Chapter 9: The Interrogation Room
Chapter 9: The Interrogation Room
Miles away, isolated in a bleak, windowless, concrete interrogation room at Rikers Island, Julian sat across from a seasoned, world-weary NYPD detective named Miller. Despite the ill-fitting, scratchy orange jumpsuit and the noticeable lack of his signature hair gel, Julian stubbornly maintained an air of smug superiority. He refused to touch the lukewarm, awful coffee in the styrofoam cup on the metal table.
"My lawyers will have me out by Friday. You're wasting your time, Detective, and frankly, you're ruining your career by keeping me here," Julian sneered, leaning back in his metal chair and crossing his arms arrogantly. "I hope you enjoy directing traffic in Staten Island."
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"I wouldn't bet on it, kid," Detective Miller replied dryly, his face completely devoid of expression as he tossed a thick, heavy manila file onto the metal table with a loud, echoing thwack. "I just got off the phone with your old man's legal team. Your father just froze all your personal assets, your trust funds, and your credit lines. Seems the board of directors thinks your little viral debut is a liability for the shareholders, and Arthur is desperately trying to save the company's sinking stock. They aren't paying your exorbitant bail, and they certainly aren't paying for your lawyers."
The smug, confident smile slowly melted off Julian’s bruised face, replaced by a slack-jawed horror. For the first time since the night of the gala, the grand illusion of his absolute power broke. A flicker of genuine, unadulterated terror crossed his eyes. "You're lying," he whispered, his voice cracking slightly. "He would never do that."
