Chapter 2 - THE SILVER CUFFLINKS AND THE WITNESS
I wiped a smear of blood from my forehead with the back of my sleeve.
The sting was sharp, but the sudden, heavy silence of the dining room was sharper.
The man in the gray suit—whom I would later learn was Julian Vance—adjusted his expensive silk tie.
He looked around the room, expecting the usual deferential nods of wealth and power.
Instead, he found stone walls.
A businessman sitting three tables away stood up so fast his water glass tipped over, spilling ice across the white tablecloth.
"That is entirely unacceptable," the man said, his voice ringing clearly through the quiet room.
Julian turned, his lip curling in a sneer.
"Mind your own business, old man."
"Assaulting a young woman over a piece of meat is everyone's business," the older man retorted, stepping into the aisle.
Before Julian could fire back, the heavy oak doors of the restaurant swung open.
Two uniformed police officers stepped inside, responding to an automated panic alarm tripped by the hostess station.
My heart hammered against my ribs.
I was just a server working a double shift to pay for my mother's physical therapy.
I couldn't afford a lawsuit. I couldn't afford to lose this job.
Officer Miller, a veteran cop who frequently grabbed coffee at our diner across town, scanned the room and locked eyes with me.
He saw the blood on my forehead.
He saw me kneeling on the hardwood floor among broken porcelain and scattered silverware.
His face hardened instantly.
"Alright," Officer Miller said, resting his hand on his holster as he walked toward Table Twelve. "What the hell happened here?"
Julian didn't look worried. In fact, he pulled a gold business card holder from his breast pocket.
"Officer, I am Julian Vance, senior partner at Vance & Sterling Capital," he said, as if reciting a magic spell that made laws optional. "This incompetent girl threw a tray at me, slipped, and caused a disturbance. I demand you escort her off the premises."
I opened my mouth to speak, but my throat was tight.
Officer Miller didn't take the card.
Instead, he looked down at the floor near Julian’s polished Italian leather shoes.
Something shiny caught the overhead chandelier light.
It was a heavy, platinum cufflink, engraved with the initials J.V., resting right beside a smear of my blood.
And right next to it lay a crumpled, torn photograph that had fallen out of Julian's jacket pocket when he lashed out.
I crawled forward slightly to pick it up, but Officer Miller beat me to it.
The veteran cop picked up the photograph and turned it over.
His eyes widened.
He looked up from the picture to Julian Vance, and the casual authority in the officer's posture vanished, replaced by cold, hard realization.
"Mr. Vance," Officer Miller said softly. "I think you need to come with us."
May you like
Julian scoffed. "You don't know who you're dealing with."
"Oh, I think I do," Miller replied, holding up the photograph for the entire restaurant to see. "Especially since this picture shows you standing in front of the exact same restaurant twelve years ago—on the night a hit-and-run driver left a pregnant woman bleeding on the pavement."
