Chapter 9 - Walking Out
Six months later, the legal proceedings against Margaret Wilson came to a quiet, predictable close in a federal courtroom downtown.
Faced with overwhelming evidence, an airtight forensic audit, and zero allies left to bail her out, Margaret accepted a plea deal that avoided a lengthy public trial in exchange for a five-year prison sentence at a minimum-security federal correctional facility in southern Ohio.
She didn't look at the gallery when the judge banged his gavel. She sat rigidly at the defense table in her orange institutional jumpsuit, her silver hair unstyled, her face pale and drawn, looking like a ghost of the woman who once commanded the highest rooms in the city.
I didn't attend the sentencing.
I was three miles away, sitting at my desk on the top floor of the newly expanded marketing agency, reviewing the quarterly financial statements for my firm.
My brother, Leo, poked his head through my office door, holding two cups of takeout coffee.
“You okay?” he asked, stepping inside and handing me a cup.
“Never better,” I smiled, taking a sip of the hot dark roast.
“Good. Because you have a flight to catch tonight, and if you miss your company retreat in Maui because you’re buried in spreadsheets, I’m personally throwing your laptop out the window.”
I laughed. “Relax. My bags are already packed.”
“And the dress?” Leo grinned, raising an eyebrow.
“Which dress?”
“The one you’re wearing to the executive dinner on the beach. Please tell me it’s not ivory satin.”
May you like
I smiled, looking out the floor-to-ceiling windows at the Cleveland skyline glittering under the autumn sun.
“It’s emerald green,” I said. “And it’s fireproof.”
