Chapter 18
Chapter 18 – The Price of Truth
The maximum-security visitor's block felt like a tomb. The air was thick with the smell of cheap floor wax and industrial bleach. I sat behind a scratched plexiglass barrier, waiting until the heavy iron door at the back of the room buzzed open.
Emily walked in, escorted by a female guard. Her hair, once perfectly blown out at Manhattan's most expensive salons, was dull and tied back with a cheap rubber band. Her skin looked grey under the harsh fluorescent lights. But when she saw me, her lips curled into that familiar, venomous sneer.
She sat down, picking up the grey plastic telephone receiver. I did the same.
"Come to see the view, Catherine?" she mocked, her voice tinny through the speaker. "Enjoying your little townhouse while you can? I hear the feds are about to move into your bedroom. Irony is a bitch, isn't it?"
"I read your affidavit, Emily," I said, my voice completely devoid of emotion. I didn't let her see me flinch. "It’s a very creative piece of fiction. Henry’s lawyers must have spent a long time writing it for you."
"It doesn't matter who wrote it," she laughed, a sharp, ugly sound. "It’s signed. It’s notarized. By Friday morning, your precious trust will be frozen, and my lawyers will file for a sentence reduction based on my cooperation with a federal tax investigation. I'm getting out of here, Catherine. And you're going to end up in a state cell just like me."
"Henry Bennett is a man facing twenty-five years for federal fraud, Emily," I said, leaning closer to the glass. "Do you really think a federal judge is going to give you a reduction based on the word of a co-conspirator whose assets were just seized by the RICO task force?"
Emily's sneer faltered for a fraction of a second. "What do you mean, seized?"
"Oliver finalized the filing this morning," I lied, keeping my eyes locked onto hers with absolute, terrifying certainty. "The U.S. Attorney’s Office just issued an emergency freeze on all offshore entities connected to The H.B. Legacy Group—including the Swiss account Henry’s lawyers promised you. The money isn't there, Emily. The lawyers who visited you? Their corporate credit cards were declined at their hotel this morning. Henry didn't buy your freedom. He used you to buy himself twenty-four hours of distraction."
The color rapidly drained from Emily’s face. Her fingers gripped the plastic receiver so hard her nails turned white. "No... no, that's not possible. He swore to me... he showed me the transfer routing numbers..."
"He showed you a piece of paper he printed from a computer," I said coldly. "Just like the papers he told David to sign. You sacrificed your soul for a man who treats people like expired coupons. But I can offer you something real, Emily. I can offer you a genuine letter of cooperation from Oliver's firm to the New York State prosecutor, confirming you provided critical evidence to locate stolen corporate assets. It won't get you out tomorrow, but it will cut your seven-year sentence down to three. Do you want to see your children before they graduate high school, or do you want to stay in this room until you’re fifty?"
May you like
Emily swallowed hard. A single, genuine tear of pure panic slid down her cheek. She looked around the bleak, gray room, finally realizing she was entirely, utterly alone in the dark.
"The beach house," she whispered, her voice cracking through the receiver. "Henry has an off-the-books property in Montauk. It’s registered under his sister’s maiden name—Sarah Jenkins. There's a hidden wine cellar beneath the garage. In the back corner, under the third rack, there's a false concrete floor. That's where he keeps his duplicate network files. Everything he ever used to control Albert is in that box."
