Story code: ST-000769
Part 2: The Premium Customer
The pale blue eyes of Richard Vance locked onto Marcus. For a fraction of a second, Vance’s perfectly smooth forehead creased. The annoyance of dealing with a gig worker fractured, replaced by a flicker of genuine surprise, and then, a slow, sickening stretching of the lips. Vance smiled. It was the exact same sympathetic, utterly hollow smile he had worn in the courtroom when the federal judge handed down Marcus’s sixty-month sentence.
“Well,” Vance murmured, his voice a rich, polished baritone that barely carried over the hum of the intake room’s air conditioning. “If it isn’t the fall guy.”
Marcus couldn’t breathe. His fingers tightened around the edges of the black plastic tablet case until his knuckles turned bone-white. The phantom smell of the maximum-security block-sweat, rust, and industrial bleach-flooded his sinuses, completely overpowering the scent of the fresh basil sitting on the stainless steel counter between them. Every instinct in Marcus’s body screamed at him to drop the tablet, reach across the counter, and wrap his hands around Vance’s throat. It would only take a few seconds of pressure.
Before Marcus could move a muscle, the heavy plastic tracker on his right ankle scraped sharply against his shinbone. A burning, physical reminder. Any violent infraction, any aggressive movement, and his parole would be revoked instantly. He wouldn’t be sent here, to this sprawling country-club estate with manicured lawns and weekend furloughs. He would go back to the concrete cage. He would lose the tiny, fragile sliver of a life he had barely managed to scrape together over the last four months.
Officer Miller’s heavy duty radio suddenly crackled with a loud burst of static. “Miller, got a transport backing up at the loading dock. Need a second set of eyes,” a dispatcher’s voice buzzed.
Miller grunted, looking between the two men. “I’ll be right back. Keep your hands where I can see ’em, delivery boy.” The guard turned his back and stepped through the reinforced security door into the adjacent office, the heavy lock clicking shut behind him.
They were alone in the intake room.
Vance casually leaned his forearms against the stainless steel counter, completely at ease in his tailored khakis. He reached into the brown paper bag and pulled out the white truffle oil, turning it in the light. “I have to admit, Marcus, I didn’t expect to see you running errands. I assumed you’d be… well, struggling a bit more with the transition. It’s tough out there for a felon, isn’t it?”
Marcus stared at the rose-gold watch on Vance’s wrist. The deep scratch at the four o’clock mark glared under the fluorescents. Five years ago, Vance had called him into the executive boardroom, poured him a glass of expensive scotch, and explained that a minor accounting irregularity needed his signature to clear an internal audit. Just a formality, Vance had promised. Six months later, the federal agents kicked Marcus’s door down. Vance had perfectly insulated himself behind a labyrinth of shell companies and Marcus’s own digital signatures, walking away with thirty million dollars. And now, Vance was serving a minor sentence for a completely unrelated, slap-on-the-wrist tax misdemeanor, ordering artisanal cheese while Marcus paid for his actual crimes.
“Sign the screen,” Marcus managed to say. His voice sounded like grinding stones. It took every ounce of his willpower to keep his hands pressed tightly to his sides. “You already signed. Just hit submit.”
Vance picked up the tablet, but he didn’t press the glowing green button. Instead, he tapped the screen thoughtfully with the stylus. “This delivery app. It’s your only source of income, isn’t it? I read an article about how strict their background checks are getting. I imagine it was quite difficult to get an exception with a federal fraud conviction on your record.”
Marcus’s jaw locked. He desperately needed this payout. If he didn’t clear his weekly supervision fee by Friday morning, his parole officer would flag him for non-compliance. A flag meant an automatic warrant.
“I ordered the burrata,” Vance said casually, pulling the delicate plastic container from the top of the grocery bag. He inspected it, then deliberately squeezed his thumb against the lid. The thin plastic cracked with a sharp snap. A slow leak of milky fluid began to seep onto the pristine counter. “Ah. Looks like the packaging is damaged. That’s a safety violation.”
“Don’t,” Marcus whispered, the word tearing painfully out of his throat.
“And this tomato,” Vance continued, ignoring him. He picked up the heirloom tomato Officer Miller had aggressively squeezed earlier. “Bruised. Completely unacceptable quality.”
“The guard did that.”
“Who do you think the app’s support team will believe?” Vance asked softly, setting the tomato down. “A preferred premium customer, or a convicted felon delivery driver? If I report this order as tampered with, they’ll suspend your account pending an investigation. And if I tell Officer Miller you were acting aggressively… well.” Vance’s eyes flicked down to the hem of Marcus’s jeans, right where the monitor rested. “We both know where you’ll be sleeping tonight.”
Panic, cold and sharp, pierced through Marcus’s blinding rage. Vance was entirely right. The gig app’s algorithm fired drivers automatically for customer complaints, especially at correctional facilities. The sudden loss of income would cascade into a parole violation within days.
Vance slid the tablet back across the counter, keeping his manicured hand resting lightly on top of it. He hovered his index finger directly over the red button labeled ‘Report Safety Issue’.
“You took a lot from me, Marcus, when you tried to negotiate a deal with the prosecutors,” Vance said, his voice dropping to a harsh, venomous whisper. “You dragged my name through the mud in open court, even if nothing stuck. I didn’t like that.”
Heavy footsteps echoed from the adjacent office. Officer Miller was coming back to the counter.
“I’ll hit submit, and you get your little payout,” Vance said, his sympathetic courtroom smile returning as the heavy doorknob turned. “But first, you’re going to apologize to me for ruining my lunch. And you’re going to say it loudly enough for the guard to hear.”
The heavy security door began to swing open. Marcus stared at the tablet, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird, knowing the words would turn his stomach to ash.