Rise Of The True Heir

Chapter 2

The booking desk was a chaos of ringing phones and scattered paperwork, but every officer who glanced up took one look at Richard's faded uniform and immediately lost interest. 

He was just another nobody from the east side, not worth their attention or concern.

"Officer, you need to listen to me," Richard said, forcing his voice to remain steady despite the adrenaline still coursing through his system. "I wasn't driving that car. 

Terry Simpson was behind the wheel when the accident happened. I was sitting in the back seat the entire time. If you check the steering wheel for fingerprints, if you pull the traffic camera footage from Oak and Fifth Avenue, you'll see exactly what happened."

Officer Vance didn't even slow down, his gaze instead was laced with disdain and irritation. 

He was a heavyset man whose uniform buttons strained against his gut, and he chewed his gum.

 He guided Richard toward a metal chair in front of a scarred wooden desk without acknowledging a single word.

"Sit down and sign here," Vance said, dropping a stack of papers in front of Richard.

"Did you hear what I said?" Richard's hands clenched into fists on his knees. "There were witnesses at Club Neon. The parking attendant saw Terry get behind the wheel. Security cameras recorded everything. You just need to check—"

"The traffic cameras at that intersection have been down for maintenance since midnight," Vance interrupted, finally looking up from his paperwork. "And the vehicle has already been released to the Simpson family's private security for detailing and repairs."

The realization hits Richard like a blow down his guts.

They hadn't just arrested him; they'd systematically erased the evidence before the police cruiser had even reached the station. 

"You know he was driving," Richard said, his dark eyes boring into Vance's face. "You smelled the alcohol on his breath. You saw how drunk he was. You're letting a murderer walk free."

For the first time, Vance set down his pen and really looked at Richard. Not with anger or annoyance, but with something worse: pity. 

"Let me explain how the world works, kid, since they apparently didn't teach you this in whatever gutter you crawled out of." Vance leaned back in his chair, and his gaze boring into Richard's soul.

 "The Simpson family built half this city. They fund our annual budget reviews, they donate to the police widows and orphans charity, and the patriarch plays golf with the police commissioner every Sunday morning. Their lawyers have more pull in this precinct than the mayor does."

He gestured at Richard's worn clothes, the faded scholarship badge still pinned to his chest. "You, on the other hand, are nobody. No money, no connections, no value to anyone who matters. When a Simpson tells us that some slum rat stole his keys and went on a joyride, that becomes the official truth. That's how the world works."

Richard felt something cold and sharp twist in his stomach.

 "So even if I'm innocent, it doesn't matter, is that what you're saying?" He almost screamed out his lungs, anger brewing through his system. 

"What I'm telling you is that people like you serve a very specific purpose in this city. When powerful people make mistakes, when accidents happen that could embarrass important families, people from the gutters exist to absorb the blame. That's not cruelty, kid. That's just how the system works."

He picked up his pen again, already dismissing Richard from his attention. "Officer Briggs will take you to the holding cells now. The public defender will be here in the morning to work out your plea deal. If you're smart, you'll take whatever they offer and keep your mouth shut."

Richard sat completely still for three heartbeats, his hands slowly curling into fists so tight his nails drew blood from his palms. 

Without another word, Richard stood and followed Officer Briggs down the corridor toward the holding cells, his world crumbling right before him and there was nothing he could do about it.

Richard pressed his forehead against the bars, his knuckles white from the force of his grip.

He thought about the exam he'd walked out of today. Three years of preparation. Three years of studying under flickering lightbulbs and memorizing case law in servant quarters while the Blackwood family slept in rooms that cost more per night than his monthly salary. All of it went because Terry Simpson had wanted to show off for his ex-girlfriend.

He thought about Bella stepping on his back without hesitation, using him as a human footstool. Two years of whatever they'd had, and she hadn't even blinked when she pointed her finger at him for the police.

He thought about the old man on the asphalt, the grocery bags scattered across the road, the spreading pool of blood under the streetlights. Someone was waiting for that man at home right now, wondering why he hadn't returned.

And the person responsible was probably already home, calling his lawyer, reconstructing the evening into a version that the world would see as true.

And nobody cared because justice was justice when the rich and powerful were right.

The rage that had been building in Richard's chest for three years suddenly roared to life, demanding release. He wanted to tear these bars from their concrete moorings. He wanted to find Terry Simpson and show him exactly what happened when you pushed the wrong person too far. He wanted to scream until his throat bled.

He wished he had a chance and just then, 

A commotion erupted from the front of the station.

The movement of cars rebounded through the halls and the coordinated march of feet were heard shaking the cells to his root.

And even though Richard could barely see anything, the aura pressed against his chest, so bad that he could barely 

Then a voice cut through the cell with so much authority that could make even the president think twice before acting. 

"Release him." The voice ordered.