Chapter 18 - THE CELL DOOR CLOSES
A week later, fifty miles west in the maximum-security wing of the federal penitentiary in Atlanta, the heavy iron doors slid shut with a dull, hollow CLANG.
Warren Voss sat on the edge of a narrow steel cot, wearing a faded khaki prison jumpsuit. His once-pristine silver hair was cropped short and ragged. Without his gold-topped cane, his polished shoes, or his court of bribed officials, he looked like what he had always been underneath: a weak, petty man stripped of his borrowed power.
Across the narrow corridor, behind a reinforced glass partition, Daniel Voss sat in his own cell.
Daniel’s face was drawn and gaunt. His hands trembled continuously—a nervous tick he’d developed since his sentencing. He stared at the floor, unable to look his father in the eyes.
"Dad?" Daniel whispered, his voice cracking against the hard concrete walls. "When does the appeal lawyer come?"
Warren didn't turn his head. He stared at the cold concrete wall opposite his bunk.
"There is no appeal lawyer, Daniel," Warren said, his voice flat and lifeless as dry gravel. "Arthur Vance surrendered his law license on Tuesday to avoid an indictment. We have no money left."
"No money?" Daniel choked out, tears welling in his sunken eyes. "What about the Cayman accounts? The land?"
"Samuel Reed took the land," Warren whispered, the name tasting like ash in his mouth. "And the federal government took the rest."
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Daniel buried his head in his knees, letting out a pitiful, whining sob that echoed through the dark tier.
Warren closed his eyes. In the silence of the cell block, he didn't hear the roar of heavy machinery or the cheers of county board meetings. He heard only the memory of an old farmer in a muddy Ford truck, standing on his porch in the pouring rain, telling him to get off his land.
