Chapter 8 - The Confrontation at the Gates
The iron gates of the Holloway estate in Lake Forest were wide open, just as they had been on Tuesday morning when I dropped my thermos of coffee. But the driveway was no longer quiet.
Three black police cruisers with their blue and red lights flashing were parked diagonally across the manicured lawn, their tires leaving deep, muddy ruts in the expensive sod. Two federal agents were standing near the grand marble entrance, their guns drawn, while a third was using a ram to force open the massive oak front doors.
We pulled up in Artie’s old Chevy truck, the engine backfiring once as we stopped near the stone columns.
As we stepped out, the front doors of the mansion finally splintered open.
Margaret Holloway was led out first. She was wearing a cream-colored silk blouse, her pearls still around her neck, but her face was entirely white, her hair wild and unbrushed. Her hands were cuffed behind her back, the metal links clicking loudly against her heavy gold bracelets as a female officer guided her down the steps.
"This is a mistake!" Margaret shrieked, her voice echoing through the quiet, wealthy neighborhood. "Do you know who my family is? I fund your pension! I donated the library to your academy!"
"Step down, ma'am," the officer said, her voice flat and bored.
Then came Grant.
He was wearing his tailored gray suit, but his tie was missing, his collar torn as if he had tried to run before they pinned him to the floor. His face was streaked with sweat and dirt, his eyes wide with a wild, animal-like panic as he saw the news camera from the Sun-Times flashing in his face.
He saw Hannah first.
He stopped on the bottom step, his chest rising and falling in rapid, shallow gasps. "Hannah... Hannah, tell them! Tell them it was a misunderstanding! You're my wife! You have to help me!"
Hannah walked toward him, stopping three feet away, just out of reach of his cuffed hands. She didn't look at him with anger. She looked at him with the quiet, cold indifference of a landlord inspecting a ruined property.
"The seventy-two hours are up, Grant," Hannah said, her voice carrying clearly through the wet autumn air. "And we didn't bring any soup."
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"You ruined me!" Grant screamed, his face twisting into a hideous, pathetic mask of rage as the officers dragged him toward the back of the cruiser. "You and your crazy mother! You’re nothing! You’re just South Side trash!"
"We’re the trash that’s going to buy your house at the auction, Grant," I called out from the driveway.
