Chapter 4 - The Holding Cell
The basement of the Alexandria City Detention Center was damp, smelled of industrial bleach and old urine, and was entirely devoid of cashmere.
Carter Mitchell sat on a rusted metal bench, his tailored Tom Ford suit trousers covered in dirt and his white cuff-linked shirt torn at the shoulder. His lip was swollen where the tactical operator’s boot had driven his face into the floor, and his hands were cuffed tightly behind his back.
In the corner of the cell, Eleanor sat huddled on a concrete ledge, weeping uncontrollably. Her designer hair was ruined, sticking to her damp cheeks in graying strands.
"Carter," she whimpered, pulling her cardigan tight. "Call your uncle. Why haven't they let us call Raymond? This is a civil rights violation! We are respected members of the Old Town Historical Society! They can't treat us like common street criminals!"
"Shut up, Mother!" Carter snarled, though his teeth were chattering uncontrollably. "Just shut up! I'm trying to think!"
"Don't you speak to me like that! If you had just handled that little bitch properly—"
"I told you to shut up!" Carter lunged to his feet, pacing the six-foot span of the cell. "Didn't you hear what he said? He said Raymond was arrested! That can't be true. Raymond is untouchable. He’s running for State Attorney General next fall!"
"It's a bluff," Eleanor said, though her voice lacked conviction. "The military can't arrest civilians. It’s unconstitutional. Once the morning magistrate comes on duty, our lawyer will have us out on signature bond. Then we file a lawsuit against that old general for everything he owns. We’ll sue the Department of Defense!"
The heavy steel door at the end of the corridor buzzed with a loud, electric click.
Footsteps echoed along the concrete floor—not the hurried shuffling of city corrections officers, but the rhythmic, synchronized tread of heavy service shoes.
Two men in dark suits stopped in front of the cell bars. Between them walked a tall, lean African American man carrying a thick leather folio. His face was entirely devoid of expression, but his lapel bore the small gold eagle of the United States Attorney’s Office for the Eastern District of Virginia.
"Carter Mitchell?" the man asked.
Carter surged toward the bars, grabbing the cold iron with his cuffed hands. "Yes! Finally! Are you from the state bar? Who authorized this unlawful detention? I demand to see the presiding magistrate immediately! I want my one phone call, and I want an immediate writ of habeas corpus!"
The man opened his folio, uncapped a silver Montblanc pen, and looked Carter in the eye.
"I am Special Assistant United States Attorney Marcus Vance," the man said smoothly.
Carter blinked. "Vance? What... are you related to her?"
"Rebecca is my first cousin," Marcus replied, his voice chillingly devoid of emotion. "And I am personally handling the federal indictment being unsealed against you at dawn."
Eleanor let out a sharp, choked gasp.
"Federal?" Carter stammered, his legal training fighting desperately through a fog of rising hysteria. "Federal indictment for what?! A domestic dispute is a state misdemeanor! At worst, an assault Class One under Virginia code! My uncle Raymond—"
"Your uncle Raymond is currently in a federal holding facility in Petersburg," Marcus interrupted, turning a page. "At 21:00 hours, agents from the Internal Revenue Service and the FBI executed simultaneous search warrants on Raymond Mitchell’s home, his private legal practice, and his safety deposit boxes at Dominion National Bank."
Carter’s knees went weak. He leaned his forehead against the iron bars. "No..."
"They recovered three point two million dollars in undeclared offshore funds, twenty-two encrypted drives containing evidence of judicial bribery, and three recorded phone calls from *you*, Carter, asking him to bury two previous domestic violence complaints filed by your former paralegal in 2021."
Carter stared, his eyes wide and vacant. "Those... those were sealed. Those records were destroyed..."
"Nothing is destroyed when you cross a family that writes the national security protocols for the NSA, cousin-in-law," Marcus murmured, offering a small, venomous smile. "As for you, Carter... you aren't facing state assault charges."
Marcus slid a stapled document through the narrow document slot between the bars. It landed with a soft, heavy slap on the concrete floor.
"You are charged with Attempted Murder of a Federal Dependent, Deprivation of Civil Rights Under Color of Law, Obstruction of Justice, and felony witness tampering," Marcus read. "Furthermore, under the Title 18 revisions regarding violent crimes resulting in the termination or severe injury of a third-trimester pregnancy, we are petitioning the Fourth Circuit to deny bail permanently."
Eleanor scrambled forward, her fingers clawing at the bars. "What about the baby?! Did that little ingrate lose the baby?!"
Marcus looked down at Eleanor. His gaze would have frozen boiling water.
"If that child does not survive the night, Eleanor Mitchell," Marcus whispered, "I will ensure that both you and your son are tried under capital murder specifications. You will spend the rest of your natural lives in a federal supermax facility in Florence, Colorado. You will never see the sun again."
Eleanor’s eyes rolled back into her head, and she collapsed in a dead faint onto the cold concrete floor.
Carter dropped to his knees beside the papers, his trembling fingers unable to pick them up. "Please..." he whimpered, tears cutting clean streaks through the grime on his cheeks. "Marcus, please. She’s my wife. I love her. I was under so much stress at the firm... please tell Arthur I’m sorry. Tell him I’ll sign whatever he wants. I’ll give her a divorce. I’ll give her everything!"
Marcus capped his pen and turned his back on the cell.
May you like
"General Vance didn't ask for your apology, Carter," Marcus said over his shoulder as the heavy security door buzzed open. "He asked for your destruction."
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