Chapter 7 - THE RECKONING OF SCOTTVILLE
Six months after the trial, the thaw came to Lancaster County.
The white snow that had covered the farm for four months melted away, leaving the brown, rich earth steaming under a mild March sun. The cornfields were quiet, but at the far edge of the property, near the old timber line, three small, low-impact drilling rigs were at work—quietly, cleanly extracting the core samples for the green lithium project.
There were no massive diesel trucks, no towering smokestacks, and no black ponds of chemical waste.
Under the terms of the lease I had negotiated with Greystone’s new management, the extraction used a closed-loop geothermal method that left the surface soil completely untouched.
I stood on the front porch of the farmhouse, holding a steaming mug of black coffee.
The house looked entirely different now. The peeling white paint had been scraped away and replaced by a warm, butter-yellow coat with dark green shutters. The porch steps had been rebuilt with heavy oak planks, and my mother’s fern pots were back in their places, filled with fresh green shoots.
A red pickup truck pulled up the gravel drive, stopping near the barn.
Daniel stepped out, wearing duck-canvas work pants and a muddy flannel shirt. He looked healthy—his cheeks full, his arms thick from a winter spent clearing brush and repairing the boundary fences.
"Rachel!" he called out, hoisting a heavy wooden box onto his shoulder. "The new beehives arrived from the county extension! Where do you want them?"
"Set them near the south orchard, Danny!" I called back. "Away from the core sampling rigs!"
He waved and headed toward the trees, whistling a bright, cheerful tune that my grandfather used to sing while mending harness leather.
As I watched him, a sleek black sedan turned off the main road and drove slowly up the lane.
It wasn't a Lincoln Navigator. It was a county sheriff's car.
Deputy Sheriff Miller—Judge Miller’s grandson—stepped out of the cruiser, holding a clipboard and a small manila folder.
"Morning, Rachel," he said, touching the brim of his hat as he walked up the steps.
"Morning, Tom," I said, offering him a cup from the pot sitting on the porch table. "What brings you out here on a Saturday?"
"Official notice from the state correctional facility in Cranston," Tom said, handing me a sheet of paper from the folder. "Thought you'd want to see it before it hit the county papers."
I took the paper and scanned the bold letterhead.
State of Rhode Island Department of Corrections — Inmate Status Report.
It detailed the sentencing of Inmate #48821: Scott Edward Langley.
Five years for felony corporate fraud. Three years for perjury and falsification of public records. Two years for unlawful restraint and domestic assault.
Total sentence: Ten years, with no eligibility for parole before year seven.
Beside his name was his booking photo.
His hair was cropped short, graying at the temples. His nose—which had been set slightly crooked after an altercation with an inmate in the intake facility—gave his face a broken, desperate look. The arrogant, slick executive who had reviewed my grocery receipts was completely gone.
"And his mother?" I asked, handing the paper back.
"Marjorie Langley surrendered her remaining personal jewelry to the court trustee last Tuesday," Tom said, taking a sip of coffee. "She’s living in a single room at the St. Jude care facility outside Fall River. The state took her car to cover part of the legal costs from the bank's foreclosure action."
He looked out over the greening pastures, toward the quiet rigs near the wood line.
May you like
"Your mom would be proud, Rachel," Tom said softly. "People in this valley thought Scott was going to buy up the whole township and turn it into a gravel pit. You saved fifty families from losing their well water."
"Mom saved us, Tom," I said, looking down at the yellow porch floor. "She just left me the hammer."
