CHAPTER 5: THE SPECIAL PROSECUTOR
The massive glass doors at the rear of the Temple of Dendur swung open with a heavy, echoing crash.
A dozen federal agents clad in dark navy windbreakers with high-visibility gold lettering reading FBI – PUBLIC CORRUPTION UNIT marched into the hall in double-column formation, flanked by six armed United States Marshals.
The crowd erupted into chaos. High-society women shrieked, corporate billionaires scrambled out of the way, knocking over crystal champagne flutes and silver dining chairs as the tactical team moved down the center aisle toward the stage.
“This is insane!” Marcus roars, completely losing his mind as thirty news cameras zoomed in on his sweating, pale, terrified face. He lunged wildly toward the podium, trying to grab the microphone from Victoria’s hand. “She’s lying! She’s mentally unstable! She’s a criminal! Arrest her! I am Marcus Vance! I am the next District Attorney of New York!”
Victoria stepped back smoothly, dodging his frantic reach with effortless grace.
“You’re not the next District Attorney, Marcus,” Victoria said, her voice cutting through his hysteria like a diamond blade as two heavy-set FBI agents tackled Marcus against the mahogany podium, pulling his arms violently behind his back. “You’re just Docket Number 440-B in the Federal District Court of the Southern District of Manhattan.”
The lead FBI Agent—Special Agent-in-Charge Robert Vance (no relation)—pulled a pair of heavy, black-steel Peerless handcuffs from his belt.
CLICK. CLICK.
The sharp, metallic sound of the ratchets locking over Marcus’s wrists echoed through the high-grade sound system, broadcast live to eleven million viewers across the state of New York.
The crowd went completely wild. Flashbulbs exploded like a volley of fireworks. Reporters were standing on top of their tables, shouting questions at the top of their lungs over the screaming sirens already echoing outside Fifth Avenue.
As the agents hauled Marcus off the podium, his tuxedo jacket torn, his hair disheveled, his face slick with cold sweat, he turned his head back toward Victoria, his eyes wide with a horrific mixture of terror, betrayal, and total disbelief.
“Victoria!” he screamed, his voice cracking with desperation as he was dragged past Table 1. “Victoria! You can’t do this to me! We built this life together! Who is going to defend you when they tear our firm apart?! Who is going to save you?!”
Victoria walked slowly to the edge of the stage.
She stood at the very brink of the platform, looking down at her handcuffed, broken husband as federal agents forced his head down to guide him through the sea of screaming reporters and flashing cameras.
She adjusted the structured lapel of her Alexander McQueen gown, her expression one of absolute, terrifying calm.
She gave him a slow, devastatingly cold smile—the smile of a predator that had watched its prey walk directly into a trap of its own making.
“I don’t need anyone to defend me, Marcus,” Victoria said softly into the microphone, her words carrying with crystal clarity into every corner of the vast, ancient room. “Because as of five minutes ago, the Governor just signed an executive order appointing me as Special Prosecutor for your case.”
She stepped off the stage, walking slowly down the stairs until she was standing inches from his ear, while the agents held him frozen in place.
She leaned in close, her breath warm against his icy skin, and whispered her final words into his ear before they dragged him out into the rain and the flashing red and blue lights waiting outside on Fifth Avenue:
“The defense rests, Marcus. Let’s see how you do on cross-examination.”
Orther Post
