Chapter 8 - The Testimony
The holding facility beneath the King County courthouse smelled of bleach and damp wool. Richard Morrison looked twenty years older than he had twenty-four hours ago. His tailored suit was wrinkled, his hair was uncombed, and the arrogant, booming confidence that had defined his existence was completely gone.
He sat across the steel table in the secure visitation booth, staring at his hands with a vacant, hollow expression.
When the heavy steel door clicked open and I walked in alone, he didn't look up immediately. It wasn't until I pulled out the metal chair and sat down that his eyes flickered toward me with a mixture of shame and boiling resentment.
"Are you here to gloat?" Richard rasped, his voice cracked and dry. "Did you bring photographers to capture the great Morrison family brought low by the poor girl we let into our home?"
"I don't care about your pride, Richard," I said, leaning forward and resting my arms on the table. "And I don't care about your social standing. I care about the fourteen million dollars siphoned from my logistics accounts, and the syndicate behind the curtain that your family invited into my life."
Richard flinched slightly at the word syndicate. He looked around the small, windowless room as if invisible ears were listening through the concrete walls.
"I didn't know it was them," Richard whispered, his voice trembling. "Marcus... Marcus came to me two years ago. He said our family holdings were failing, that the estate was underwater. He promised that if we funneled the overages through Jessica's shell company, the syndicate would clear our debts and secure Brendan's position on the executive board for life. I didn't know they were coming for your company, Cassidy. I swear to God, I thought we were just saving ourselves."
"You didn't save yourselves, Richard," I said softly. "Marcus is filing a receivership motion this morning to seize Vane Global by claiming my assets are tied to your community property. The moment the judge signs that order, Marcus takes over the company, and you and Brendan take the fall for the entire embezzlement scheme. You're going to spend the next ten years in a federal penitentiary while Marcus and the syndicate walk away with everything."
Richard stared at me, his lower lip trembling. The reality of what his ambition had cost him—and what his son had been made a party to—finally broke through his denial.
"What do you want?" Richard choked out, a tear finally escaping down his weathered cheek. "I’ll plead guilty. I’ll sign whatever confession you want. Just... just keep Brendan out of prison. He’s my only son. He didn't know about the syndicate; he was just an idiot playing executive."
"Brendan knew money was appearing where it shouldn't have, Richard, and he looked the other way because it bought him golf memberships and designer cars," I said, my voice unyielding. "I’m not dropping the charges against him. But I will change the nature of his indictment from corporate conspiracy to accessory after the fact—if you do one thing."
Richard leaned forward eagerly. "Name it. Anything."
"In ten minutes, Marcus Vance-Smythe is walking into Judge Henderson's courtroom to file that receivership motion," I said, sliding a handwritten affidavit across the table. "You are going to sign this confession—admitting under oath that the Morrison estate was acquired through fraudulent misrepresentation of debt, and that Marcus coerced you into falsifying the asset declarations."
Richard looked at the paper, then up at me with wide, terrified eyes. "That... that implicates Marcus directly. His associates will—"
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"His associates won't touch you while you're in federal protective custody," I interrupted, standing up and buttoning my jacket. "Sign the paper, Richard. Save yourself and whatever shred of dignity your son has left. Because if you don't, I will let Marcus grind you both into dust, and I won't lift a finger to stop him."
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