Chapter 8 - The Price of Vanity
The holding cell at the King County Regional Justice Center was cold, utilitarian, and smelled of industrial pine cleaner and despair.
Jocelyn sat behind the thick acrylic partition, holding the heavy plastic phone receiver with a hand that would not stop shaking. On the other side of the glass, Grant sat in a bright orange correctional jumpsuit, his designer stubble replaced by hollow, grey stubble, his expensive watch and Italian leather shoes long since confiscated into property locker 412.
"How could you do this?" Jocelyn wept, pressing her forehead against the glass. "How could you do this to me? To the kids? They arrested you at the gate, Grant! With a ticket to San José! You were going to leave us!"
Grant didn't look at her. He stared down at his cuffed wrists resting on the stainless-steel ledge. When he spoke through the perforated receiver, his voice was hollow, stripped of all the charming bravado he had used to glide through Bellevue country club dinners.
"There was no money left, Jocelyn," he whispered. "There hasn't been money for three years. Miller Crest went belly-up during the concrete strike. I owed two million to Croft, three hundred thousand to the private equity lenders in Portland, and fifty thousand on the club tabs. I thought if I used Bellhaven’s name, Croft wouldn't look too closely. I thought Vivian would just pay it off to protect the family name."
"Vivian didn't pay it!" Jocelyn sobbed. "Vivian destroyed us in court! The judge dismissed Croft’s lien! The sheriff is coming to clear Mom's house in twenty-eight days! And Marcus Hale told me this morning that if I don't sign over the deed to our Mercer Island townhome and liquidate my jewelry to repay the hundred and eight thousand dollars I took from Bellhaven's accounts, they're filing grand larceny charges against me on Monday!"
Grant let out a bitter, raspy chuckle that made Jocelyn flinch. "Then you’d better sign the papers, Joce. Because let me tell you something about jail—it doesn't care about your blowout or your leather handbags. Vivian played us. She gave us enough rope to hang ourselves, and we took every single inch."
"She’s my sister!" Jocelyn screamed, banging the receiver against the shelf. "She was supposed to protect us! Dad told her to protect us!"
Grant finally looked up. His eyes were dead, vacant pools of exhausted self-pity. "Dad didn't tell her to be our slave, Jocelyn. We treated her like dirt. You made fun of her clothes, you made fun of her quiet life, you let our kids laugh at Lily when she gave Beatrice that book. And you thought Vivian would just keep writing checks forever? We’re done, Jocelyn. My lawyer says I’m looking at eight to ten years for federal wire fraud. Find a job. Sell the Range Rover. Because nobody is coming to save us."
Grant stood up, signaling to the guard by the steel door. Without looking back at his wife, he shuffled through the reinforced doorway, the heavy lock clanking shut behind him with the finality of a tomb.
Jocelyn sat alone in the booth for ten minutes, listening to the dial tone buzzing in her ear like an insect, until a female deputy tapped on the glass with a heavy ring of keys.
"Visiting time is over, ma’am. You have to leave."
When Jocelyn emerged into the blinding grey afternoon outside the justice center, her phone began to ring. It was Beatrice.
"Jocelyn?" Beatrice’s voice was hysterical, shrill, and breathless. "Where are you? The movers took the master bedroom set! There’s nothing left on the second floor except two folding chairs and a mattress! The water company just called—the utility account is registered under Vance Advisory and they’re shutting off the lake-irrigation system tomorrow! You have to come get me! We need to go to Vivian’s house and make her listen to us!"
"Mom," Jocelyn said, her voice dropping into a flat, numb monotone. "Shut up."
"What did you say to me?"
"Shut up," Jocelyn repeated, walking slowly toward the bus stop because she didn't have enough money left on her debit card to pay for parking at the garage. "Grant is in federal custody. Vivian isn't going to give us a single dime. And if I don't find eighty thousand dollars by Friday, I’m going to prison right behind him. We have no house. We have no credit. We have nothing."
"That can't be true!" Beatrice wailed. "I'm Beatrice Vance! I’ve lived in Evergreen Point for thirty-five years! What will Eleanor say? What will the garden club think?"
"Nobody cares about your garden club, Mom," Jocelyn said, tears finally freezing against her cheeks in the bitter Seattle wind. "Nobody cares about us at all."
May you like
Jocelyn hung up the phone, sat down on the cold metal bench of the municipal bus shelter, and pulled her coat tightly around her shoulders, watching the city traffic rush past her into the grey, unforgiving dusk.
***
