Chapter 12 - The InterrogationThe visitor’s room at the maximum-security prison was stark, smelling of bleach and stale sweat.
My father sat at the metal table, his posture rigid. When the heavy steel door opened, two guards dragged Ethan into the room.
The photograph hadn't done the damage justice. Ethan was broken. He walked with a severe limp, his arm in a crude sling, his arrogant demeanor completely shattered by a year in the general population of a state penitentiary. When he looked up and saw my father, he actually flinched, shrinking back against the guards.
"Sit him down," my father instructed.
The guards shoved Ethan into the steel chair and left the room.
Ethan trembled, refusing to meet my father's eyes. "Did... did you get it?" he rasped, his voice whistling through broken teeth.
"The photo? Yes," my father said, sliding a copy of the ransom note across the table. "They threatened my daughter. They threatened my grandson."
"It wasn't me!" Ethan sobbed, genuine tears spilling down his bruised face. "I swear to God, Colonel! I didn't tell them about the trust! They found out from the trial transcripts. It was all over the news! They’ve been having inmates beat me every day. They said if you don't pay, they'll kill me."
"I don't give a damn if they kill you, Ethan," my father said, leaning forward, his voice a lethal whisper. "In fact, it would save the taxpayers a lot of money. But they made a fatal mistake. They threatened my family."
My father reached across the table, grabbing Ethan by the collar of his orange jumpsuit, ignoring his gasp of pain.
"Give me a name, Ethan. Who holds your debt?"
"I can't," Ethan choked. "If I talk, they'll murder me tonight!"
"If you don't talk," my father replied, his eyes burning with absolute ruthlessness, "I will make a phone call to the warden. I will have you transferred to the cell block run by the Aryan Brotherhood, and I will personally let them know that you're an informant. You will not survive the weekend."
Ethan stared at the man who had taken everything from him, realizing he had zero leverage. He broke.
"Kozlov," Ethan wept. "Viktor Kozlov. He runs a high-stakes illegal sports betting ring out of Baltimore. He uses a front company—a shipping warehouse by the docks. Please, that's all I know!"
My father released him, letting Ethan slump back into the chair.
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"Enjoy the rest of your sentence, Ethan. I hope it feels like an eternity."
My father stood up, straightened his jacket, and walked out without looking back, leaving Ethan Vance to his personal hell.
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