Chapter 6 - The Legal Reckoning
With the Wallace estate seized and their maritime assets fully integrated into Brennan Logistics, the final phase of the corporate restructure began. The federal maritime commission, using the unredacted compliance files Arthur Vance had provided, officially launched a grand jury investigation into Harrison Wallace for corporate fraud and environmental endangerment.
I sat in the office of the District Attorney, a sharp, no-nonsense prosecutor named Karen Reynolds.
"Mr. Brennan," District Attorney Reynolds said, reviewing the mountain of evidence on her desk. "Your legal team has provided an incredibly thorough roadmap of the Wallace family’s financial malfeasance. The falsified maintenance logs alone carry a mandatory minimum of five years in a federal penitentiary. Harrison Wallace’s attorneys are begging for a plea deal."
"What are they offering?" I asked.
"A full admission of guilt on all fraud charges, total cooperation with the maritime cleanup efforts, and a permanent forfeiture of all historical corporate holdings," Reynolds explained. "In exchange, they want a reduced sentence for Harrison at a minimum-security facility so he can receive medical care for his high blood pressure, and immunity from prosecution for Beatrice and Greta as accessories after the fact."
"Accept the plea," I said without hesitation. "I don't need Harrison to rot in a cell forever. I just need him to lose the power to ever hurt an innocent person again. And the women? Let them keep their freedom. Without money, their freedom is the hardest sentence they will ever face."
As I left the courthouse, the midday sun was breaking through the city fog, casting long, sharp shadows across the granite steps. A crowd of reporters had gathered at the bottom, their cameras flashing as Greta and Beatrice emerged from the side exit, flanked by their public defender.
Greta saw me standing at the top of the steps. For a split second, the old, arrogant spark returned to her eyes, and she attempted to push past the reporters to reach me.
"Tristan!" she screamed, her voice cracking in the open air. "Look at what you’ve done to us! Is your pride finally satisfied? Are you happy now that we are disgraced in front of the whole world?"
I stopped, looking down at her from the top of the stone staircase. The reporters fell completely silent, their microphones raised to catch my response.
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"This was never about my pride, Greta," I said, my voice carrying clearly across the plaza. "This was about balance. A year ago, you thought a woman in a cheap dress was invisible. Today, the world sees you exactly as you are—without the silver, without the diamonds, and without a single person willing to buy your lies. You wanted an aesthetic, Greta. Welcome to the reality of your choices."
I walked down the steps, the reporters parting for me like the Red Sea, completely ignoring Greta as they rushed to capture my statement for the evening news.
