Chapter 6 - The Handcuffs Click
Marcus buried his face in his hands, his shoulders shaking with ragged, pathetic sobs.
Isla scrambled off the daybed, her silk kaftan catching on the wooden armrest, tearing with a loud rip. She dropped to her knees beside Marcus, desperately trying to grab my hands.
"Mother Eleanor! Please!" Isla pleaded, her voice thick with manufactured grief and desperate flattery. "It was a joke! A silly, stupid joke! Marcus and I were just stressed from the airport! You know how much we love you! We brought you on this vacation because we wanted you to enjoy the luxury you deserve!"
"You brought me here to babysit Toby so you could drink champagne on stolen money, Isla," I said, looking down at her with unvarnished disgust. "And my name is Mrs. Whitman. You forfeited the right to call me Mother the moment you pointed your finger in my face."
Detective Miller stepped forward, pulling a pair of chrome handcuffs from his duty belt with a sharp, metallic ratchet.
"Marcus Whitman," Detective Miller announced, his voice booming over the sound of the ocean waves. "Under an active warrant issued by the Eighteenth Judicial Circuit, you are under arrest for first-degree grand theft, corporate identity theft, and fraudulent use of charitable non-profit assets."
Marcus screamed as the cold steel snapped tightly around his right wrist.
"No! Mom! Tell him to stop!" Marcus begged, fighting against the deputy’s grip. "I'm your son! Your only child! You can't let them take me to jail!"
"You stole three hundred and forty thousand dollars from a scholarship fund meant for poor girls, Marcus," I said, my voice steady, clear, and razor-sharp. "You spent four years stealing from children so your wife could wear Gucci to brunch. A mother teaches her son how to walk; the law will teach you how to be a man."
The second deputy moved behind Isla, unhooking another set of cuffs.
Isla shrieked, scrambling backward on her hands and knees across the sand. "Wait! Why are you touching me? I didn't sign the cards! I didn't know where the money came from!"
"Mrs. Isla Whitman," Detective Miller stated calmly, "the state attorney's financial crimes division has documented thirty-two separate wire transfers authorized from the foundation account into your personal luxury retail accounts in Chicago. You are being booked as a primary co-conspirator and recipient of stolen corporate assets."
"Marcus, do something!" Isla screamed, kicking her legs as the female deputy expertly pinned her arms behind her back. "You ruined my life! You swore your family was old money! You swore you were the sole heir to everything!"
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"He isn't the heir to anything, Isla," I declared, looking down at both of them. "As of two o'clock this afternoon, the family trust was permanently amended. Marcus has been removed as a beneficiary. Every asset I own has been deeded into an educational trust for Toby."
The deputies hauled Marcus and Isla up from the sand, their expensive clothes stained with dirt, their hair wild and ruined by tears, parading them past two hundred cheering, filming resort guests down the long wooden boardwalk toward the waiting squad cars at the front entrance.
