Chapter 7 - Behind the GlassThe visitor’s room at the Metropolitan Correctional Center was cold, sterile, and smelled faintly of bleach and old floor wax. Thick bulletproof glass separated the visiting booths, and heavy steel doors chimed mechanically every time an inmate was brought in.
I sat on the plastic stool on the visitor's side, wearing my dark suit, waiting quietly.
The inner steel door opened with a loud CLANG.
Andrew was led into the room by two armed corrections officers. He wore a bright orange jumpsuit that hung loosely off his shoulders. His hair was shaved short, his face was pale and covered in dark stubble, and his hands were cuffed at his waist, attached to a heavy belly chain.
When he saw me sitting behind the glass, his eyes flared with a desperate, wild light. He stumbled over to the stool and slammed the plastic telephone receiver against his ear.
I slowly picked up my receiver.
"Clara!" Andrew’s voice cracked through the earpiece, high-pitched and hysterical. "Clara, thank God! You came! You have to talk to the prosecutors! You have to tell them it was all a misunderstanding!"
"Hello, Andrew," I said softly, my voice completely devoid of emotion. "You don't look very comfortable."
"Clara, please!" Andrew pressed his cuffed hands against the glass, tears streaming down his hollow cheeks. "They have me in maximum security! The guys in here... they know who I am! They know what I'm charged with! It's hell, Clara! It's absolute hell!"
"You've been here for four days, Andrew," I reminded him quietly. "I lived in hell for four years."
"I was sick!" Andrew sobbed, banging his forehead against the glass partition. "Vanessa... she put something in my drinks! She manipulated me! She told me you were trying to poison me! I swear, baby, I love you! I’ve always loved you!"
I listened to his pathetic excuses, feeling neither anger nor pity—only a deep, profound sense of disgust.
"Vanessa accepted a plea deal this morning, Andrew," I said smoothly.
Andrew froze, his eyes widening. "What?"
"She gave the federal prosecutors every text message, every email, and every bank record connecting you to the offshore accounts," I explained. "In exchange for a ten-year sentence, she agreed to testify as the primary witness against you in your grand larceny and domestic violence trials."
Andrew’s face went dead white. "That... that treacherous snake... she promised she’d stay loyal!"
"Loyalty bought with stolen money never lasts, Andrew," I replied. "Oh, and there's one more thing."
I pulled a small, glossy magazine from my leather handbag and pressed it against the bulletproof glass.
It was the cover of Crain's Chicago Business. Featured on the front page was a high-resolution photograph of me standing in the center of the executive boardroom, with the bold headline: CLARA STERLING TAKES THE REINS: STERLING GLOBAL ARCHITECTURE REPLACES CARTER ENTERPRISES.
Andrew stared at the cover, his jaw working silently, his chest heaving as the finality of his total destruction settled into his core.
"You took my company..." Andrew whispered, his voice trembling with a mixture of awe and pure horror. "You took my name... you took everything..."
"No, Andrew," I corrected, leaning closer to the glass, my eyes piercing through his soul. "I took my company back. I erased your name. And as for 'everything'... you never owned anything to begin with. You were just a tenant living in a house I built."
I hung up the receiver, setting it neatly back on its hook.
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Andrew grabbed his phone, screaming violently into the receiver, slamming his fists against the bulletproof glass, leaving bloody smudges from his knuckles as the guards immediately tackled him to the floor, pinning him down and dragging him back through the steel doors.
I stood up, adjusted my jacket, and walked out into the bright afternoon sun.
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