Chapter 7 - The Social Guillotine
By two o'clock in the afternoon, the Peterson family’s social world had collapsed into smoking rubble.
Megan Peterson had spent fourteen hours in the holding cells at the Eighteenth District precinct before her high-priced private attorney managed to secure an emergency bail hearing before Magistrate Vance—Arthur’s second cousin, an iron-willed judge who held zero tolerance for crimes against children.
Zoe and Arthur attended the virtual bail hearing from the Drake penthouse. I watched from the corner of the screen, Lily resting comfortably on my lap, coloring in a picture book with crayons Dr. Chen had sent up.
Megan appeared on the monitor screen from the Cook County jail’s detention room. Her designer blouse was ruined, stained with sweat and cell grime. Her expensive blowout had dissolved into a tangled nest of greasy hair, and her eyes were swollen and bloodshot from crying.
"Your Honor," Megan’s defense attorney pleaded, his voice trembling under the weight of the evidence. "My client is a respected businesswoman in Chicago. She has no prior criminal record. This was an unfortunate domestic incident blown entirely out of proportion by an estranged relative seeking financial leverage—"
"Save it, counsel," Magistrate Vance barked, adjusting his reading glasses as he flipped through the digital docket. "I have reviewed the photographs of the victim, Lily Peterson. I have reviewed Dr. Evelyn Chen’s forensic triage. I have also watched the security video documenting the defendant striking a defenseless five-year-old with sufficient force to cause a concussion."
Megan let out a small, strangled sob on the screen. "Your Honor, please... it was Thanksgiving... we were drinking wine..."
"Then you should have stayed away from the child, Ms. Peterson," the Magistrate cut her off mercilessly. "Bail is set at two hundred and fifty thousand dollars, full cash bond required. No ten percent deposit. In addition, I am entering a level-three no-contact order. You will not come within one thousand feet of the victim, her mother, or her residence. You will surrender your passport to the clerk of the court within four hours of release."
"Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars?" Megan’s attorney cried out. "Your Honor, that is exorbitant for a Class A misdemeanor charge!"
"The State’s Attorney has indicated an intention to upgrade the charges to Class 3 Felony Aggravated Battery against a Child under thirteen years of age," the Magistrate replied coldly. "Next case."
The screen blinked off.
Zoe leaned back in her leather chair, tapping her gold fountain pen against the blotter. "Two hundred and fifty thousand cash. Frank and Carol don't have that kind of liquid liquidity. They spent their remaining reserves renovating the brownstone’s wine cellar with your trust money."
"Mark will have to liquidate his personal trading accounts," Arthur Vance noted. "Which are currently frozen under our preliminary divorce injunction."
"Can he unfreeze them?" I asked.
"Not without a court order signed by me," Arthur smiled. "And I don't sign anything on weekends. Megan will be spending Friday and Saturday night in the general population holding unit at Cook County."
My phone—the new private line Zoe had given me that morning—chirped.
A notification from LinkedIn popped up: *Peterson-Vance Strategic Public Relations has removed Megan Peterson from its executive directory.*
Seconds later, another notification from a local lifestyle blog appeared: *Chicago Elite Society Outraged by Lincoln Park Child Abuse Scandal; Socialites Demand Peterson Family Be Stripped of Symphony Gala Board Seats.*
"It’s spreading," I said.
"Of course it’s spreading," Zoe replied, pouring herself a fresh cup of Earl Grey. "Megan built her entire career on social posturing, bullying people in private, and projecting effortless aristocratic grace in public. She made a dozen enemies for every friend she bought. The moment people smelled blood in the water, the feeding frenzy was inevitable."
The suite door opened, and Patrick stepped inside, his expression serious.
"Mrs. Holloway," he said quietly.
"Yes, Patrick?"
"Mark Peterson is downstairs in the lobby."
Arthur Vance frowned. "Did security inform him of the emergency restraining order?"
"The hotel manager told him he was trespassing," Patrick said. "He refused to leave. He’s standing by the grand piano in the lobby, screaming for Chloe. He claims he has something she needs to hear before the divorce filings become final. He looks... erratic."
Lily looked up from her coloring book, her small eyes widening with sudden anxiety. She reached out and grabbed my sweater sleeve, pulling herself closer against my chest.
"Mommy?" she whispered. "Is Daddy here to yell at us?"
I smoothed her dark hair back from her forehead, kissing the top of her head. "No, baby. Daddy cannot come up here. Daddy can never hurt us again."
I looked at Zoe, then at Patrick.
"Take Lily into the bedroom suite, Dr. Chen," I said softly.
Dr. Chen nodded immediately, taking Lily’s hand and leading her toward the rear bedroom with an assortment of new coloring supplies and a tablet loaded with cartoons.
Once the double doors of the bedroom clicked shut, I stood up and pulled my cardigan tight around my waist.
"Let’s go down," I said.
Arthur Vance rose instantly. "Chloe, you don't need to speak to him. In fact, legally, it’s cleaner if you remain detached."
May you like
"I spent six years being quiet, Arthur," I said, looking him in the eye. "I spent six years letting that man speak for me, define me, and manage my existence. I am going to look him in the face, in the middle of that lobby, and watch the last piece of his delusion turn to dust."
***
