Chapter 9 - The Scramble in the Dirt
Within thirty minutes, the scene outside the main entrance of Bellamy Freightways had turned into a public spectacle.
Two local television news vans were parked along River Road, filming the chaotic scene with telephoto lenses.
Quinton’s five-thousand-dollar Brioni suit was covered in dust as he frantically hauled two cardboard banker boxes containing his personal papers out to the gravel parking lot.
Valentina was screaming at him from the curb, her designer jumpsuit smeared with mud from the damp flowerbeds.
"You told me you owned this port, Quinton!" Valentina screamed, her voice carrying across the entire terminal. "You told me you had eighty million dollars in personal equity!"
"I do have equity!" Quinton yelled back, his hair disheveled, sweat pouring down his pale face. "The trucks belong to me! The client contracts belong to me!"
"The trucks are parked on private property under an active judicial attachment lien, Mr. Bellamy!" Evelyn Shaw called out from the third-floor balcony above. "Any attempt to move a single commercial rig off this lot will result in immediate felony grand theft charges!"
Valentina ripped the four-carat diamond ring from her finger, threw it violently against the gravel at Quinton’s feet, and stormed toward a waiting yellow cab.
"You miserable old fraud!" she shrieked before slamming the cab door and speeding away toward downtown Savannah.
Forest stood near his sports car, watching his entire future evaporate into the salt air.
He walked over to where I was standing near the front fountain, flanked by two private security guards.
"Mom..." Forest pleaded, tears welling in his eyes as his voice broke into ragged sobs. "Mom, please. Talk to me. I'm your son. You can't leave me with nothing. I have a mortgage on Isle of Hope! I have boat payments!"
I looked at him with the calm detachment of an auditor reviewing a fraudulent ledger.
"Your father taught you that people who work with their hands and bake pies are liabilities, Forest," I said softly. "You chose his boardroom over my kitchen. Now you can go work with him in the real world and discover what you're actually worth."
Deputy Miller stepped between Forest and me.
"Time to leave, son," Deputy Miller said, placing a firm hand on Forest's shoulder.
Quinton fell to his knees in the gravel, reaching for the cardboard box that had split open, spilling his old golf trophies into the dirt.
He looked up at me, his eyes hollow, broken, and begging.
"Rosalie... please. Thirty-eight years. You can't do this to me."
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"You did this to yourself, Quinton," I replied. "The day you decided thirty-eight years of love could be bought off with twelve hundred dollars."
I turned my back on him, walked through the heavy glass doors of the terminal, and took the elevator up to the executive suite.
