Chapter 9
CLARA
The metal table is cold. They uncuffed me as soon as they shut me in an interrogation room, but then they closed the door and left me to wait.
I’ve been on the other side of this many times before in my days as a public defender.
Even though the room looks the same, it’s different when I’m the one being questioned.
The walls are unforgivingly sterile, the fluorescent light buzzing directly above me.
I’m sure it’s highlighting every tired line on my face.
I don’t know how long I’ve been here, but I know it’s late—really late.
Dean has finally decided to grace me with his presence, looking entirely too satisfied with himself. Beside him sits his partner, Detective Miller, a bland guy with a balding head, pen ready.
The air is thick with Dean’s sickeningly familiar smugness and cheap, heavy cologne. I know Dean’s playing games with me—that was clear the second the cops from his organized crime unit swarmed the executive floor of the Smirnov Corporation.
Yuck. How the hell did I ever fall for this guy?
“Jesus, Clara. Look at you.” He doesn’t look good in this lighting either.
Dean leans back in his chair and hooks an arm over it. His voice is smooth—that familiar voice that used to whisper empty promises. “What am I going to do with you? Out of my sights for just a few months and look where it’s gotten you? I told you the job was bad news, that Smirnov was a bad guy.”
I don’t flinch, though anger flares deep within me.
Instead, I let my expression settle into the carefully constructed mask I wear for depositions: professional, neutral, slightly bored, and utterly impenetrable.
Right now, it’s the only armor I have against my ex.
I refuse to let Dean rattle me this time.
“I’m an attorney, Detective,” I reply, my voice steady.
“I am counsel for the Smirnov Corporation. I will only address the legality of my own arrest and the validity of the warrant executed at our headquarters this morning. If you have any questions, you’re free to ask them, but I won’t guarantee an answer. ”
Anger flashes across Dean’s face for a split second, and I inwardly clench because I recognize that expression.
It’s the same one he got right before he hit me for the first—and last—time.
He switches gears and sighs dramatically, shifting his position, both arms on the table, his hands woven together.
“Always the ice queen. Okay, then let’s talk legality, Counselor.
To start, we have sufficient evidence to charge Dmitri Smirnov with racketeering and money laundering on a massive scale, among other things.
Because you are part of his legal team, we believe you are fully aware of this operation and, therefore, complicit.
You’re looking at conspiracy, at least, possibly aiding and abetting.
Either charge will get you time in prison. ”
The glee in Dean’s eyes makes me want to reach across the table and strangle him.
But I know that’s what he wants—a reaction out of me.
He wants me scared, so I’ll run to him like he’s my white knight.
But even though the words racketeering and money laundering hang heavily in the air, he doesn’t frighten me.
He’s reaching. I know it. And I doubt he has iron-clad evidence, or else Dean would be gloating about Dmitri’s arrest.
I am done being afraid of Dean Johnson.
“And what, precisely, is the basis for these charges against me? You do have actual charges against me, don’t you?
Actual evidence?” I sit back and cross one leg over the other, folding my hands neatly in my lap.
“Am I being charged with signing off on a fraudulent ledger? Processing illegal funds? I know you don’t have any evidence, because it hasn’t happened.
And I assure you, having a consensual one-night stand with the CEO is not a statutory offense in any jurisdiction. ”
Dean’s jaw tightens, his smirk slipping, as I stare at him, daring him to make false claims I can hit him with later, which could jeopardize whatever actual case he has.
I struck a nerve when I reminded Dean why he initiated the raid in the first place: jealousy, control, and a pathetic need to prove he still holds power over me.
Miller shifts uncomfortably, then slides the papers resting in front of him toward me.
“Smirnov Corp. is a shell, Ms. Benson, a front for an organized crime syndicate. Look at these ledgers.” He taps the photocopied documents with a heavy finger.
“Unaccounted for cash transfers to other shell companies, offshore accounts, and bookkeeping contracts with known criminal entities. That’s the pattern of a criminal enterprise. ”
I feel frozen for a beat as I hear the evidence against Dmitri and his company, but I’m too well-trained to let it show.
I slide the stack of papers back to Miller without glancing at them.
“You know better than that, Detective Miller. A pattern of criminal activity requires proof of two or more acts within ten years, conducted by an enterprise. Merely having questionable clients or outsourcing bookkeeping offshore is not, in itself, racketeering, and is a tactic used by most corporations for various purposes. It may not be moral, but it’s not illegal.
And what evidence, exactly, do you have against me? You still haven’t told me.”
Neither detective says anything.
“To charge me with conspiracy, you have to demonstrate that I knew the purpose of the action was illegal. You can’t.
My job is to ensure corporate compliance with tax code and contract law.
Every document I have ever signed or authorized since I started with Smirnov Corp.
is legitimate, easily traceable, and focused only on the legal aspects of genuine, profitable dealings.
You have no paper trail to connect me to anything illegal. ”
Dean leans forward, his eyes predatory. “We don’t need a paper trail, Clara. We have his people. We squeeze them hard enough, they’ll talk. They don’t want to go to prison for him. And I’m sure they’ll also confirm that you were the one who signed off on the new compliance framework.”
“Ah, yes, the framework.” I allow a faint smile to touch my lips. “The framework I drew up to specifically prevent the exact activities you are alleging. If I were complicit, Detective Johnson, why would I build a cage to trap myself?”
I pause, letting the logic sink in. Miller blinks.
“Now, let’s talk about the foundation of this entire charade,” I continue, my voice gaining volume and drive as I shift from defense to offense. “The warrant.”
Miller is suddenly wide awake, his hands dancing nervously around the stack of papers while Dean’s expression crumbles into anger.
“You raided a major international corporation’s headquarters, seizing property and detaining personnel.
I assume the warrant was issued under state law.
Along with that, a warrant that is not legally flawed must describe the items to be seized with sufficient particularity so that the officer executing it knows exactly what to take and what to leave.
I saw the warrant, though briefly. It authorized the seizure of all financial records, communications, and digital media.
That, detectives, is a general warrant, which makes it a fishing expedition, also making it unconstitutional. ”
Dean slams his hand down and Miller has to push him back down into his seat. “It was necessary due to the scope of the alleged enterprise!”
“No, it was legally flawed,” I counter sharply.
“I have a feeling this particular warrant was overbroad, failed to meet the particularity requirement, and did not establish a probable cause connection. Any evidence obtained from that search and seizure will be subject to suppression, which I will argue and win, if this is brought to court.”
I lean back, crossing my arms and meeting the gazes of both detectives. Dean looks furious.
“In short, you don’t have a case against me because my actions were legal.
Nor do you have a case against the corporation or any of those you detained because the warrant was invalid.
You arrested dozens of innocent employees, interrupted major global business operations, and violated rights based on what I strongly suspect is manufactured probable cause. ”
I check my watch, a purely theatrical gesture.
“You have detained me for nearly seven hours without charging me. This is an unlawful deprivation of liberty. Release me now, or I will file a writ of habeas corpus first thing in the morning, along with a motion to suppress all seized evidence, and a civil suit for false imprisonment and punitive damages. Decide.”
Miller looks at Dean with a desperate expression but Dean doesn’t see it because he’s too busy glowering at me, his face a mask of furious hatred.
“Fine,” Dean finally hisses. “Process her release. She’s free to go.”
He practically spits out the last words. I stand up, surprised at how steady my legs are and how slow my heartbeat is; it isn’t pounding like I thought it would be.
I step out of the interrogation room, grateful to be leaving Dean behind and gratified by the way I took him down in a manner he won’t be able to recover from anytime soon.
I head straight to the water cooler to wash the feeling of desert-dry sand from my mouth, which is when, my senses still heightened with adrenaline, I overhear a couple of officers talking.
I sip my water as I catch snippets of the conversation above the din of the bullpen.
“—trying to press him on the money transfers. No counsel yet.”
“Just us and the brass?”
“Yep.”
“Good. He’s tough, but without a lawyer, he’ll surely slip up.”
“Even he can be broken if we work hard enough.”
No counsel yet.