Story code: ST-000291
Part 4: The Twelve Thousand
Maya watched Judge Vance completely deflate, his manicured hands falling limply against the sides of his black robe. The suffocating weight of his own illicit secret pressed down on him, rendering him entirely mute. Bailiff Miller stared nervously between the judge and Maya, clearly unwilling to involve the police without a direct order from the bench. The heavy silence in the chambers dragged on for several agonizing seconds, punctuated only by the relentless ticking of the antique grandfather clock in the corner.
“If there is nothing further regarding my municipal fee, Your Honor,” Maya said, her voice remaining remarkably steady in the vacuum-like room. “I need to leave.”
Vance did not nod. He did not blink. He simply stared blankly at the carved mahogany desk where his untraceable cash had been sitting only twenty minutes prior.
Maya turned on her heel, the heavy faux-leather handbag swinging solidly against her right hip. She walked past the terrified clerk, who instinctively shrank back against the oak doorframe, and stepped over the thick brass threshold. The heavy wooden door clicked shut behind her, finally severing her from the stifling, lemon-scented air of the private chambers.
The moment she crossed back into the harsh fluorescent glare of the fourth-floor corridor, the cold, razor-sharp clarity that had possessed her instantly evaporated. Her knees buckled slightly, suddenly feeling as hollow and fragile as dry reeds. She gripped the strap of her purse with both hands, her knuckles turning bone-white, and forced herself to walk rapidly down the linoleum hallway. She kept her eyes locked perfectly straight ahead, desperately ignoring the bustling lawyers and murmuring defendants passing by.
She pushed violently through the heavy swinging door of the women’s restroom near the elevator bank. The tiled space was completely deserted, smelling sharply of industrial bleach and cheap floral soap. Maya hurried into the farthest handicap stall, sliding the metal deadbolt securely into place with a sharp, echoing clack.
She collapsed onto the closed toilet lid, her chest heaving as she fought to pull oxygen into her violently constricting lungs. Her trembling fingers fumbled blindly with the brass zipper of her handbag. She reached inside, pushing past the crumpled final-notice medical bills and her keys, until her fingertips brushed the cold, textured paper of the oversized bank envelope.
She pulled it out, resting the massive brick of mint-green currency on her lap. Her hands shook so aggressively that she struggled to separate the bundles. The top stack was wrapped in a crisp paper band marked ten thousand in bold black ink. She pulled the second, slightly thinner stack from the bottom of the envelope and began flipping rapidly through the crisp hundred-dollar bills.
One, two, three. Ten, fifteen, twenty.
She counted the second stack twice. Two thousand dollars. The envelope contained exactly twelve thousand dollars. A harsh, breathless laugh escaped her throat, echoing thinly off the tiled bathroom walls. The arrogant judge hadn’t even had the full fifteen thousand his gruff contractor demanded; Vance had been planning to shortchange Russo right up until the moment the cash vanished.
But twelve thousand dollars was enough. It was more than enough.
Maya pulled her phone from her pocket, the spiderweb-cracked screen still displaying the vivid red banner of the denied insurance claim for $11,400.00. The digital clock in the upper corner read 3:05 PM. She had nearly two hours to carry this cash across the street to the local bank, deposit it directly into her checking account, and wire the exact payment to the out-of-state specialty pharmacy. The overnight shipment would be processed. Her husband’s immunosuppressant medication would arrive on time. His body would not reject his transplanted kidney. He was going to survive.
She stared down at the stolen money resting heavily on her thighs, fully expecting to feel a profound, triumphant wave of relief. Instead, a sickening, acidic wave of adrenaline crashed violently against the walls of her stomach. The vivid green ink of the currency seemed to burn brightly against her retinas.
She clamped her hands over her mouth, muffling a sudden, desperate gag. The sheer, unfathomable reality of what she had just done settled into her bones like lead. She was a thief. She had stolen twelve thousand dollars. She had looked a powerful, furious man directly in the eyes and ruthlessly blackmailed him with the threat of federal prison. The heavy, immovable line between right and wrong-a line she had fiercely respected her entire life-was completely obliterated. There was no going back. She could never, ever undo the crime currently sitting in her lap.
She shoved the stacks of cash back into the oversized envelope, her movements frantic and clumsy, and buried it deep beneath her plastic pill bottles. She zipped the handbag completely shut, hugging it tightly against her ribs as if it might physically explode.
Maya leaned her forehead against the cold, green-painted metal of the stall door, tightly closing her eyes. Her husband was saved, but the suffocating terror was far from over. Her forty-five-dollar bounced check remained completely unaddressed. Judge Vance had not dismissed the penalty, and she had not paid it. The court order in her pocket legally mandated her appearance until the municipal matter was formally concluded.
She swallowed hard, the harsh metallic taste of pure fear coating the back of her throat. Tomorrow morning, at nine o’clock sharp, she would have to walk back through those heavy oak doors. She would have to sit in that rigid leather chair, breathing in the heavy lemon polish, and look directly into the cold, calculating eyes of the corrupt judge she had just robbed.