Chapter 7 - The Visit
On Tuesday afternoon, two days before Preston’s preliminary hearing, Vance drove me down to the Cook County Detention Center.
I didn't go as Elena Hayes, the timid waitress who took late shifts.
I wore a tailored black wool coat with an oversized fur collar, dark sunglasses, high-heeled boots, and my six-carat diamond ring resting prominently on my left hand. My new pixie cut was styled sharply, framing my face with aristocratic elegance.
Two uniformed corrections officers met us at the private entrance, bowing their heads respectfully as Vance showed them our security clearance.
“Mrs. Vale,” the chief warden said, personally escorting us down the quiet concrete corridor toward the attorney visitation rooms. “We have set up Room 4 for you. It’s fully secure. No recording devices.”
“Thank you, Warden,” I said calmly.
The heavy steel door was unlocked, and I stepped inside.
The visitation room was small, cold, smelling faintly of floor wax and old bleach. Sitting on the far side of a thick acrylic divider was Preston Hale.
He looked completely unrecognizable from the arrogant young man who had raised a champagne glass at Table Four four nights ago.
He wore an oversized yellow inmate jumpsuit. His skin was pale, broke out in nervous red blotches, and dark purple bags hung beneath his bloodshot eyes. His hands were shaking so hard he could barely hold his plastic cup of water.
When the door clicked shut, Preston looked up.
His eyes widened in sheer, horrified disbelief as he recognized me.
“You...” he gasped, his voice raspy and broken. “Elena?”
I sat down gracefully in the metal chair on my side of the glass, crossing my long legs, resting my hands on the edge of the counter.
“Good afternoon, Preston,” I said smoothly through the intercom grill.
Preston scrambled toward the glass, pressing his palms against the acrylic, tears immediately welling in his eyes.
“Elena! Please!” he sobbed, his voice cracking violently. “Please tell your husband to stop! Please! My dad... my dad lost everything today! They seized our house in Lincoln Park! They took my car! I’ve been sitting in a cell with four men who know who I am! They... they beat me up yesterday, Elena!”
He pulled back his sleeve to reveal a deep blue bruise on his forearm.
I looked at the bruise, then met his terrified eyes with absolute, icy indifference.
“My scalp burned for two days, Preston,” I said softly.
Preston shuddered, dropping his head against the glass. “I’m sorry! I swear to God I’m sorry! I was drunk! I was trying to impress my friends! I didn't know who you were!”
“That is the third time you’ve said that,” I replied, leaning closer to the glass. “You keep saying you didn't know who I was. As if treating me like a human being was only required if my husband owned the city.”
Preston blinked, wiping his runny nose with the back of his hand, unable to answer.
“If I had been just Elena Hayes, a girl from the Southwest Side with no powerful husband,” I continued, my tone as sharp as a razor, “you would be sitting in your father’s penthouse right now, laughing at the video on your phone. You would have destroyed a working girl’s spirit and forgotten her name by Monday.”
“I was wrong,” Preston wept, his body shaking with pathetic, violent sobs. “I was so wrong, Elena. Please... talk to Mr. Vale. Ask him to drop the federal charges. I’ll do anything. I’ll leave Chicago. I’ll never come back.”
I stood up slowly, adjusting my black wool coat.
I looked down at him through the glass—a broken, pathetic boy who had spent his whole life mistaking his father’s bank account for personal strength.
“My husband doesn't drop charges, Preston,” I said softly. “And neither do I.”
I turned on my heel and walked toward the steel door.
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“Elena! Please!” Preston shrieked behind me, pounding his fists against the glass until the guards grabbed his arms to pin him down. “Elena! Don't leave me here! Elena!”
I didn't look back as the heavy steel door slammed shut behind me, burying his screams in the gray concrete walls forever.
