“And under Section Nine of the Rivers and Harbors Act of Eighteen-Ninety-Nine: no commercial lease, no private equity conveyance, and no Swiss defense transfer can be executed without the wet-ink consent of the registered fee-simple owner.”
Arthur Sterling-Vance collapsed onto his knees on the wet concrete, his vicuña greatcoat soaking in the slurry and chemical runoff, his hands clawing at his chest as he wept ragged, hysterical tears of pure, un-calibrated ruin:
“David… please! Look at me! I was the Chief Justice of the Seventh Circuit! You cannot put a former federal jurist in Leavenworth chains on a gravel pier!”
I walked to where Arthur, Melissa, and Julian lay groveling on the stones.
My hand-welted leather field boots struck the gravel with that unhurried, rhythmic, concussive TACK:
TACK.
TACK.
TACK.
I stopped twelve inches from where Arthur Sterling-Vance lay weeping in his ruined greatcoat.
Beside me, Barnaby stood at rigid, silent attention, his amber eyes locked onto Arthur’s jugular with predatory discipline.
