Chapter 4
CHAPTER 4 — The Audited Life
The federal grand jury took less than three hours to return a true bill.
Grant Mercer was formally indicted on twenty-four counts of wire fraud, tax evasion, and international money laundering.
Because of the evidence Vance secured from the hard drive regarding the physical abuse, the state added aggravated domestic battery to the ticket.
The bail was revoked. He was deemed a flight risk after Naomi presented the Panama aviation records I had highlighted.
Three weeks after I crawled through the broken glass of my own home, I walked into the federal building downtown.
I wasn't wearing the soft, oversized sweaters Grant made me wear to hide the bruises.
I wore a tailored navy suit I had purchased with my own money from a pre-marriage account he hadn't been able to touch.
My ribs still ached when the elevator shot up to the twelfth floor, but my back was perfectly straight.
Naomi Finch met me in the corridor outside the courtroom, a stack of blue-bound legal files under her arm.
"He's taking a plea, Emily," she said, her voice quiet as she walked beside me.
"His lawyers saw the video files from the hidden server. They know if those tapes are played before a jury, he will never see the sun again."
"What are the terms?" I asked, stopping near the heavy oak doors of the courtroom.
"Fifteen years in a federal penitentiary for the financial crimes," Naomi said. "Concurrently with eight years in state prison for the battery."
"No parole before eighty-five percent of the time is served."
"And the assets?"
"Everything is gone. The brownstone is being auctioned by the U.S. Marshals next month. The logistics firm is being restructured under a court-appointed trustee."
"The foundation money is being returned to the legitimate charities he stole from."
I nodded, feeling a strange, hollow space open up inside my chest where the terror used to live.
"Do you want to see him before he enters the plea?" Naomi asked, her hand resting on the brass door handle.
I hesitated for a fraction of a second.
"Yes," I said.
We walked into the small holding room behind the bullpen.
Grant sat at a steel table, his hands secured in heavy metal handcuffs linked to a chain around his waist.
The expensive linen shirt was gone, replaced by an orange jumpsuit that made his skin look sickly and yellow.
His hair was uncombed. The polished, smooth arrogance had been replaced by a frantic, shifting paranoia.
When he saw me walk in, his eyes narrowed, his lips tightening into that old, familiar sneer.
"You look beautiful, Emily," he mocked, his voice raspy. "Did you buy that suit with the money you stole from my life?"
I sat down in the chair opposite him, keeping the steel table between us.
"Your life was an illusion, Grant," I said calmly.
"You thought you were a king because you could make a woman cry in a dark room."
"But the data doesn't lie. You were just a thief who got lucky for a little while."
He leaned forward, the chains rattling loudly against the metal table.
"I made you," he hissed. "You were nothing before you met me. Just a faceless clerk in a basement office."
"I was an investigator," I corrected him, looking directly into his bloodshot eyes.
"And you were my case."
I stood up, turning my back on him before the anger could find a foothold in my voice.
"Enjoy the jazz in your new room, Grant," I said softly.
"I hear the acoustics in federal maximum security are excellent."
The guards led him out through the side door, his chains clanking against the floor like a broken clock.
May you like
The trial was over before it even began.
The ledger was finally balanced.
