A convoy of LAPD and federal law enforcement vehicles roared up the private drive, screeching to a halt. Officers poured out of the cruisers. Leading them was a tall, imposing man in a police uniform.
Julian, sitting on the concrete with bleeding knees, looked up and saw a familiar face. Relief washed over his terrified features.
“Chief Miller!” Julian cried out, scrambling toward the officer. “John! Thank God you’re here! These people broke into my house! Arrest them! We play poker together, John, you know me!”
Chief Miller stopped. He looked down at Julian with an expression of profound, chilling disgust. He didn’t reach out to help his former poker buddy. Instead, he unclipped a pair of heavy steel handcuffs from his belt.
“Mr. Sterling sends his regards, Julian,” Chief Miller said coldly, grabbing Julian’s arm and twisting it behind his back. “You picked the wrong family to steal from. You’re under arrest for massive corporate fraud, embezzlement, and assault. You have the right to remain silent, and I highly suggest you start using it.”
The cold click of the handcuffs echoing in the driveway was the sweetest sound I had ever heard.
Three weeks later.
The cold, aggressive, fluorescent lights of a federal holding cell buzzed endlessly, casting a sickly, pale yellow glow over the damp concrete walls of the metropolitan detention center. The air was thick with the suffocating stench of ammonia, stale sweat, and absolute despair.
Julian Croft sat on a cold metal bench, wearing an oversized, coarse, bright orange jumpsuit that chafed against his skin. His face, once meticulously groomed for magazine covers, was gaunt and covered in a ragged, unkempt beard. Dark, bruised bags hung heavily beneath his bloodshot eyes. His hands trembled violently as he gripped the greasy, cracked receiver of the communal payphone, pressing it hard against his ear.
read more in next page
