If you let my wife take me back to the executive suite, I won’t make it to my seventh birthday, six-year-old Julian whispered, his small fingers digging into my leather motorcycle vest on a 104-d...
The polished marble floors of the Maricopa County Courthouse reflected the harsh midday sun, blinding me for a moment as I stepped inside. Every rustle of paper, every echo of footsteps, seemed amplified. My goal was Judge Harrison Bowen’s chamber, armed with the flash drive’s revelations and Marcus’s printouts, ready to file a motion to stay probate proceedings.
I gripped the folder, Julian’s silent plea for help echoing in my mind. This was it. The direct approach.
As I approached the double doors leading to the probate court, two figures in dark suits stepped out from behind a large potted plant. Court bailiffs. My heart lurched.
“Arthur Pendelton?” one of them asked, his voice flat.
I stopped, my hand tightening on the folder. “Yes?”
“We have an emergency ex-parte order,” the second bailiff stated, extending a document. “Filed by Pendelton-Vance Legal, on behalf of Victoria Pendelton.”
My eyes scanned the official seal. The charges: “Corporate espionage, unauthorized access of Apex Capital servers, and demonstrable emotional instability requiring psychiatric evaluation.” It was a pre-emptive strike, a classic Victoria move.
“This is ridiculous,” I protested, my voice barely a whisper. “I’m here to expose fraud, not commit it.”
The first bailiff simply shrugged. “We have orders to escort you to a holding cell, pending a mental health evaluation and formal questioning regarding corporate document theft.”
They moved to flank me, their presence a solid, unyielding wall. The elegant, soaring ceilings of the courthouse suddenly felt like the walls of a cage. I couldn’t be detained. Not now. Not with Friday looming.
My eyes darted to a service stairwell, discreetly tucked behind a maintenance cart. A small, almost invisible door. My old Apex Capital passkey, the one Elena had given me, was still in my pocket.
“You can’t do this,” I said, a desperate, defiant edge to my voice.
As they reached for my arms, I took a sudden, swift step backward, wrenching free. I bolted for the service stairwell door, fumbling for the passkey. It clicked open. I burst through, slamming the door shut behind me, the muffled shouts of the bailiffs echoing from the other side.
Down the gritty concrete steps I ran, my mind racing. I was a fugitive now. But Julian was still out there.
Reaching the basement, I pulled out my phone. One quick call to Marcus. “They’re onto me,” I hissed into the receiver. “Probate court. I’m fleeing. Julian… he’s with you, right?”
“He’s safe, Arthur. Don’t worry about him,” Marcus assured me, his voice calm amidst the chaos. “Get out of there. I’ll make sure this doesn’t stop.”
I hung up, heart pounding, leaving Julian in the care of a relentless reporter, hoping it was enough.
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