Chapter 7 - Margaret’s Begging Hour
By Friday afternoon, the extended-stay motel room smelled of stale grease, cheap tobacco, and desperate, rotting pride.
Margaret Sterling sat on the edge of a stained floral bedspread, watching the local evening news broadcast on a flickering wall-mounted television.
The headline running across the lower chyron made her heart pound with sheer terror:
Prominent Chicago Socialite Victoria Sterling Indicted on Felony Child Abuse; Held on $100K Cash Bond.
Richard Sterling had refused to mortgage their remaining Florida timeshare to post Victoria’s bail, having already packed his bags and fled to a golf resort in Arizona with what little cash he had left in his offshore account.
David sat on the floor with his back against the bathroom door, clutching an empty bottle of cheap bourbon, staring blankly at the stained carpet.
"David, stand up," Margaret ordered, her voice trembling and hollow.
"We are going to Jessica’s office."
David laughed—a hollow, broken sound that carried no humor.
"Jessica has an executive security detail, Mom. She won't even let you into the lobby."
"Then we will wait on the sidewalk!" Margaret shrieked, tears smearing her powder.
"Your sister is sitting in a holding cell with street criminals! If we don't raise one hundred thousand dollars by tomorrow morning, she will be transferred to Cook County Jail!"
At 6:00 PM, Margaret stood outside the brass revolving doors of Apex Global Media in the freezing evening wind.
She wasn't wearing her designer mink coat; she wore an old woolen trench coat that smelled of mothballs, her hair disheveled and unstyled.
When I stepped through the revolving doors flanked by Rachel and two private security guards, Margaret threw herself forward onto the sidewalk.
"Jessica! Jessica, please!" Margaret wailed, dropping onto her knees right on the icy concrete in front of dozens of commuting office workers.
Passersby stopped and stared, whispering in shock as the proud, arrogant matriarch of the Sterling family knelt in the slush.
"Margaret, get up off the street," I said, stopping three feet away, my voice flat and completely devoid of pity.
"Jessica, have mercy on us!" Margaret wept, clutching the hem of my pantsuit with shaking, bare hands.
"Victoria didn't mean to hurt Chloe! It was a momentary lapse in judgment! If you don't drop the charges, she will spend five years in prison!"
I looked down at the woman who had spent seven years calling me a trashy country girl, who had laughed while my child was struck across the face, and who had locked us out in the freezing cold on Christmas Eve.
"Victoria struck a five-year-old child because she asked for turkey without burnt skin, Margaret," I reminded her, each word landing like an iron bar.
"And you sat at that table, drank your wine, and told me that disciplining children belonged between dinner and dessert."
"We will apologize publicly!" Margaret begged, tears streaming down her wrinkled cheeks.
"We will sign whatever papers you want! Just give us the bail money! David is your husband, Jessica!"
"David is a defendant in a criminal divorce proceeding, Margaret," I replied, stepping back so her hands slipped off my trousers.
"And as for the bail money... I suggest you ask your country club friends. Since they're such respectable people."
May you like
I walked to my waiting town car, letting the security guard close the heavy door between us.
Through the tinted glass, I watched Margaret Sterling weeping alone on the frozen Chicago pavement, stripped of her name, her pride, and every illusion of the power she had used to torment me.
