Chapter 10 - The Secret in the Safe House
The safe house was a nondescript, brick-faced brownstone tucked away on a quiet residential street in Chicago’s Lincoln Park district, completely invisible from the main thoroughfares.
Ethan killed the truck’s engine, and we hurried up the stone steps. The heavy oak door swung open before we could knock, revealing my father standing there in a dry flannel shirt, looking tired but unharmed, holding a steaming mug of black coffee.
"Dad!" I cried out, rushing forward and throwing my arms around his neck, burying my face in his shoulder.
"I'm alright, Em," my father murmured, resting his chin on my head, his hands trembling slightly as he patted my back. "I'm alright."
Judge Harrison sat at a small oak table in the center of the room, illuminated by a single green-shaded desk lamp, reviewing a thick stack of printed financial ledgers.
"Close the door, please," Harrison said without looking up.
Ethan secured the deadbolt and pulled the heavy velvet window drapes shut, locking us inside a secluded bubble away from the city, the federal government, and Vanguard Holdings.
I pulled away from my father and walked over to the table, dropping my backup drive onto the wood next to the judge's coffee cup.
"If the White House has classified the docket under national security," I said, my voice sharp with frustration, "then every piece of evidence we risked our lives for is legally buried. We can't publish it. We can't present it in court. They've effectively silenced us."
Judge Harrison looked up slowly, removing his silver-rimmed glasses and folding them deliberately on the table.
"They've sealed the federal docket, Ms. Carter," Harrison corrected softly. "Which means the judicial branch is legally barred from opening an investigation under standard criminal procedure."
He reached into his briefcase and slid a heavy, unsealed manila envelope across the table toward me.
"What is this?" I asked, picking it up.
"That," the judge said, a faint, razor-sharp smile touching his lips, "is a private civil petition filed under an obscure nineteenth-century maritime and interstate commerce statute—one that bypasses the Department of Justice entirely and goes directly before a special independent tribunal."
My father walked over, leaning against the edge of the table to look down at the papers.
"And who presides over that independent tribunal, Judge?" my father asked quietly.
May you like
Judge Harrison looked directly at me, his eyes steady and unyielding.
"I do," he said. "And the first subpoena on the docket is directed straight at the sitting White House Chief of Staff."
