Chapter 7 - The Currency of Failure
The federal building in Syracuse was a modern fortress of glass and brushed aluminum, looking completely detached from the historic, decaying towns of the northern valley. On the fourth floor, behind a door that read Internal Revenue Service – Criminal Investigation Division, three agents sat at a conference table covered in green legal pads and three-ring binders.
I sat at the end of the table, my laptop connected to the room’s digital projector, displaying a complex flowchart of corporate assets that spanned three decades of Hastings family history.
"It wasn't a standard fraud scheme, Special Agent Miller," I explained, pointing to the red lines that linked the Hastings Transport trust to an industrial leasing company in Montreal. "My mother wasn't trying to hide income from the state. She was using the commercial truck titles to clear foreign capital for a Canadian logistics group that was under a federal blocking order since 2019. Every time a new pier contract was signed in Newark, the Hastings trust received a secondary 'consulting fee' that was routed through the county surrogate’s land-dispute account."
The lead agent, a compact man with a sharp haircut and glasses, leaned forward to study the digital manifests. "And Deputy Cole was the one certifying the vehicle identification numbers for the equipment that didn't exist?"
"Wade signed forty-two separate inspection logs between 2022 and 2025," I said, clicking the mouse to show the scanned copies of the county garage receipts. "Every time a truck was listed as 'scrapped' at the local yard, the title was actually transferred to the Montreal pool. My husband Thomas found the first discrepancy when he tried to audit the family’s commercial property taxes for the Brunswick development. He told my father that Evelyn was using the company’s fuel credits to launder the secondary transport fees. Three weeks later, my father had a fatal stroke, and Thomas’s medical file was flagged by the local health network."
"Your mother didn't just protect her family fortune, Claire," Agent Miller said, his pen drawing a neat, final circle around the Montreal corporation's tax identification number. "She was running an active maritime smuggling corridor under the nose of the county sheriff's department for six years. The federal grand jury is going to return an indictment for conspiracy to commit money laundering and corporate treason by Thursday evening."
"What about Rachel?" I asked.
"Your sister’s public defender has filed for a formal psychiatric evaluation," Miller said, his voice softening slightly. "She’s currently in the medical wing at the state facility in Fishkill. The doctors say she’s suffering from a major acute schizophrenic break brought on by prolonged psychological coercion. She’s not going to trial, Claire. She’s going to be committed to a secure state hospital for the next ten years minimum."
I closed my laptop, the screen going black, extinguishing the red and blue lines of the Hastings family tree. The room went quiet, the low hum of the building’s air filtration system the only sound left in the white, corporate space.
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"And my mother?" I asked.
"Evelyn Hastings was arrested at her home one hour ago by federal marshals," Miller said, looking down at his notepad. "She didn't try to call her lawyers this time, Claire. She asked the agents if she could bring her silver tea service with her to the holding cell in Albany. When they told her no... she left the house without her shoes."
