Chapter 2 - The Audit of a Parasite
Arthur Vance didn’t look at Nelson the way a lawyer looks at an adversary; he looked at him the way an exterminator looks at a particularly uninspired species of subterranean beetle—one that had already overstayed its welcome in the foundation.
“What is this?” Nelson demanded, backing up another foot until the back of his knees hit the edge of the stroller, causing the twin babies to start whimpering in earnest. “Who the hell are you? This is a private family matter! You’re trespassing!”
“Mr. Vance is my personal counsel, Nelson,” I said, walking over to the console table to retrieve my tea. I took a slow, deliberate sip before setting it back down. “And as for trespassing, well, that brings us to the first document in his hand.”
Arthur adjusted his wire-rimmed glasses, his eyes scanning the first page of the top packet with clinical detachment. “Mr. Nelson Whitaker. Born May 14, 1993—pardon me, 1989. Currently employed as the Vice President of Regional Sales at Apex Logistics. Or, rather, formerly employed as of twelve minutes ago.”
Nelson blinked, his face turning an even paler shade of grey. “What? Apex is my life! I brought in the Henderson account! I signed the—my boss is my friend, Frank—Frank would never—”
“Frank,” Arthur interrupted, his voice dropping into a rhythmic, bored cadence, “is currently sitting in a conference room on the forty-second floor of the Apex Tower in downtown Manhattan, listening to my associates explain that his primary operating subsidiary was purchased by a holding company wholly owned by Mrs. Whitaker at 9:00 AM this morning. Furthermore, Frank was just informed that his internal audit has revealed a series of rather creative expense-account discrepancies involving three different luxury hotels in Miami, a corporate lease in the West Village under the name ‘Eda Sterling,’ and roughly four hundred thousand dollars in unaccounted-for consulting fees funneled through a shell company registered in Delaware.”
Eda stopped her retreat toward the driveway. Her head whipped back around, her eyes locked onto Nelson with a horrifying realization. “Miami? West Village? Nelson… you told me those apartments belonged to your uncle’s corporate portfolio.”
“Eda, honey, don’t listen to them, they’re fabricating—it’s corporate espionage—they’re trying to ruin me—” Nelson lunged forward again, but Arthur merely raised a single finger, and from the driveway behind Eda, two large, silent men in dark grey suits stepped out from behind a parked black Lincoln Navigator. They didn’t block Eda; they simply blocked Nelson’s line of retreat to the street.
“The locks on your office at Apex were changed at 1:15 PM,” Arthur continued, turning the page without looking up. “Your corporate Amex has been frozen. Your company car—the leased BMW X5 currently sitting in our driveway—is registered under HearthBridge Fleet Management. You have twenty minutes to remove your personal effects from the glove compartment before it is towed to a municipal impound lot in Queens.”
“You can’t do this!” Nelson screamed, finally losing whatever thin veneer of corporate polish he had spent twenty years cultivating. He lunged toward Arthur, his hands clawing at the air like a drowning man grabbing for driftwood. “I’m her husband! We have community property laws! We have twenty-seven years of marriage! I’m entitled to fifty percent of everything she built!”
I stepped into his path.
I didn’t flinch. I didn’t blink. I looked up into the eyes of the man who had taught me to shrink myself every time I walked into a room, the man who had told me my dreams were cute little hobbies while he spent his evenings networking with men who treated their wives like decorative house plants.
“Fifty percent, Nelson?” I asked, my voice terrifyingly calm. “Let’s talk about fifty percent.”
I turned to Arthur. “Do we have the forensic accounting report from the last five years?”
“Right here, Angela,” Arthur said, pulling a thicker, bound ledger from the briefcase. He flipped it open to a tabbed section. “According to our findings, Mr. Whitaker’s total lifetime earnings from his various corporate positions over the last twenty-seven years amount to roughly three point four million dollars before taxes. Of that sum, approximately two point nine million was spent on personal legal fees related to three separate DUIs he asked us to quietly bury, private club memberships in Palm Beach under various pseudonyms, and settlements for two previous workplace harassment claims that Mrs. Whitaker personally funded out of her own discretionary capital to keep him out of federal prison.”
Nelson stopped moving. His arms dropped to his sides, limp and heavy, like wet rope.
“And,” Arthur added, his voice ringing with absolute finality, “as of our filing this morning in the Superior Court of New York, we have formally submitted a motion for a fault-based divorce citing serial infidelity, financial dissipation of marital assets for illicit purposes, and fraudulent conveyance of property. Under the pre-nuptial agreement you signed in 1999—do you remember signing that, Nelson? At your mother’s kitchen table, when you insisted that you needed to protect your future inheritance from my ‘unproven earning potential’?”
Nelson’s lips parted. He stared at Arthur as if the lawyer were speaking ancient Greek.
“The pre-nup,” Arthur recited, “stipulates that in the event of a dissolution caused by infidelity or financial malfeasance on the part of either party, the offending party walks away with exactly zero dollars, zero cents, and liability for all legal fees incurred during the discovery process. In short, Nelson: you are legally, financially, and professionally bankrupt.”
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Eda let out a sound that was half-shriek, half-sob. She looked at the stroller, then at Nelson, then down at the glittering bracelet on her wrist—a piece of jewelry she suddenly seemed to realize she would likely have to hand over to a bailiff within the hour.
Without another word, she turned on her heel, hoisted her designer handbag over her shoulder, and began power-walking down the suburban cul-de-sac toward the main avenue, her heels snapping against the pavement like tiny, furious gunshots.
