Blackbird (A Stepbrother Romance #1)(51)
“Victor Amsel,” he said, “You have the right to remain silent.”
He ran through all the rights. You know how it goes.
I chose to exercise my right to remain silent, but not before I snarled, “Fuck you, *.”
That seemed to amuse him. He sat back.
“You’re a big fish,” he said, staring me down. “Make my career.”
I said nothing. I knew at least that much. I wasn’t going to talk my way out of this, and the more I talked the more I’d mouth off and give them something to use against me. I’d find out what I was charged with later. Mom would be calling the lawyers now. We had people on retainer. I’d be out by morning.
I kept telling myself, I’d be out by morning.
As they booked me, I’d be out by morning.
As they fingerprinted me, I’d be out by morning.
As they took mug shots, I’d be out by morning.
As they took my clothes and made me put on an orange jumpsuit, I’d be out by morning.
As they locked me in a solitary holding cell on the four floor of the grim block of a jail house, I’d be out by morning.
By early afternoon the next day, I stopped lying to myself. I waited for the visit, for Eve and Mom to show up and tell me it was going to be alright, this was all a huge mistake, this would be taken care of and I’d take my graduation walk and get my birthright and marry the girl of my dreams. This was all just a temporary pit stop on the road to happily ever after.
Neither Mom, nor Eve, came to see me.
A federal prosecutor did.
They took me to an interrogation room. Later I learned they called it the fish tank. It was a square, ugly room of unadorned concrete with a steel table. In the middle was a ring, bolted to the metal. They put a pair of those long shackles on my wrists with the chain running through the loop on the table, so I couldn’t get away.
I named him Junior G-Man in my head.
“Ronald Powers,” he introduced himself.
“Go f*ck yourself,” I replied, cheerily.
“That’s not a very good way to start our conversation.”
“You’re not here to help me. I’m not going to get out of this by talking to you. I have nothing to say.”
He sat down and made a cutting motion across his neck with his hand. I flinched, until I realized he was signaling someone on the other side of the bulletproof glass.
It meant stop recording.
That made me a little nervous.
“Off the record. Not so brave now, are you, you little prick?”
“What do you want?”
“When the mikes come back on, which has to be fast because we’re going to say it’s a technical error, we’re going to negotiate a plea deal.”
“I’m not talking to you without my lawyer.”
“Shut up and listen. You take the conviction. Plead out. We’ll give you a light sentence. Two years.”
Two years of my life for something I didn’t even do? I was about tell him what I thought about that, and him, and his ugly necktie, when he raised his hand.
“I know it’s a shitty deal. Here’s the other condition.”
He dropped a folder on the table. My chains rattled as I pulled it to me and spread it open.
Pictures of me and Brittany. At the pizza parlor. Surveillance stills of me walking into the vault after she did.
So what? Were they threatening her, or…
Oh.
Oh God.
“We show the girl the pictures. Proof you’ve been f*cking another woman.”
“I didn’t,” I snap. “I never, this is a lie-“
“That’s not you?”
“It is. I was working with her to gather evidence on…” I trailed off.
“Working with her missionary, or bent over the desk?”
“Asshole,” I snarled. “Fuck you. I’m not taking any deal. You don’t have shit on me, I didn’t do anything illegal. So go f*ck yourself.”
He made a gesture. The tapes were rolling again. I couldn’t tell, exactly, I could just feel it.
Christ.
“So,” he said, “Let’s talk deal.”
“Lawyer,” I said.
Four hours of pleading, yelling, threatening, arguing, reasoning, and then finally stony silence, and I never said another word.
I was one hundred percent certain that Eve would take my side, that she would never, ever believe a filthy lie about me cheating on her.
I didn’t figure on one thing.
I didn’t figure on Brittany backing up their bullshit.
Chapter Seventeen
Victor
It was a long six weeks in that solitary cell. Technically, it was a luxury, to protect the rich boy from general population. I was in jail, not yet in prison, where they house petty criminals serving short sentences along with people who’ve been arrested and charged but not yet tried, or are undergoing trial. Still, there were plenty of people there that would get off on teaching the rich boy a lesson. They let me out to eat lunch, at least, and I got an hour of exercise a day.
I spent that pacing in circles in a caged-in pen, by myself, watched by a guard who looked about as interested in me as I was in the cracks on the floor, which depending on the day could be not at all or very intensely. I had my lawyer in the first twenty-four hours. He was a friend of my Dad’s, a good guy named Morty Grieg. He brought with him a partner, a woman named Claire Barnes. Together, they promised me they would take care of all of this.