Chapter 7 - THE WIRE AND THE CONFESSION
The dining room erupted into chaos. High-society patrons stood up from their tables, gasping in shock as the plainclothes officers pinned Diego against the shattered china.
“Diego Morales, you are under arrest for attempted assault, grand fraud, identity theft, and obstruction of justice,” Detective Ramos announced, clicking steel handcuffs around Diego’s wrists.
“Marta! Call the lawyers!” Diego screamed, his cheek pressed into spilled red wine and broken crystal. “Call Roberto! Don't say a word! She has no proof I signed anything!”
Javier Beltrán raised his hands slowly, backing away from the table. “Officers, I am merely legal counsel here representing an investment fund. I had no knowledge of any domestic dispute or alleged forgery.”
“Save it for the magistrate, Señor Beltrán,” Inspector Morales said, walking into the private salon with two uniformed officers behind him. “Your personal offices on Paseo de la Castellana are currently being sealed by the tax fraud unit. You are coming with us as an investigative person of interest.”
Marta slumped into her chair, her face buried in her trembling hands, sobbing uncontrollably. “Mom... Mom, please tell them! I didn't know Diego was laundering money! He told me it was an investment! He forced me to sign those holding company papers! He controlled everything!”
I stood over my daughter, looking down at her designer clothes, her diamond earrings, and the frantic desperation in her eyes.
“Look at me, Marta,” I said softly.
She looked up, tears streaming through her foundation. “Mom, I’m your daughter. Your only child. You can’t let them put me in prison. Think of what people will say! Think of our family!”
“You stopped being my daughter the moment you looked at me at that supermarket checkout and decided my dignity was worth less than a cart of imported prawns,” I told her.
“I was under stress!” she cried. “Diego was threatening to leave me if I didn't bring in money! He said we would lose the villa! I did it to save our home!”
“No, Marta,” I said, pulling my smartphone from my purse and stopping an audio recording that had been capturing every second of her admission. “You didn't do it to save your home. You did it because you believed that as an aging woman, I had outlived my right to my own life.”
Detective Ramos approached Marta and produced a second pair of handcuffs. “Marta Morales. You are also under arrest for conspiracy to commit financial fraud and falsification of public registry documents.”
Marta shrieked as the cold metal locked around her delicate wrists. “Mom! Tell them to stop! Mom! You can’t do this to me! I’m your blood!”
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I did not flinch. I did not turn away. As they led Diego, Marta, and Beltrán out through the grand lobby of the country club under the stunned stares of Madrid’s aristocracy, I picked up my leather purse, adjusted my coat, and walked out into the cool evening air.
***
