Chapter 9 - The Fall of the House of Sterling
By late January 1995, the legal and financial destruction of Julian Sterling and his conspirators was complete.
Julian Sterling had not survived the winter in freedom. Following the failed ambush on Route 22, the Federal Bureau of Investigation, armed with financial forensics provided directly by Silas Vance’s intelligence network, traced the mercenary funding directly to an account co-signed by Sterling’s offshore holding companies.
Faced with mandatory life sentences under the newly expanded federal RICO statutes, Julian Sterling had signed a comprehensive plea agreement.
On a freezing Thursday morning, Silas Vance stood on the sixty-eighth floor of the Vance Continental Tower, looking out over the harbor. Below him, the Statue of Liberty stood surrounded by ice floes drifting down the Hudson River.
Arthur Finch stepped into the office, carrying a leather-bound document stamped with the seal of the United States Bankruptcy Court.
"It’s signed, Silas," Finch said quietly.
Silas didn't turn around. "Read it."
"The assets of Sterling Commercial Bancorp have been fully liquidated," Finch recited. "The maritime shipping leases held by Harrowgate & Croft have been revoked by the British Board of Trade following the unsealing of the grand jury indictments. Vance Continental has acquired eighty-five percent of those routes at twenty cents on the dollar."
"And Julian?"
"He was sentenced two hours ago," Finch replied. "Thirty-two years at the United States Penitentiary in Marion, Illinois. No possibility of parole until 2022. He will be eighty-nine years old if he ever walks out."
Silas looked down at the harbor. A massive container ship bearing the Vance Continental insignia was slowly making its way out toward the open Atlantic, its horn sounding a deep, mournful blast that vibrated through the high glass of the tower.
"And Evelyn?" Silas asked.
"Her plea was rejected by the court," Finch said. "The videotape was played for the grand jury. Judge Henderson noted that her conduct demonstrated 'a depravity of spirit that no amount of privilege can disguise.' She received fifteen years at the Federal Correctional Institution in Danbury. She entered the facility yesterday morning."
Silas closed his eyes.
He remembered the afternoon in Greenwich—the smell of stale cigarettes, the spilled bourbon, the crack of Evelyn’s hand against Clara’s cheek, Donnie’s laughter echoing off the marble. He remembered the cold silk sash biting into his daughter's wrists.
He had promised Clara that those people would cease to exist in her world. He had kept his word. Not through extrajudicial murder, which would have left his daughter with a father behind bars, but through the terrifying, absolute machinery of law, finance, and unyielding will.
"Thank you, Arthur," Silas said.
"What are your instructions regarding the restructuring of the board, Silas?" Finch asked, adjusting his papers. "We have the emergency meeting scheduled for Monday morning. The institutional investors want to know if you intend to take personal control of the European routes."
Silas turned around, walking slowly toward his massive mahogany desk.
On the polished leather blotter sat a single photograph in a silver frame: Clara, wearing her bright red boots, sitting on the stone steps of the Bedford estate with flour on her nose, laughing up at the camera while Eleanor’s music box rested open in her lap.
Silas reached down, picking up the frame, his thumb tracing the glass over his daughter's face.
"I won't be at the meeting, Arthur," Silas said.
Finch blinked in astonishment. "Silas... this is the largest acquisition in the firm’s history. You control forty percent of the North Atlantic market now."
"Appoint Caldwell as interim Chief Executive," Silas said, setting the frame back down with exquisite care. "Give him five percent of the voting equity and tell him that if the quarterly margins drop below twelve percent, I will replace him before lunch."
"And you, Silas?" Finch asked, his voice softening with genuine curiosity. "Where will you be?"
Silas reached for his heavy cashmere overcoat draped across the leather armchair, slipping it over his shoulders.
May you like
"My daughter has a ballet recital at two o'clock," Silas Vance replied, walking toward the private elevator. "And I have never missed an appointment in my life."
***
