Chapter 7 - The Desperate Plea
Three weeks passed.
The fall of the Morrison family was swift, brutal, and thoroughly covered by the national media.
Brendan had been formally indicted by a federal grand jury on charges of wire fraud, grand larceny, and pension fund embezzlement. Unable to pay his ten-million-dollar bail, he was currently sitting in a federal holding cell, awaiting trial.
Diane, stripped of all her luxury assets, was forced to move into a tiny, one-bedroom apartment in a rundown suburban neighborhood, funded by her sister’s meager savings. The women who used to attend her lavish charity luncheons no longer picked up her calls.
Jessica had completely vanished from the city, leaving behind a trail of unpaid hotel bills and ruined credit cards.
As for me, my life had transformed into a haven of peace. My pregnancy was progressing smoothly, and under my direct leadership, Morrison Logistics had been restructured, saved from bankruptcy, and given a twenty-percent wage increase across all frontline workers.
One rainy Tuesday afternoon, while I was resting in the garden conservatory at Aspen Hill, Martha entered with a look of hesitation on her face.
"Miss Cassidy," Martha said gently. "There is a woman at the gate. She has been standing out in the rain for three hours. Security asked if they should call the police, but she begged me to give you this."
Martha handed me a soggy, handwritten letter written on cheap notebook paper.
I opened it. The handwriting was shaky and frantic:
Cassidy,
I am begging you on my knees. Brendan is dying in that prison. He can't handle it. They are going to give him twenty years. I have no money left for food. My health is failing. I know I was cruel to you. I know I did a terrible thing with the water.
Please, as a mother... don't let my son rot in jail. Have mercy on us.
— Diane
I looked out the high glass windows toward the front gates half a mile away. Through the grey rain, I could see a small, slouched figure wrapped in a plastic poncho, shivering against the cold iron bars.
I took a quiet sip of my hot ginger tea.
"Martha," I said.
"Yes, my dear?"
"Tell security to hand her an umbrella and a twenty-dollar bill."
Martha blinked, surprised. "Just twenty dollars?"
May you like
I looked down at my hands, remembering the cold, dirty ice water streaming down my face, and the folded bill Brendan had tossed onto the rug like I was a dog.
"Yes," I said smoothly. "Tell her to use it for a taxi. And tell her to be grateful I gave her that much."
