Chapter 6 - The Freezing of the Empire
By Thursday afternoon, the fallout had metastasized across Denver's commercial real estate circles like an uncontrollable wildfire. News travels fast when the Attorney General’s Financial Crimes Division raids a prominent boutique developer, but it travels at the speed of light when private equity lenders discover that their borrower’s collateral never existed in the first place.
I sat in the office of my flagship laundromat on East Colfax Avenue, watching the industrial thirty-pound washers spin through their rinse cycles through the reinforced glass window.
This room had been my sanctuary for nearly three decades. The walls were covered in framed photographs: Arthur in his dress blues; our first ribbon-cutting in 1994; my employees gathered around a sheet cake celebrating our twentieth anniversary; a personal letter of commendation from the base commander at Buckley for providing continuous emergency sanitation services during the blizzards of 2003.
The door opened, and Maria Santos, my lead floor manager for sixteen years, stepped in carrying a fresh pot of coffee. Her face was creased with deep concern.
""Evelyn,"" Maria said, setting the pot down on the laminate desk. ""There were two men in suits standing outside near the coin changers ten minutes ago. They had clipboards. They were asking Tommy how many quarters the machines pull on a Thursday.""
""Did Tommy tell them anything?"" I asked, looking up from my ledger.
""Tommy told them to buy a soda or get the hell out before he took a pipe wrench to their shins,"" Maria said with a proud smirk. ""Who were they, Evelyn? Is this about Jason?""
I rubbed my temples, feeling the dull ache of seventy-two hours of sustained tension finally catching up to behind my eyes. ""Yes, Maria. It's about Jason. And his in-laws.""
Maria pulled up a folding chair and sat down, folding her apron into her lap. ""He came by here on Tuesday afternoon, you know. Before your meeting.""
My hand froze on my pen. ""Jason was here?""
""Around two o'clock,"" Maria nodded, her dark eyes flashing with anger. ""He walked around like he owned the place. He went into the utility room, took pictures of the new commercial boilers you installed last summer, and told me that after the first of the month, the payroll schedule was changing to bi-monthly. He said the company needed to 'optimize cash flow.' I told him you were the only one who signed my checks, and he laughed at me. He told me I should learn to respect the new management.""
A cold, sharp disgust settled in my gut. He hadn't just plotted to take my assets; he had already begun measuring my people for slaughter. He had planned to strip their benefits, stretch their paychecks, and squeeze every drop of sweat out of workers who had helped me bury my husband just so he could pay off Ron Linton’s luxury sports cars.
""He's never setting foot in this building again, Maria,"" I said, my voice as hard as cold rolled steel. ""Not him, not Melissa, not anyone with the Linton name.""
The phone on my desk rang. It was the private direct line that only my legal team and the bank had.
I picked it up. ""Evelyn Mercer.""
""Evelyn, it's David,"" Vance's voice crackled through the receiver. ""The Denver First Bank judicial hearing just concluded. The emergency injunction was granted in full. Ron Linton’s commercial licenses have been suspended pending grand jury review, and the receiver has officially taken control of the Lakewood development site.""
""And Jason?"" I asked, bracing myself.
""Jason’s bank accounts have been frozen under the elder exploitation statute to prevent dissipation of funds,"" David replied. ""The county prosecutor is preparing three felony counts: criminal attempt to commit grand theft, forgery of legal documents, and commercial extortion. Because he used interstate telecommunications to send those threatening text messages on Tuesday evening, the U.S. Attorney’s office is also reviewing the file for potential federal extortion charges.""
""Is he in custody?""
""Not yet,"" David said. ""His defense attorney—a public defender, because nobody in private practice will touch him without an upfront cash retainer—managed to secure an agreement for a voluntary surrender on Monday morning. He has seventy-two hours to get his affairs in order.""
I stared out the window at the laundromat floor. An elderly veteran wearing a patched VFW cap was pulling clean towels from a dryer, folding them with slow, methodical care. Two young mothers were laughing while their toddlers watched the colorful clothes spin behind the glass doors.
This was my life. This was the community I had protected with every ounce of my sweat and discipline. Jason had looked at these people and seen nothing but numbers on an extraction balance sheet.
""Let the law do what it has to do, David,"" I said quietly.
""Evelyn,"" David paused, his voice softening into the gentle tone of a friend who had known my family for forty years. ""Are you going to see him before Monday?""
May you like
I looked at the framed photo of Arthur on my desk. Arthur had loved Jason with a fierce, quiet devotion, always believing that the boy’s restlessness was just ambition waiting for direction. But Arthur had also taught our boys that a man without integrity was nothing more than an empty uniform waiting to disgrace the unit.
""No,"" I answered, setting the receiver down. ""I said goodbye to my son at seven-forty-five on Tuesday night.""
