Scrape Away Her Perfect Life From The Fiftieth Floor

Five years ago, I ruined my life. It was a high-profile casea sensational, ugly rape and murderand I mounted a defense that got me disbarred, branded a felon, and sent to prison for faking evidence.

Now, I'm a ghost, a Rope Access Technician, dangling like a spider outside the glass walls of the Ares Tower.

Two hundred meters above the city, my single hand gripped the lifeline, and through the thick, mirrored curtain wall, I saw her. Camilla Shaw.

She was the legal world's darling, the one they called the "Goddess of Corporate Justice," and she was the Chief Legal Officer of this entire real estate conglomerate. She was flanked by a group of nodding, deferential executives.

My foremans voice screeched in my earpiece, harsh and tinny:

Cole! Ms. Shaw took pity on you, man. She specifically requested you clean the entire Ares Tower for the year. Get a move on! Go on, give her a courtesy bow through the glass, show some gratitude!

I tightened my grip on the squeegee, looking at her inside the conference room. Designer suit, surrounded by light, the center of their universe. It was utterly laughable.

No one knew that the person who swapped out the key evidence, who threw me under the bus and into a cell for five yearsall to clear her mentorwas the very "Goddess of Justice" behind that bulletproof glass.

...

I said, give Ms. Shaw a damn bow!

Static buzzed in the receiver.

As if sensing the commotion, Preston Maxwell, the CEO of the group and my former mentor, turned his head.

He saw me, a filthy silhouette suspended against the azure sky.

He raised a hand and pointed at the window. I watched his lips move. I could read the words through the glass: That's the counter-example.

A wave of laughter erupted in the conference room. Camilla followed his gaze, and our eyes locked.

Five years. She was more beautiful, sharper. The girl who used to pout in our tiny apartment over five dollars of grocery money was now wearing a custom suit that cost more than my annual wages, idly twirling a Montblanc pen.

A flicker of shock crossed her face, quickly replaced by something cold and unreadable.

Preston walked up to the window. That well-maintained face of histhe one the magazines lovedpulled into the familiar, sickening mask of feigned benevolence.

He waved, his mouth exaggerated, a theatrical mockery: Jeeen-sen...

In my earpiece, the foreman was still barking:

Jensen Cole, are you deaf? Ms. Shaw is watching! You need this contract, man! Good behavior means a six-month paycheck! Bow, dammit! At least nod your head!

I plunged the squeegee into my bucket. The dirty water streamed down the glass, directly over Prestons face on the other side.

I lifted the squeegee and, with all the venom I could muster, scraped it hard across the glass, right over his image.

Screeeech!

The ear-splitting shriek of the rubber against the double-paned glass seemed to drill into the bones of everyone inside. They clapped their hands over their ears.

Preston's smile froze.

I saw Camilla slam the Montblanc pen onto the table. She stood up, her ten-centimeter heels clicking against the polished stone, and walked toward the glass.

She stopped inches from the wall, less than a foot from me. Only this unbreakable layer of glass separated us.

She looked at me. There was no remorse in her eyes, nothing close to the guilt Id imagined for five years.

The earpiece went silent. Camilla had picked up the internal line on the table.

Seconds later, a small section of the window silently retracted. The high-altitude wind rushed in, carrying her voice, cold and flat:

Jensen Cole. Get inside.

It wasn't a request. It was an order.

Ten minutes later, I stood in Camillas enormous corner office. The carpet was thick, and my dust-caked rubber boots left a series of damning, muddy prints with every step.

Camilla sat in a massive, ergonomic leather chair.

Jensen, did you really have to be so disgusting?

She pulled a wad of fresh hundreds from her purse and tossed them onto the floor. The red currency scattered near my mud-spattered trousers.

Thats severance. Take it and get out.

Dont let me see you on this tower again. You're an embarrassment.

I bent down, one by one, to pick up the bills. Not out of subservience, but because I needed to eat.

Camilla watched my actions, her face a mask of disappointment, the sort of pain a parent feels for a wayward child.

Look at you, Jensen. Look at the mess you are.

If you hadn't faked that evidence, you wouldnt be here today, picking up my scraps.

Do you know how hard it is for me to sit in this chair because of your mistake? Everyone is watching me, waiting to laugh and say my ex-husband is a felon!

She adopted the pose of the victim, as if she were the one who had served five years in a state prison.

I finished picking up the money. I took two twenties out of the stack, placing the rest neatly on the corner of her desk.

Twenty bucks a pane. That's what I'm owed.

I turned to leave.

A stack of papers slammed onto the desk behind me.

I opened the door and walked directly into my parents.

George and Carol Cole. They were dressed in their best clothes, being guided by a staff member to some corporate event.

They froze when they saw mefilthy, holding a squeegee, carrying a bucket. The look on their faces was instantaneous. My mother instinctively recoiled.

The staff member immediately apologized: So sorry! This is an outsourced cleaner. Hell be gone immediately.

My father gave me a look of pure, cold contempt, then turned to the staffer: Get him out of here fast. We dont want him bumping into Prestons important guests.

They pretended not to know me.

As they passed, I heard my mother whisper:

Such bad luck.

Thank God no one recognized him. Imagine what that would do to Prestons reputation.

The elevator doors closed.

I touched the two crumpled twenties in my pocket.

Two hundred meters of open air hadnt made my legs weak.

But in that moment, my heart plummeted.

The next day, the foreman called me aside, his face uneasy.

Jensen, the top brass sent word. Today, youre on the C-Wing.

The C-Wing. The tower's auxiliary building. Because of a flawed architectural design, its exterior walls were studded with sharp, decorative metal strips.

It was the unwritten "Black Zone" for every rope access worker. One wrong move, and the safety line would be sliced clean through.

Important inspectors are visiting today, the foreman muttered, patting my shoulder awkwardly. Do a good job. Don't embarrass Ms. Shaw again.

I said nothing, silently hoisting my gear.

On the roof, my phone rang. It was Camilla.

Her voice was, surprisingly, soft.

Jensen. The C-Wing job was a special arrangement for you.

Preston says if you perform well today, we might consider moving you to the logistics department. No more wind and sun.

Dont be ungrateful.

She hung up. I looked down into the seemingly bottomless abyss of the C-Wing.

A chance to prove myself?

More like a chance to die.

I checked my equipment.

The main safety lock had several fresh, deep gouges on the metal. They glinted faintly in the sun.

Someone had tampered with it.

I didn't make a sound. I pulled a spare climbing rope from my bag, tied a tight, hidden figure-eight knot, and clipped it to an inner D-ring on my belt.

It was my secret lifeline.

I hit the fiftieth floor when the wind suddenly roared.

I swung violently in the air.

As expected, the main safety lock gave out with a sickening ping!

It snapped.

My body instantly went weightless, plummeting rapidly.

The wind screamed in my ears; the glass facade flashed past.

In that fraction of a second, I kicked hard against the wall, using the leverage to swing myself sideways.

The backup line snapped taut, digging brutally into my hip.

I used the momentum to grab the edge of a permanently ajar air-conditioning vent.

An ordinary person would have been a smear on the pavement right now.

But I was ready.

My fingers clawed into the narrow gap. Skin tore, blood welling up.

But I held fast.

I rolled into the ventilation shaft, gasping, sucking air into my lungs.

Two hundred meters up, I had cheated death.

When I got back to the ground, the foreman stared at me as if I were a zombie.

You How did you get down?

I threw the severed lock at his feet.

Is this your companys safety standard?

The foremans face turned sickly pale, but he recovered quickly, shifting to angry denial.

You broke that equipment yourself! Don't you dare blame the company!

Jensen Cole, youre fired! All your pay this month is forfeit, and youll be billed for the ruined equipment!

I knew this was Prestons doing. A choice: either fall to my death or starve to it.

Just then, a black Rolls-Royce Ghost pulled up. Camilla stepped out in her high heels.

She looked at my filthy, disheveled state.

What happened to you?

She waved off the security guard who was about to grab me. She pulled a file from her briefcase and handed it to me.

For old times sake.

Preston is being generous. He won't press charges for your safety violation.

The Group Security team needs a doorman. Five grand a month, room and board included.

Sign this, and you start immediately.

I looked at the title of the document: Plea of Contrition and Statement of Guilt.

The content was a complete confession: I admitted that I, Jensen Cole, had falsified evidence in the case five years ago purely for money and that no one else was involved. It concluded by thanking Preston Maxwell for his magnanimity in giving me a second chance.

I wont sign.

Camillas expression hardened.

Jensen, how much longer are you going to be stubborn?

Your parents retirement fund isnt enough to cover their medical bills, and your uncle just lost another huge bet. He owes everyone. If you dont have a job, theyll be out in the cold.

Seeing I was unmoved, she pulled out her phone and started a video call.

On the screen, my parents were sitting in an exclusive, high-end restaurant. Preston was pouring them wine.

Dad, Mom, please eat up, Preston said, his smile radiating faux-warmth.

My mother beamed at the camera: Oh, thank you, Preston! Youre the only one who takes care of us now.

Preston took the phone, raising an eyebrow at me through the screen.

Buddy, your folks havent been well lately. They need stability.

He turned slightly and whispered, though the mic picked it up:

If you sign this, they eat here every night. If you dont

He didn't finish the sentence, but the camera caught a brief flash of several large bodyguards standing just behind him.

I clenched my fists.

Faced with this open blackmail.

Ill sign.

Preston smiled, satisfied.

Thats the spirit.

A compliant dog is always better than a dead man.

That night, my parents called.

Jensen! You finally learned your lesson!

Being a doorman for Preston is a blessing! So many people would kill for that! You work hard, you thank Preston for the opportunity, and you stop embarrassing us!

I hung up, staring out at the city lights.

My hands, still gripping the signed confession, slowly relaxed.

The Group Legal Gala was held at the most luxurious hotel in the city.

Dress nicely. Dont shame the company.

Camilla had tossed me a cheap suit. My job: a waiter in the ballroom.

I moved through the crowd, tray in hand, serving my former colleagues and adversaries.

Hey, isnt that Jensen Cole?

The disgraced lawyer? Reduced to clearing plates?

Shhh. I heard Preston kept him on purpose. Something about a chance for redemption.

The whispers buzzed around me.

I kept my face expressionless, mechanically pouring champagne and taking empty glasses.

On the main stage, the lights were dazzling. Preston, in a custom tuxedo, looked like the king of the world.

He held the microphone, expounding on The Ethics and Conscience of the Legal Profession.

The crowd erupted in applause. Camilla sat in the front row, watching him with an almost worshipful gaze.

And tonight, we have a very special guest.

Prestons tone shifted, his eyes scanning the crowd, landing precisely on me.

Jensen Cole. My former protg. Once the Wunderkind Lawyer.

Come up, Jensen. Tell everyone your journey.

A spotlight instantly pinned me to the floor.

I was holding a tray, exposed and unprepared, like Id been stripped naked in front of an audience.

Someone pushed me hard from behind.

Go on! What are you waiting for!

I set the tray down and walked, one step after agonizing step, toward the stage. Every inch of my neck felt burned under the scrutiny.

Preston handed me the microphone, his phony, gentle smile making me sick.

Dont be nervous, buddy.

Why don't you read the statement you prepared for us?

On the massive screen behind us, the Plea of Contrition and Statement of Guilt was projected.

My signature and fingerprint were stark, damning black on white.

A gasp went through the room.

Did he really do it?

Gave up his ethics for a payout. Disgusting.

I actually thought hed been framed.

My hand holding the microphone trembled.

Not from fear.

I saw my parents sitting in the back corner. They were wearing the new clothes Preston had bought them, wiping away manufactured tears for the cameras.

Thank God for Prestons generosity, giving our boy a job, my mother sobbed into a reporters microphone. It was our family's tragedy. We raised a social degenerate.

I took a deep breath, trying to steady the raging storm in my chest.

I, Jensen Cole

I began to read.

Every word was a lie, a betrayal, and an act of self-hatred.

Preston stood beside me, nodding in appreciation, as if admiring a masterpiece.

Camilla stepped forward and, in front of everyone, straightened the worn tie I was wearing.

Her eyes, however, were ice.

She leaned in, her voice low enough only for me to hear:

Jensen. Just keep obeying. Ill keep you for life.

Then she turned back to the audience, her eyes glistening with crocodile tears.

Jensen made a mistake, but our corporation is offering him a chance for full rehabilitation.

This is the compassion of the law, and it is the culture of our company.

The room exploded with applause.

Camilla and Preston stood side-by-side, soaking up the adulation.

Preston seized the moment, announcing the creation of the Integrity and Ethics Fund.

Jensen Cole will serve as its counter-ambassador, a warning to future generations.

I stood in the shadows, accepting the applause that was actually directed at my destruction.

After the event, I was in the hotel alley, emptying a trash bin.

A black sedan was parked nearby. The window was slightly lowered, and I saw Prestons profile.

He was on the phone, his stage persona completely gone.

Did you get the victims family agitated?

Yes. Do it today.

Let them raise hell. The bigger the mess, the better.

Make sure hes ruined. This time, he wont ever stand up again.

The next morning, Camillas calls blew up my phone. Her voice was panicked, frantic.

Jensen, where are you? Get down to the South End demolition site immediately!

The victims family from the old casetheyre on the roof of a condemned building, threatening to jump!

Theyre demanding you. Calling you the corrupt lawyer, saying you owe them a life!

My heart dropped.

It was the setup. It had finally arrived.

I wont go, I said, cold and dead. I'm a doorman now. This is a police matter.

You have to go! Camilla shrieked. The media is there! If anyone dies, the companys reputation is finished!

Thats your problem.

Jensen Cole! Do it for your own redemption, then! If you don't go, your parents are already on the scene. The family is hysterical. If they hurt them

I hung up immediately and hailed a cab toward the South End.

My mother called moments later. Wailing hysterically.

Jensen! You have to fix the mess you made!

Dont drag Preston and Camilla into this! Get down here! They have knives!

I gripped the phone hard.

I knew it was a trap.

But I had to go.

Not just for my parents, but for the victims family. For five years, I had tried to reach them. Preston, to escape, had not only falsified evidence but had also paid them a fortune to point the finger at me as the orchestrator of the frame-up.

When I arrived, it wasn't a demolition site. It was an abandoned psychiatric facility.

There was no media, no crowd.

As soon as I stepped into the main lobby, the heavy iron door slammed shut behind me.

Several large men in white orderly uniforms emerged from the shadows. They held stun batons and restraints.

The man leading them was familiar. Ronan Miller. The victims older brother.

He was heavier than five years ago, his face scarred, his eyes full of malice.

Mr. Cole. Long time no see.

He grinned, tapping the stun baton against his palm.

Ronan, how much did Preston pay you this time? I stared at him, keeping my voice steady.

Pay? Ronan spat on the floor. Preston says youre trying to overturn the case, trying to dirty his name again.

But he says youre probably insane. Mentally ill. And in need of treatment.

I took a step back, my spine against the damp wall.

You believe that? You know the truth, Ronan. You always did.

Truth? Ronan charged me, slamming the baton into my shoulder.

A muffled cry of pain escaped me. I dropped to one knee.

The truth is my sister is dead! And you, the accomplice, are still breathing!

The other orderlies swarmed me, pinning me to the floor.

Restraint cuffs were cinched tight around my wrists and ankles.

Let me go! This is unlawful detention! I struggled.

Unlawful? Ronan held up a document, shaking it in my face.

Mandatory Commitment Consent Form.

My mothers signature was scrawled at the bottom.

Your own mother signed it. Says youre a severe schizophrenic with violent tendencies. We have full authority to treat you.

Ronan put his phone on speaker and dialed a number.

My mothers voice came through, loud and chillingly clear:

Yes. Just keep him locked up. Dont let him cause any more trouble.

Prestons company is going public soon. We cant have him around.

Ill pretend I never had this son. Its the least I can do for the family.

In that moment, a despair settled over me. It was heavier than the guilty verdict five years ago.

Hear that, lunatic?

Ronan sneered, pulling out a syringe.

The needle glinted under the weak light.

This is a custom sedative. One shot, and a god could be reduced to a vegetable.

The instant the ice-cold fluid plunged into my neck, my vision blurred. My consciousness began to splinter.

I tried to bite my tongue, to stay awake, but it was useless.

In the haze, I saw a hallucination: my father stroking my back. My mother wiping away a tear. Its okay, my little boy...

I nodded silently, a small, sad smile touching my lips.

Jensen Cole Jensen Cole

Someone was calling my name. The sound was distant, yet close.

Just as I thought I would fall into the darkness forever.

BANG!

A shattering sound ripped through the desperate silence.