Chapter 8 - The Hammer Falls
Three weeks later, the January thaw had failed to arrive. Boston was gripped by a deep, crystalline freeze.
The conference room at the Middlesex County Superior Court was modern, sterile, and lit by buzzing fluorescent panels that showed every line of exhaustion on Thaddius’s face.
Across the table sat his court-appointed public defender—a young, overworked woman named Miller who looked profoundly irritated to be spending her Tuesday morning representing a man accused of twelve counts of felony deed fraud, corporate embezzlement, and grand larceny. Cordelia sat two chairs down, dressed in an off-the-rack navy suit purchased from a suburban outlet store, her bare wrists devoid of gold, staring at her lap like a condemned prisoner.
Arthur Vance and I sat opposite them.
Arthur laid out a series of notarized settlement stipulations. The paper rustled loudly in the small room.
"Let’s make this expeditious, Counsel," Arthur said, addressing the public defender. "The Commonwealth has agreed to defer the criminal fraud indictments against Mr. Sterling and Miss Sterling under three explicit conditions."
Thaddius’s lawyer adjusted her glasses. "We’re listening."
"First," Vance stated, "Mr. Sterling signs an absolute, non-contested decree of divorce. He waives all rights to alimony, rehabilitative support, equitable distribution of Miller Enterprise Solutions, and any claim whatsoever to marital real estate."
"Agreed," Thaddius whispered instantly, before his attorney could even open her mouth.
"Thad!" Cordelia hissed.
"Shut up, Cordelia!" Thaddius rasped, turning on her with venomous fury. "Do you want to go to Framingham Women’s Prison? Because that’s where you’re going if they file the Delaware charges! Sign the papers!"
Vance didn't miss a beat. "Second: Miss Cordelia Sterling will transfer title of the New Hampshire equestrian property directly to the Miller Agricultural Charitable Foundation to satisfy the two point one million dollars embezzled through Sterling Heritage Management. She will also surrender all personal property purchased using corporate funds."
Cordelia’s jaw trembled. Her hands shook violently against her thighs, but she looked at the grim face of her lawyer, who merely gave a single, tight nod.
"I... I agree," Cordelia wept, her voice barely audible.
"And third," Vance concluded, sliding the final document across the table directly in front of Thaddius. "The complete, unconditional quitclaim release of any and all residual residential rights to Blackwood Manor, recognizing the 1931 Blackwood Agricultural Land Trust as the sole, fee-simple owner of the property."
Thaddius didn't even read it. He picked up the cheap plastic ballpoint pen provided by the court and scratched his signature across the line.
The sound of the pen tearing against the paper was the final sound of the Sterling dynasty.
"It’s done," Vance said, collecting the signed copies and sliding them into his leather briefcase with the crisp snap of brass locks.
The public defender stood up immediately, packing her files. "I will file these with the clerk within the hour. Good day." She walked out without shaking her clients' hands.
Cordelia rose next. She didn't look at Thaddius. She didn't look at me. She pulled her cheap synthetic coat around her shoulders and scurried out the door like a ghost escaping the light. Later, I would learn that she had taken a job as an administrative assistant at a mid-tier dental office in Worcester, living in a one-bedroom apartment above a laundromat. The high-society parties, the designer gowns, and the six-thousand-dollar bottles of Margaux were gone forever.
Thaddius remained seated.
His velvet dinner jacket was long gone; he wore an ill-fitting gray sweater and trousers that looked two inches too short.
"Sara," he said, looking up at me through bloodshot eyes. "What are you going to do with the manor?"
I stood up, buttoning my tailored coat. I looked down at the man who had occupied seven years of my life.
"I’m not doing anything with it, Thaddius," I said.
His brow furrowed. "What do you mean?"
"The house doesn't belong to me," I reminded him. "It belongs to the Land Trust. And my father has already made his decision."
"Your father?" Thaddius echoed, a faint trace of his old aristocratic bewilderment surfacing. "What could an upstate cabbage farmer possibly do with a seventy-room historic mansion?"
"You’ll see," I said.
May you like
I turned and walked out of the conference room, my heels clicking sharply against the linoleum, leaving Thaddius Sterling alone with an empty chair and a cheap plastic pen.
***
