Chapter 8 - The Price of Pride
The grand jury indicted Connor Fleming on four felony counts: Grand Larceny, Forgery in the First Degree, Perjury, and Wire Fraud.
Because his assets were completely frozen by court order, he couldn't afford the exorbitant retainer required by Richard Hayes. Hayes withdrew from the case three days later. Connor was forced to accept a court-appointed public defender—a young, overworked attorney who urged him to take a plea deal to avoid a twenty-year sentence in federal prison.
The news hit the front page of the Chicago Tribune business section:
Prominent Equity Partner Indicted in Multi-Million Dollar Marital Fraud and Medical Forgery Scheme.
Melinda, realizing that Connor was heading to prison and that his fortune was non-existent, packed her bags and moved back to her parents' house in Indiana with her baby boy. She filed for divorce from Connor before his preliminary trial even began, citing emotional abuse and fraud.
One rainy Tuesday evening, a month after the deposition, I was leaving the hospital after an emergency double-bypass surgery that had lasted seven hours. I was exhausted, but it was the deep, satisfying exhaustion of a doctor who had saved a life.
As I walked out into the private physician parking lot, I saw a figure standing near my car.
It was Connor.
He was wearing an old, faded coat that looked like it had been pulled from the back of a closet. He had lost even more weight, his hair was unkempt, and he was holding an umbrella that was bent at the spokes.
He didn't look like a high-powered venture capitalist anymore. He looked like a ghost.
I stopped ten feet away, my hand resting near the security alarm on my car key fob. "You shouldn't be here, Connor. The court issued a restraining order."
"I just... I just wanted to talk to you, Kirsten," he said, his voice cracking. He didn't step closer. He seemed afraid of me now. "Just one minute. Please."
"We have nothing to talk about."
"I lost the penthouse today," he said, staring at the wet asphalt between us. "The bank foreclosed. My legal team told me the plea deal means I’ll have to serve at least five years. Five years, Kirsten."
"You made your choices, Connor."
"I was jealous of you!" he suddenly burst out, tears filling his eyes as the rain beat down around us. "Do you know what it felt like? Standing next to you at parties? Everyone talking about Dr. Sinclair, the brilliant surgeon, the woman who saves lives. And what was I? A guy who moved money around! I wanted to feel powerful. I wanted you to need me!"
I looked at him, feeling a deep, profound sadness—not for the marriage we had lost, but for the utter emptiness of his soul.
"You thought power meant making someone else feel weak," I said softly. "You thought love meant control. I felt sorry for you for a long time, Connor. But now I just feel nothing."
He took a shaky step forward. "Kirsten... please. Tell the prosecutor you don't want me to go to prison. Tell them we can settle it! I’ll give you everything back! I’ll sign whatever you want!"
"You don't have anything left to give, Connor," I said, my voice steady and firm. "The court has already restored my stolen assets. The rest is between you and the law."
May you like
I unlocked my car, stepped inside, and closed the door.
Through the rain-streaked window, I saw Connor standing under the dim parking lot light, holding his broken umbrella, watching me drive away into the night.
