute despair, but I didn't look back.
