Chapter 5 - The Press Conference
At 2:45 p.m., the plaza outside the Everett McKinley Dirksen United States Courthouse in downtown Chicago was packed with over fifty news crews, satellite vans, and hundreds of curious onlookers.
Arthur Pendelton stood near the steps, surrounded by three junior associates, speaking confidently to a cluster of reporters.
"My clients maintain their absolute innocence," Pendelton was saying into a wall of microphones. "The allegations made by Miss Mercer are the fabrications of a disgruntled former employee who attempted to leverage a personal relationship for financial gain. We expect all charges to be dismissed before the end of the week."
At 3:00 p.m. sharp, a black Town Car pulled up to the curb.
Clara Vance, Eleanor Vance, and I stepped out. I wore a dark navy tailored suit, my hair pulled back tightly into a neat bun. My bruises were still faintly visible against my skin, but I wore no makeup to cover them. I didn't need to hide anymore.
The crowd erupted into a flurry of shouting and camera flashes as we walked toward the podium that had been set up near the courthouse entrance.
Clara Vance stepped up to the microphones first.
"Good afternoon," Clara said, her clear, crisp voice cutting through the noise. "Three hours ago, defense counsel Arthur Pendelton publicly claimed that my client, Clara Mercer, fabricated evidence of domestic violence and financial fraud to extortionately ruin Mr. Jonathan Duncan."
She turned her head to look directly at Pendelton, who was standing twenty feet away, smiling smugly with his arms crossed.
"In response to those false claims," Clara continued, "we are releasing supplementary digital evidence that has been fully authenticated and turned over to the United States Attorney’s Office."
Clara stepped aside, and I took her place behind the podium.
The sea of cameras flashed incessantly. I adjusted the microphone, looking directly into the primary lens of the lead network camera.
"Jonathan Duncan believed he could silence me through physical violence, psychological manipulation, and the immense wealth of his family," I began, my voice steady, resonated with iron conviction. "He believed that because I was 'just a bookkeeper,' I lacked the capacity to comprehend his schemes."
I reached into my suit pocket, pulled out a second thumb drive—a duplicate of the one Clara had delivered to the U.S. Attorney—and held it up for the cameras to see.
"This drive contains complete video and audio recordings recorded by Jonathan Duncan’s own security system in his private study at Duncan Manor," I stated clearly. "Date-stamped November 12th, 2023. On this video, Mr. Duncan can be seen and heard instructing his chief operations officer to bypass safety protocols on the North Harbor Crane line to induce a structural failure, explicitly stating—and I quote—'The insurance settlement from the harbor authority will cover our fourth-quarter shortfalls, and the union will take the blame.'"
A collective, audible gasp rippled through the crowd of reporters.
Arthur Pendelton’s smug smile instantly vanished. He took a fast step toward his associate, whispering frantically into his ear as his face turned pale.
"Furthermore," I continued, "this drive contains audio from October 4th, 2024, in which Rosalind Duncan explicitly discusses transferring two million dollars to a private account owned by former Detective Robert Miller to ensure that the investigation into Thomas Duncan’s death was permanently closed without an autopsy."
The plaza descended into utter chaos. Reporters were shouting at the top of their lungs, thrusting microphones toward us.
"Miss Mercer! Miss Mercer! Is it true that Eleanor Vance is alive?!"
"Clara! What do you have to say to Jonathan Duncan right now?!"
I looked straight into the news cameras, knowing that inside his cell at the Metropolitan Correctional Center, Jonathan was watching this live broadcast on the common room television.
"Jonathan," I said, speaking directly to him across the airwaves. "You told me at the altar to learn my place. I learned it. My place isn't in your shadow, and it isn't beneath your fists. My place is right here—watching you lose everything you stole."
I stepped back from the podium. Clara Vance took the drive, handed it directly to a waiting federal marshal, and guided Eleanor and me back toward our car.
As we opened the rear door, I turned back to look at Arthur Pendelton.
The high-priced defense attorney was practically running away from the media, shielding his face with his leather briefcase as reporters swarmed him, demanding answers about the murder and insurance fraud charges that were now inevitable.
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I stepped into the car, closed the door, and let out a long, quiet breath.
The trap had sprung. And there was no escape for Jonathan Duncan.
