Chapter 14 - THE SEVERANCE AGREEMENT
Seventy-two hours later, we gathered in a windowless conference room in the basement of the Cook County Jail.
Eleanor sat across the stainless-steel table wearing an orange jumpsuit that hung off her frame like a sack. Her hair was greasy, her face pale under the harsh fluorescent lighting. Arthur Finch sat beside me, his briefcase open, a thick stack of legal documents resting between us.
"This is the global settlement," Arthur began, his voice echoing slightly off the cinderblock walls. "Alex is prepared to post your bail through a secured bond company, and he is prepared to pay off the balance of the criminal lien to the Gary lenders to prevent further violence against the family."
Eleanor’s eyes flared with sudden triumph. She leaned forward, a smirk threatening to return to her cracked lips. "I knew it," she whispered. "I knew you wouldn't let me rot in here. Blood is thicker than—"
"Quiet," Arthur interrupted, his tone freezing the air in the room. "You didn't let me finish, Mrs. Vance."
He slid the top document across the table toward her.
"In exchange for paying the note and posting your bond, you will sign over the full deed to Elm Street to the Vance Family Trust, managed exclusively by Alex. You will surrender all rights of probate to your late husband's secondary accounts. And you will execute a voluntary decree of lifetime no-contact, enforceable by immediate revocation of your bond and three years of suspended incarceration."
Eleanor stared at the paper as if it were a coiled rattlesnake. "You're... you're taking my house? You're banning me from speaking to you?"
"You will be relocated to an assisted-living facility sixty miles outside the county," I told her, speaking directly to her for the first time since Elm Street. "Your monthly basic expenses will be covered by the trust. You will have food, medical care, and a roof. But you will never own property again. You will never have a credit card again. You will never set foot in Cook County again."
"And if I refuse?" she spat, her hands trembling with rage.
"Then the state proceeds with trial on Tuesday," Arthur replied neutrally. "The minimum sentence for Class 1 identity theft and fraudulent conveyance involving elder status and over a hundred thousand dollars is eight to fifteen years at Logan Correctional Center. You will die in prison, Eleanor."
She looked at Arthur. She looked at me. She searched my face for the boy who used to apologize for getting good grades, the boy who used to hand over his paper-route money so she wouldn't scream at his father.
May you like
She found nothing. Just a stone wall with eyes.
With shaking fingers, Eleanor picked up the cheap plastic pen provided by the jail guard. She signed her name on the dotted line.
