“Diego Vance. Paula Sterling. Arthur Vance.”
Marcus read the federal charges with the clinical cadence of an executioner:
***One count of attempted first-degree premeditated murder of a fetus, pursuant to Title 18 of the United States Code, Section 1841. **
**Twelve charges of distribution and inter-state administration of unapproved chemical weapons agents, pursuant to Title 18, Section 175. **
* **Sixteen charges of transnational fiduciary fraud, inheritance theft and corporate extortion, in accordance with the RICO Act. **
***And a seditious conspiracy charge to defraud the bankruptcy courts of the United States, pursuant to Title 18, Section 152. **
“His application for bail is permanently denied under a special federal emergency protocol.”
“All bank accounts, all luxury properties, the Elm Street home and all corporate assets registered in the name of Vance-Sterling Logistics have been seized under federal property confiscation law.”
“Federal sheriffs. They remove the prisoners from this center.”
As tactical agents dragged Diego to the door, with his expensive leather boots crawling uselessly over the linoleum, he turned his bruised face and snuck with tears toward the exploration table, screaming in the barren air in a raw and choking agony:
“LAURA! PLEASE! TELL THEM IT WAS A DOMESTIC DISPUTE! LAURA, I'M YOUR BABY'S FATHER! YOU CAN’T LET THEM BURY ME IN ADX FLORENCE!”
I didn't flinch.
I extended my right hand, took the warm, sterile paper towel given to me by Dr. Salinas and, slowly, I cleaned my skin with the cold blue ultrasound gel.
I enlissed my dress on my four-month-old belly, feeling the unmistakable and miraculous flutter of life moving under the palm of my hand.
