Chapter 5: My Father's Waiting Room
Grace answered on the first ring.
"Tell me you're already pulling Phelps," I said.
"I've been pulling Phelps for six weeks," she said.
"I just didn't want to say his name on an unsecured line until you were out of those handcuffs."
"Harmon confirmed it.
Phelps ran the interference.
He used my father as a cutout and Whitfield as the trigger."
"I have the holding company records.
Three layers of shell entities, but the fourth layer has Phelps's personal attorney as registered agent.
It won't hold in a press release, but it will hold in a federal filing."
"Get the filing ready.
Tonight."
"Clara." A pause.
"How are you?"
"I'm fine."
"You were just arrested by your own family on a livestream watched by a million people."
"I'm fine, Grace."
A longer pause.
"Okay.
Filing will be ready by four a.m."
I hung up and walked back toward the main floor.
My father was still in the waiting area.
My mother, Diane, had arrived at some point in the last hour.
She was seated beside him, her coat still on, her handbag pressed against her side like a shield.
Sienna stood near the door.
Her phone was finally down.
The livestream had ended.
I didn't know when.
I didn't know how many people had watched.
I walked toward them.
My father saw me first.
He stood up immediately, and for one brief second his face arranged itself into something that might have been relief — as though my presence meant the situation was still manageable, still within the boundaries of a family problem.
"Clara," he said.
"This has gone far enough.
Whatever point you're trying to make—"
"Sit down, Dad."
"I will not sit down.
Do you understand what you've done tonight?
Do you understand the position you've put this family in?"
"I said sit down."
Something in my voice made him sit.
My mother looked at me.
Her expression was harder to read than my father's — it always had been.
She was the one who had taught me to keep my face still.
"Where is this going?" she said quietly.
"Gerald Dressler is being detained as of approximately twenty minutes ago," I said.
"He'll be formally charged by morning."
My mother's hand tightened on her handbag.
"Dressler is our attorney," my father said.
"You can't—"
"He's a material participant in the fraudulent trust documents your family used to have me arrested.
His participation makes him a co-conspirator, not a protected legal advisor."
"That is absurd."
"The county clerk, Whitfield, is also being brought in.
He has already indicated he is willing to cooperate."
My father's face changed.
Not all at once.
The way Harmon's smile had faded — slowly, piece by piece.
"You have nothing," he said.
But his voice had dropped.
"I have eighteen months of financial records, three sets of shell company registrations, eleven payment logs, and a signed statement from a law enforcement officer who was offered a promotion to participate in your plan." I paused.
"I also have the name of the person who was running you without your knowledge.
But we can discuss that separately."
"Running me—" He stopped.
My mother turned to look at him.
"What does she mean?" Diane said.
"Who was running you?"
My father said nothing.
"Dad." Sienna's voice came from near the door.
She hadn't moved.
Her phone was in her hand but the screen was dark.
"What does she mean, someone was running you?"
The silence in the waiting area was complete.
My father looked at me with something I had not seen on his face before.
Not anger.
Not contempt.
Something closer to the beginning of fear.
"You should have a lawyer present before you say anything else," I said.
"Your current attorney is unavailable.
I'd suggest calling someone new."
I turned and walked back toward the conference room.
Behind me, I heard my mother say his name.
Just his name.
May you like
Nothing else.
It was the quietest, most devastating thing she had said all night.
