Chapter 9 - The Confession In The Wine Cellar And The Wiretap Beneath The Oak Desk
The silence in the boardroom was so absolute that the hum of the air conditioning sounded like a jet engine.
Julian scrambled on the video feed, his voice screeching with desperation. "Don't listen to him! That man is suffering from acute cognitive impairment! He is medically unfit! Security, remove them from the room! Execute the proxy vote now!"
"There is no proxy vote," Daniel announced, stepping to the head of the table.
He pulled the heavy blue leather ledger from his leather satchel and slammed it down onto the rosewood surface.
BAM.
"Under Clause 44 of the Sterling Holdings Charter of 1974, all non-lineal proxies are revoked with extreme prejudice upon the presentation of evidence of corporate treason," Daniel stated, his voice ringing through the room. "And this ledger contains thirty-six months of federal bank fraud executed by Julian Sterling."
Arthur Vance stepped forward, plugging a portable media device into the boardroom’s central audiovisual hub.
The wall monitors switched from Julian’s video feed to a high-definition audio playback accompanied by security video footage recorded inside Blackwood Manor’s private wine cellar three weeks prior.
On the screen, Julian was seen meeting with a notorious corporate raider, clinking glasses, and laughing:
Julian: "Once the old man is in the ground, the board won't have a choice. I’ve already moved eighty million to Panama. Daniel is an artist—he doesn't have the stomach for a corporate war. In two months, I’ll strip the logistics division, sell the real estate to Vanguard, and leave the Sterling name in bankruptcy court while I live like a king in Geneva."
The board members stared at the screen in horrified disgust.
Director Chen turned toward the camera feed. "You treasonous bastard."
Julian stared at the screen from his jet, his chest heaving, his face slick with sweat. He reached toward his computer terminal to force the bank transfer—
On the video feed behind Julian, the cabin door of the private jet was kicked open with a deafening crash.
Tactical federal marshals in body armor swarmed the cabin, assault rifles raised.
"FEDERAL AGENTS! STEP AWAY FROM THE CONSOLE! HANDS ON YOUR HEAD!"
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Julian was tackled out of his leather seat, forced face-down into the plush carpet of the jet.
The last image the boardroom saw before the video feed cut to static was Julian’s cheek pressed hard against the floor, his bespoke suit tearing as the steel handcuffs were ratcheted down onto his wrists.
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