Chapter 5 - THE COLLATERAL DAMAGEBy Friday morning, the defense had completely imploded.
Arthur Sterling, realizing that representing a family of sociopathic cartel-wannabes was career suicide, formally requested permission from the bench to withdraw from the case, citing an "irreconcilable breakdown in attorney-client communication." Judge Henderson granted the motion in less than thirty seconds, leaving Julian, Margaret, and Ethan to sit at the defense table represented court-appointed public defenders who looked like they wanted nothing more than to be swallowed by the linoleum floor.
The trial wasn't just about domestic abuse anymore; it had metastasized into a full-scale federal RICO indictment encompassing racketeering, witness tampering, attempted murder, bribery of federal officials, and environmental terrorism.
During the lunch recess, I sat in a secure conference room on the third floor of the federal building, reviewing satellite telemetry reports sent directly from Fort Liberty. Vance stood by the window, sipping black coffee from a styrofoam cup.
"Ma'am, word from the Pentagon," Vance said without turning around. "The Secretary of the Army called down through the chain of command twenty minutes ago. They’re officially commending your handling of the multi-jurisdictional intel extraction. Apparently, the Prescott Group’s subsidiary—Prescott Defense Logistics—held a forty-million-dollar contract supplying tactical armor plating to our infantry units in Europe."
I looked up from my tablet. "And?"
"And an independent audit of their manufacturing lots revealed they’ve been substituting grade-three commercial steel for titanium-ceramic composite plates to pad their profit margins," Vance said grimly. "That armor was deployed to active combat zones. If our troops had taken direct rifle fire in those sectors, those plates wouldn't have stopped a standard NATO round. Ethan Prescott wasn't just a domestic abuser, Colonel. He was getting American soldiers killed for a five-percent quarterly dividend."
A cold rage, clean and sharp as a bayonet, flared in my chest.
Beating Emily was a crime against my daughter. But selling compromised armor to kids I had sworn to protect? That was an act of war against every soldier who ever wore the uniform.
"Where is Ethan’s younger cousin, Marcus?" I asked, remembering a name from the corporate registry files we had decrypted earlier in the week. "The one who ran the manufacturing plant in Gastonia?"
"Fleming Island, Florida," Vance replied instantly. "Caught a private Gulfstream out of Charlotte-Douglas International Airport at four this morning before the no-fly order hit the FAA database. His private pilot filed a flight plan for the Bahamas."
I stood up, buttoning the golden buttons of my dress jacket with crisp, mechanical precision.
"Vance," I said quietly.
"Ma'am?"
"Call the Coast Guard Air Station in Savannah. Tell them we have an unauthorized civilian aircraft carrying a federal fugitive fleeing across international maritime borders with classified defense supply chain documents."
May you like
Vance grinned, setting his styrofoam cup down on the table with a sharp click. "On it, Colonel. Shall I tell them to use interceptors?"
"Tell them," I said, walking toward the conference room door, "to treat it like a hostile airspace violation."
