Chapter 3 - The Freezing of Assets
By 9:00 AM on Wednesday morning, the city of Atlanta was waking up to a different kind of headline.
The rumors had started on the real estate blogs around dawn, but by the time the market opened, the Atlanta Business Chronicle had dropped the definitive piece: MERCER DEVELOPMENT GROUP OFFICES RAIDED BY FEDERAL AGENTS; CEO BRANDON MERCER ARRESTED ON DOMESTIC VIOLENCE AND FRAUD CHARGES.
I sat in a wheelchair near the window of my new room—a private, secure wing of the hospital that Elena had arranged through the Department of Justice’s victim assistance division. Two federal marshals were now posted outside my door, their presence a silent, heavy barrier against the Mercer family’s influence.
Elena entered, holding a stack of legal documents and two paper cups of terrible hospital coffee. She looked exhausted, but there was a fierce, triumphal light in her eyes that I hadn't seen since we were girls.
"It’s done," she said, setting a cup on the tray table. "The magistrate signed the emergency freeze order at 7:45 AM. Every corporate and personal account tied to Brandon Mercer, Patricia Mercer, and Mercer Development Group has been put into a temporary receivership. The bank accounts are locked, the credit cards are declined, and the corporate jet has been grounded at Peachtree DeKalb Airport."
"How did Brandon handle the arraignment?" I asked, taking a small, cautious sip of the coffee.
"He didn't," Elena said, sitting across from me. "His high-priced corporate defense attorney, Arthur Vance—no relation to us, thank God—showed up with a bail bondsman and a half-million dollars in certified checks. But the federal prosecutor on duty presented the macro-tabs you found. Once the judge saw the wire transfers to the Cayman accounts, he declared Brandon a flight risk due to his foreign assets. Bail was denied. He’s currently being transported to the federal detention center in downtown Atlanta."
I closed my eyes for a moment. The image of Brandon—always so immaculate, always so perfectly tailored in his bespoke Tom Ford suits—sitting in a gray jumpsuit in a concrete cell filled me with a sudden, overwhelming sense of relief that felt almost like vertigo.
"And Patricia?"
"She tried to pay her personal chef with a Platinum American Express card this morning and it was swallowed by the machine," Elena said, a genuine smile breaking through her fatigue. "She called the field office screaming about a constitutional violation. The agent who took the call told her she was welcome to file a formal grievance with the magistrate, but she’d need to do it using a public defender if she couldn't find a lawyer willing to work pro bono until the receivership is sorted out."
My phone—a new, clean burner device that Elena had provided—buzzed against my lap. It was an unrecognized number.
I hesitated, then pressed answer.
"Clara," Brandon’s voice came through the speaker. It wasn't the roaring voice from our kitchen, nor was it the smooth voice from the charity galas. It was high, thinned out by panic, the voice of a man who had suddenly realized the ground beneath his feet was actually clouds. "Clara, please. You have to call your sister. Tell them it was a mistake. I’ll give you the divorce. I’ll give you the Buckhead house. I’ll give you ten million dollars, clear. Just tell the federal prosecutors that the spreadsheets were part of a corporate tax strategy that you misunderstood."
I listened to him breathe. I listened to the background noise of the detention center—the clanging of heavy iron doors, the indistinct shouts of guards, the low hum of industrial ventilation.
"Brandon," I said, my voice entirely devoid of anger. "The spreadsheets weren't hard to understand. You didn't even use a basic encryption algorithm for the V-lookup functions. You just used your birth year as the password."
"Clara—"
"Four years, Brandon," I said. "Four years you told me that nobody would ever believe me because I was just an investigator who got lucky with a wedding ring. But the data doesn't care about your wedding ring. The data doesn't care about your mother’s charity balls. The data just balances."
"I will ruin you," he hissed, the old, monstrous Brandon suddenly returning through the static of the line, his voice dropping into that terrifying, low register. "I’ll get out, Clara. I always get out. And when I do—"
"Goodbye, Brandon," I said, and pressed the red button.
I looked over at Elena, who was watching me with her hand resting on the laptop.
May you like
"He’s right about one thing," I said softly. "Patricia will find a way to get him out on a technicality if we don't secure the witnesses before the grand jury meets. He has contractors, city inspectors, and bank vice presidents who have been taking his money for a decade. We need them to talk before they realize the Mercer ship is completely underwater."
Elena pulled a fresh file from her bag. "Then let’s start with the city inspector who signed off on the structural permits for the Peachtree Grand project. I believe his name is Miller, and according to your files, he recently bought a lake house in Lanier that he couldn't possibly afford on a city salary."
