Chapter 2 - The Audit Trail
“The court will take a fifteen-minute recess,” Judge Okafor announced, rising from her chair with terrifying grace. “Counsel for the plaintiff will remain in the courtroom. Do not touch your phones, Mr. Foss. The bailiff will secure all electronic devices.”
The heavy oak door behind the bench clicked shut.
The gallery behind us erupted into a low murmur of whispered speculation. People craned their necks, trying to catch a glimpse of the red-sealed file resting open before the vacant judge’s chair.
Lauren was shaking so violently she could barely stand. She grabbed her designer handbag, her knuckles stark white, and stumbled across the aisle toward our father.
“Dad,” Lauren whispered, her voice cracking as tears welled in her eyes. “Dad, what is she talking about? What did she give the judge? If the feds are involved—”
“Shut up, Lauren,” Gregory hissed through clenched teeth, his hands gripping the edge of the plaintiff’s table so hard his fingertips were bloodless. He didn't look at my sister; his burning, paranoid gaze was fixed entirely on me.
I remained seated at the defense table, slowly closing my leather briefcase. The brass latches clicked shut with a crisp, reassuring sound.
Gerald Foss was already sweating through his silk tie, frantically flipping through a legal pad while whispering hurried, panicked questions to my father. “Gregory, you told me she was a standard logistics clerk! You said she had no institutional backing, no leverage! If she’s working with the Inspector General’s office, why weren’t your corporate tax filings scrubbed?”
“They were scrubbed!” Gregory snapped back, his voice rising in panic before he caught himself and lowered it to a venomous snarl. He turned his head slowly toward me, his chest heaving under his immaculate suit. “You planned this. From the very beginning. You let me file the lawsuit. You let me drag this into court just so you could spring a federal jurisdiction trap.”
I stood up, smoothing the front of my charcoal jacket, and looked down at the man who had spent my entire life trying to shrink me.
“You taught me discipline, Dad,” I said quietly, my voice carrying easily across the silent well of the court. “You always said that every debt has to be itemized. Every invoice tracked. Every cost accounted for.”
“You little—” Gregory lunged forward, but the bailiff—a towering man with three combat ribbons pinned to his dress uniform from a past life—stepped smoothly between us, resting his hand casually on his belt.
“Step back from counsel, sir,” the bailiff rumbled.
May you like
I picked up my briefcase, turned my back on my father, and walked down the center aisle toward the double doors, leaving them trapped in the wreckage of their own arrogance.
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