Chapter 6 - The Freezing of Assets
By noon, the reality of absolute financial ruin crashed through Grant Mercer’s life with devastating speed.
After signing the initial surrender documents under the stony watch of Arthur Sterling, Grant and Lila were escorted down the private executive elevator by building security. When the elevator reached the lobby, Grant attempted to slip out through the underground VIP garage, but the security guards directed them toward the main revolving doors.
A cluster of freelance photographers and corporate beat reporters was already gathered on the sidewalk. Word had leaked that Mercer Alder was undergoing an emergency restructuring.
Grant pulled his jacket over his collar, trying to push through the flashing cameras. He reached into his pocket, pulled out his key fob for his hundred-and-forty-thousand-dollar imported sports car parked in the reserved executive bay, and clicked the unlock button.
Nothing happened.
A flatbed tow truck was already backed up to the vehicle, its hydraulic lift hooking onto the rear axle. A city marshal stood beside the driver, holding a clipboard.
“Hey! What the hell are you doing to my car?” Grant yelled, rushing toward the officer.
“Grant Mercer?” the marshal asked, glancing up.
“Yes! That’s my vehicle!”
“Not anymore, sir. The vehicle is registered to Vance Fleet Leasing. We have a repossession order authorized by the Cook County Circuit Court. Step back from the vehicle, please.”
Lila stood on the curb, her face pale as a sheet. She flagged down a yellow taxi, her voice shrill. “Grant, pay the cab driver! We need to get back to the penthouse and figure this out!”
Grant reached into his designer leather wallet and pulled out his primary black credit card. He handed it through the taxi window. Five seconds later, the driver handed it back with a scowl.
“Declined, pal.”
Grant pulled out his backup corporate platinum card. “Try this one.”
“Declined. Look, buddy, do you have cash or not?”
Grant fumbled through his wallet. Aside from two crumpled twenty-dollar bills and a dry-cleaning ticket, he had nothing. For years, he had lived entirely on credit lines and corporate accounts subsidized by Evelyn’s financial machine. He hadn't carried cash since his twenties. He tossed the two twenties to the driver, grabbed Lila’s arm, and pulled her into the back of the cab.
“Drive to the Gold Coast,” Grant ordered hoarsely. “The Carlyle Penthouse.”
The drive through the gray streets of Chicago was spent in suffocating silence. Lila stared out the window, refusing to look at Grant, her phone constantly buzzing with messages from contacts who were already erasing her from their professional lives.
When the cab pulled up in front of the luxurious residential high-rise overlooking the lake, Grant felt a faint flicker of relief. The penthouse was his home. His clothes were there, his watches were there, his safe containing fifty thousand dollars in bearer bonds was in the master bedroom closet. Evelyn couldn't lock him out of his own residence without an eviction notice.
He pushed through the brass doors of the lobby. The head doorman, an imposing man named Thomas who had tipped his hat to Grant for four years, stood formally in front of the elevators.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Mercer,” Thomas said, his tone devoid of its usual warmth.
“Thomas, hold the private lift,” Grant said, marching forward. “We have an emergency upstairs.”
Thomas did not move. He stepped directly into Grant’s path.
“I'm afraid I cannot permit you upstairs, Mr. Mercer.”
Grant stopped, his face turning crimson. “What did you say to me? I live in the penthouse! Step aside before I have you fired!”
“You do not live here, sir,” Thomas said evenly, pulling a sealed document from his coat. “Mrs. Evelyn Vance Mercer is the sole deed holder on the penthouse unit. At eight-thirty this morning, a civil protection order was served on building management, prohibiting you from entering the premises or approaching within five hundred feet of Mrs. Mercer. Your personal effects have been cataloged and placed in storage off-site. The storage key has been delivered to your attorney.”
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Grant felt the floor drop out from under him. “My watches... my passport... my clothes!”
“Everything not purchased with trust funds was packed by bonded movers,” Thomas said. He gestured toward two heavy black contractor trash bags sitting near the service entrance. “Those were left specifically for you.”
