Chapter 38
“Dad,” I said.
“Goodbye, Claire.”
The line clicked. The screen faded to grey, then black.
I stood on the balcony for a long time, the wind cold against my face.
The rain had completely stopped, leaving the sky over the city clear and dark.
I turned off the satellite phone and placed it inside my coat pocket.
The weight of the satellite phone in my coat pocket was a silent reminder of the long night behind me as I sat down at the mahogany table in Rachel’s office the following morning. The grandfather clock in the corner of the room chimed eleven times, its slow, steady strikes marking the beginning of our final scheduled meeting.
Rachel Mercer, my attorney, was already waiting with a thick blue folder open on the dark wood between us. She rubbed her temples, a familiar gesture that seemed more relaxed now than it had during the height of our preparation for the Senate oversight committee.
“This is the final release for the civil claims, Claire,” Rachel said, sliding a three-page document toward me. “Once you sign this, the financial restructuring is complete.”
I picked up my black gel pen and lined up the edge of the paper with the border of the mahogany table. The ink was dark and wet as I signed my name at the bottom of the first two pages, watching the signature dry under the soft yellow light of her desk lamp.
“What about Harrison’s representation?” I asked.
Rachel closed her leather folio with a quiet snap. “His lead counsel called me from K Street at nine this morning. They are offering a full stipulation on the asset forfeiture if we agree to submit a letter to the sentencing judge.”
She paused, sliding a single-page draft across the polished wood toward me. “They want us to recommend a reduction in his custody term based on his past service record.”
I did not need to read the draft to know the language they had used. They would mention his Navy commendations, his family legacy, and the veteran initiative that had turned out to be a multi-million-dollar washing machine for defense contracts.
“They are hoping to cut his fifteen years in half,” Rachel said.
“The court has the full audit,” I said, sliding the draft back to her without marking it. “They have the foreign transaction logs from Berlin and the local transfer records under my forged signature.”
“They do,” Rachel agreed, her voice steady. “But a statement from the primary cyber architect carries weight with the district court.”
May you like
I stood up and walked to the window, looking down at the slow-moving traffic on the wet pavement below. The rain had slowed to a thin mist, leaving the brick facades of the surrounding buildings dark and reflective.
“The truth is on the record now, and that is where it belongs,” I said.
