“She has records.”
“On whom?”
“Judges. Lawyers. Police officers. Bankers. Anyone who helped. Anyone who took money. Anyone who looked away.”
“Where?”
Daniel looked only at me.
“At the house.”
He swallowed.
“But not where you think.”
By noon, the home where I had spent seven years apologizing for my own success had become a search site.
Police vehicles lined the curb.
A federal sedan blocked the driveway.
Neighbors watched from behind curtains.
I arrived in uniform.
Marjorie stood on the porch wearing a cream cardigan and pearl earrings.
She looked like an innocent grandmother waiting for church.
Her eyes moved from my silver eagles to my shaved scalp.
“You brought strangers into my son’s home.”
“My home.”
I held up the warrant.
“And they are not strangers anymore.”
For two hours, agents searched Daniel’s office, the garage, the bedroom, and the basement.
They collected hard drives, financial statements, and folders containing practice versions of my signature.
