Chapter 19 - The Ultimatum in Cell Block B
With the trial entering its final week, Martha Holloway made a desperate, calculated play. Realizing that her son was planning to pin the entirety of Harold Holloway’s manslaughter and the insurance fraud directly on her, Martha requested a face-to-face meeting with me through her defense attorney.
Naturally, I refused to go to the jail myself. Instead, Rebecca Shaw and Detective Miller reviewed the deposition request. Ultimately, Miller conducted the recorded interview inside the facility while I watched via a secure, encrypted video feed from my office alongside Noah and Chloe.
On the screen, Martha looked withered, her expensive clothes replaced by coarse prison garb, her posture stiff with unyielding arrogance.
"Tell Clara that I have documents Derek doesn't want anyone to see," Martha rasped into the microphone, leaning toward the glass partition. "Diaries Harold kept. Proof that Derek planned more than just the basement incident. If she testifies on my behalf for a reduced medical furlough, I’ll hand them over."
Detective Miller didn't blink. He leaned back, folding his arms across his chest. "Mrs. Holloway, you are in no position to barter. The state already has Harold’s smartwatch data, the foundation server logs, and Evelyn Vance’s recordings. Your son is facing forty years. You're facing twenty. Bargaining chips require actual value."
"You don't understand!" Martha shrieked, slamming her palms against the glass. "Derek is a sociopath! He made me do it! He threatened me!"
Watching the screen from my office, I felt a strange sense of profound closure. Mother and son, who had spent decades destroying everyone around them to protect their toxic dynasty, were now tearing each other apart in a desperate bid for self-preservation.
"Turn it off, Detective," I said quietly, pressing the intercom button on my desk.
Miller looked up at the camera lens in the interview room, nodded, and stood up, snapping his notebook shut. "Interview terminated, Mrs. Holloway. Save your stories for the jury."
As the video feed faded to black, Chloe let out a long breath and shook her head. "To think I used to be terrified of walking into their Sunday dinners."
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"Sunday dinners were never about family, Chloe," I said, putting my arm around her shoulders. "They were auditions for a cult."
"Well," Noah added with a gentle smile, pouring us each a cup of tea, "the theater is officially closed."
