Chapter 24 - The Palais de Justice
Geneva in late autumn was an austere, breathtaking masterpiece of grey granite, cold stone arches, and the icy, turquoise expanse of Lake Geneva reflecting the snow-dusted peaks of the Alps.
At 9:30 AM on Wednesday morning, our armored Mercedes convoy pulled up to the cobblestone plaza outside the historic Palais de Justice in the Old Town. The air was freezing, sharp with the scent of mountain frost and ancient cedar trees.
Clara stepped out of the vehicle wearing a tailored charcoal wool coat over an ivory silk dress, her golden-brown hair styled in an elegant, modern twist. She carried her father’s battered leather notebook in her gloved hands, walking up the sweeping stone staircase with the quiet, effortless dignity of a queen arriving to inspect her court.
I walked beside her in a bespoke charcoal three-piece suit, Marcus flanking us three paces behind, his sharp eyes sweeping the neoclassical colonnade for security threats.
The grand chamber of the Cantonal Probate Chancery was a high-vaulted hall lined with dark walnut paneling, stained-glass windows displaying the Swiss cantonal crests, and heavy bronze chandeliers casting a solemn, amber glow over the room.
Sitting at the petitioner’s table was Vincent Croft.
At forty-eight, Vincent bore an eerie, unsettling resemblance to his late brother Richard, but the soft corporate edges had been replaced by the weathered, brutal sharpness of a man who lived by the gun. He had a tight military buzz cut, cold grey eyes, and a deep scar cutting across his left cheekbone beneath an expensive bespoke suit. Around his wrist was an unbranded tactical chronometer.
Beside him sat Dr. Hans Becker, an austere Swiss attorney with gold-rimmed spectacles, surrounded by thick volumes of civil code.
When Clara and I walked down the center aisle, Vincent Croft’s eyes locked onto us. A slow, condescending smirk curled the corner of his scarred mouth. He stood up, adjusting his cuffs, leaning against the table with deliberate, arrogant posture.
"Bennett Hale," Vincent said, his voice carrying the harsh, gravelly accent of an expatriate mercenary. "I expected you to send three carloads of armed hoods to the airport. I see you brought the maid instead."
Marcus’s hand twitched beneath his coat, but before he could take a step, Clara stopped.
She turned to face Vincent Croft. She did not look angry; she did not look offended. She looked at him with that same calm, devastating pity she had once shown to Richard Croft on the sixty-fourth floor of the Hale Financial Tower.
"Mr. Croft," Clara said, her voice clear, musical, and perfectly audible in the hushed chamber. "Your brother Richard had more manners than you do, and he died weeping in an orange jumpsuit. I suggest you sit down and review your paperwork, because the only thing leaving this room today is your family's final defeat."
Vincent’s smirk petrified on his face.
May you like
Before he could utter another syllable, the heavy carved doors behind the bench swung open.
"All rise," the court clerk intoned in French and English. "The Cantonal Chancellor of the Republic and Canton of Geneva, Judge Henri Dumont, presiding."
