Chapter 9 - The Fall of the House of Whitmore
By Wednesday afternoon, the steps of the Daniel Patrick Moynihan United States Courthouse on Pearl Street were swarmed by hundreds of reporters, television camera crews, and curious onlookers.
The fall of Richard Whitmore was the biggest financial scandal New York had seen in a decade.
A black town car pulled up to the curb. Two federal marshals stepped out first, followed by Richard Whitmore.
He was in handcuffs.
His wrists were crossed in front of him, covered by an overcoat he had tried to drape over the chains, but the wind caught the fabric, exposing the steel bracelets to fifty clicking cameras. His face was gaunt, his hair unbrushed, his eyes darting wildly like those of a trapped animal. The Southern District had indicted him on twenty-four counts of wire fraud, securities manipulation, money laundering, and obstruction of justice.
Reporters surged forward against the metal barricades, shouting over one another.
“Mr. Whitmore! Did you frame Evelyn Cross?”
“Richard! Is Whitmore Continental liquidating?”
“Did you use client funds for your daughter’s wedding?”
Richard didn’t answer. He lowered his head, pressing forward between the marshals, but as he reached the top step of the courthouse, he froze.
Standing at the top of the marble steps, flanked by the massive stone pillars of the justice building, were Evelyn Cross and Dominic Vale.
Evelyn was dressed in an impeccable white wool coat with a high collar. She stood beside Dominic, not as a victim, not as an employee, but as an absolute sovereign. Her face was completely calm, her dark eyes watching Richard’s ascent with the cold detachment of a judge observing a condemned man.
Beside her, Dominic had his hands in the pockets of his dark overcoat, his presence an impenetrable wall of power.
As Richard was led past them, he stopped. The marshals tugged at his arms, but he resisted, his breath coming in hoarse, ragged gasps.
He looked at Evelyn.
“You destroyed me,” Richard whispered, his voice trembling with a toxic mixture of hatred and despair. “You took my name. You took my company. You took my family.”
Evelyn took one measured step forward. She looked down at the man who had stolen two years of her youth, who had sent her to rot in a cage while he drank sixty-dollar cocktails at the Metropolitan Club.
“I didn’t take anything, Richard,” Evelyn said, her voice clear, carrying over the roar of the press pack below. “I just balanced the ledger.”
Richard’s mouth opened, but no words came out. The marshals shoved him forward, the heavy brass doors of the federal courthouse swinging open to swallow him whole.
Down below, the cameras pivoted. The lenses zoomed in on Evelyn Cross standing at the summit of the courthouse steps, with Dominic Vale at her side.
A reporter shouted from the front row: “Miss Cross! Are the rumors true? Has Vale Capital completed the acquisition of Whitmore Continental?”
Evelyn looked down at the sea of microphones, then glanced at Dominic.
Dominic didn’t speak; he simply gave her a slight, barely perceptible nod. The floor was hers. The city was hers.
“Whitmore Continental no longer exists,” Evelyn announced, her voice ringing out like a brass bell across Pearl Street. “As of nine o'clock this morning, the firm has been restructured as Cross-Vale Capital. We have already refunded eighty-two million dollars to the pension funds Mr. Whitmore defrauded. And starting tomorrow, we go back to work.”
The reporters erupted into a frenzy of questions, but Evelyn didn’t stay to answer them.
She turned, her white coat billowing slightly in the winter breeze, and walked down the side colonnade.
May you like
Dominic fell into step beside her, his hand moving to the small of her back, possessive, protective, and completely unashamed.
***
