Chapter 70 - The Unbroken Title
The click of the handcuffs around Arthur Vance-Pemberton’s wrists sounded sweeter than any victory I had ever imagined.
Marshals pulled the high-priced overcoat off Arthur’s shoulders and cuffed his hands behind his back. The arrogance that had sustained him for half a century was gone, replaced by a hollow, gray shell of defeat.
The gallery cleared out as reporters from the *Boston Globe* rushed toward the elevators to file their stories.
Thomas stepped down from the witness box. He walked over to me, extending his right hand.
I took it. His grip was still like iron.
"Your father would have been proud of you, Marcus," Thomas said, his voice thick with emotion. "He spent his whole life thinking he lost everything to Arthur. Today, you brought it all back home."
"It's not just my home, Uncle Thomas," I said, handing him the certified quiet title decree signed by Judge Garcetti. "The land belongs to all of us now. Clara. You. Me. The whole tract is locked in a permanent conservation trust. No one can ever build a strip mall or clear-cut those ridges again."
Ross joined us, holding Arthur’s confiscated briefcase. "Warrants are being executed right now at Vance-Pemberton & Associates on Mount Vernon Street. The forensic accountants are seizing every offshore ledger tied to Shannon Timber. Julian Sterling just signed his plea agreement ten minutes ago. He’s looking at twelve years at Devens. Arthur will likely spend the rest of his life at Fort Dix."
"It's over," I said, letting out a long breath that felt like it had been trapped in my chest since Thanksgiving dinner.
"Almost," Ross said, glancing toward the defense table where Arthur was being escorted toward the side holding cell.
As Arthur passed within three feet of us, flanked by two armed marshals, he stopped.
He didn't look at Ross. He didn't look at Thomas.
He turned his bloodshot, sunken eyes directly onto me.
"You think you won, don't you, Marcus?" Arthur whispered, a grotesque, broken shadow of his former smile returning to his lips. "You think you proved that your father was the saint and I was the devil."
"Save it for your sentencing hearing, Arthur," I said coldly.
"Ask him," Arthur hissed, nodding his head toward Thomas. "Ask your precious uncle what really happened at the Millinocket sawmill on October 14, 1985."
"Shut up, Arthur," Thomas barked, his face suddenly tightening with a fierce, panicked intensity I hadn't seen even when the truck had rammed us on Route 201.
Arthur ignored him, his eyes boring into mine. "Ask Thomas why your father had two hundred thousand dollars in cash deposited into his personal Worcester account three days *after* the fire, Marcus. Ask Thomas who turned the kiln thermostat off while I was three hundred miles away in Boston."
"Get him out of here," Ross commanded, pushing Arthur toward the secure door.
The heavy steel door slammed shut behind Arthur, cutting off his laughter.
The courtroom fell dead silent.
I turned slowly to look at my uncle.
Thomas Vance, the man who had survived thirty-eight years in the freezing Maine wilderness without flinching, wouldn't meet my gaze. His hands were trembling as he wrapped the 1904 ledger back into its scorched oilcloth.
"Uncle Thomas," I said, my fraud analyst instincts sounding an immediate, deafening alarm. "What was that cash deposit?"
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Thomas took a slow, heavy breath, closed his eyes, and looked toward the high courtroom windows overlooking Boston Harbor.
"Marcus," Thomas whispered. "There are some books your father kept that should have stayed in the ashes."
