At 2:13 on Easter Sunday, while the whole town posed for smiling family photos and passed plates of glazed ham, Arthur Miller heard the sound every father secretly fears.

Three days later, inside the federal interrogation room at the federal detention center, Richard Whitmore sat in an orange jumpsuit, his hands cuffed to the table. His slick hair was unwashed, and deep purple circles hung under his eyes.

Across from him sat Arthur Miller and Federal Prosecutor Marcus Vance Jr.

"You have no deal, Mr. Whitmore," Prosecutor Vance said coldly, laying out a thick stack of documents. "We have your financial ledgers, your voice recordings, the forensic evidence from the rug, the toxicology reports showing you were drugging your wife’s drinks to make her appear unstable, and three former business partners who just signed immunity agreements to testify against you."

Richard looked at Arthur, his teeth grinding in desperation. "Arthur... please. Talk to your daughter. Tell her I'm sorry! I'll give her everything! The house, the stock options, five million dollars in cash! Just get her to drop the attempted murder charge!"

Arthur didn't flinch. He leaned across the metal table, his eyes piercing straight into Richard’s soul.

"My daughter doesn't want your filthy money, Richard," Arthur said smoothly. "She wanted a husband who loved her. Instead, she got a coward who hit her when he thought nobody was looking."

"It was a mistake!" Richard cried out, weeping pathetic, selfish tears. "My mother... she pressured me! She told me to keep Lily under control! It was my mother's idea!"

In the observation room behind the two-way mirror, Margaret Whitmore—who was also in an orange jumpsuit awaiting her own hearing—heard her son throw her under the bus. She gasped, clutching her chest as federal guards held her back.

"You're going to plead guilty to every single count, Richard," Arthur said, his voice dropping to a low, authoritative command. "You will surrender all rights to any shared assets, you will sign a permanent order of protection, and you will allocute—on public record—to every lie you told about my daughter."

"And if I don't?" Richard spat, trying to find a shred of his old arrogance.

"If you don't," Prosecutor Vance cut in, "we take this to a jury trial. And with Director Miller’s tactical evidence and your recorded threats, I will personally request the maximum statutory sentence: life in a maximum-security facility without parole."

Richard stared at the black pen on the table. His hands shook violently as he reached out, pulled the confession documents toward him, and signed his name on the bottom line.

When Arthur stepped out of the interrogation room, General Vance was waiting in the hallway.

"That was clean, Arthur," Vance said. "The entire Whitmore network has collapsed. Chief Miller pleaded guilty an hour ago. City Council is holding a special election, and the state attorney general is cleaning out the district court."

"How long will Richard get?" Arthur asked.