Chapter 8 - The Chatham Recess
The federal detention facility in Chatham County was a modern, pre-cast concrete structure that sat three miles from the river, surrounded by two perimeters of razor wire that clicked in the wind like dry grass.
Sarah sat behind the plexiglass partition in the visitors' room, her hands folded over her knees. The room was loud with the low, urgent murmurs of three other inmates and their lawyers, the air smelling of floor wax and the specific, metallic tang of industrial air conditioning.
Curtis Wright sat across from her, his orange jumpsuit three sizes too large for his thin shoulders. His mustache had been shaved off per facility regulations, revealing a small, weak lip that trembled as he spoke.
“You don't have to leave me in here, Sarah,” he said, his voice coming through the small, perforated steel disc in the glass. “The lawyers say if you sign the affidavit stating that the corporate records were ambiguous, the federal prosecutor will drop the conspiracy charge. I can get probation. I can go to the facility in North Carolina. It’s like a camp, Sarah. They have trees.”
“The records weren't ambiguous, Curtis,” Sarah said, her voice level and steady, carrying no anger, only the weight of a factual summary. “You transferred forty-two million dollars of proprietary software to an account held by a front company whose primary director is a known intelligence broker for the Syrian air defense command. You didn't steal from the family. You sold the target-acquisition codes for the aircraft my friends are flying.”
“I didn't know who Kassar was!” Curtis shouted, his hands slamming against the Formica counter. A guard at the door shifted his position, his hand moving toward his belt. Curtis lowered his voice quickly, his eyes darting toward the blue uniform. “Mother brought him to the house. She said he was a logistics consultant from Marseilles. She said he was going to help us expand the commercial shipping line.”
“Elaine doesn't know the difference between Marseilles and Latakia,” Sarah said. “But you did. You checked the IP addresses for the Nicosia bank transfers three times from your personal laptop. The logs are in the grand jury file, Curtis. You did the math, and you decided that twelve million dollars was worth more than the safety of the Third Battalion.”
Curtis leaned his forehead against the glass, the plastic graying with his breath. “Father never liked me,” he whispered. “He looked at you and he saw his old company. He looked at me and he saw a clerk. I just wanted to build something that didn't require your permission.”
“You didn't build anything,” Sarah said, standing up from her stool. “You took an old man’s name and you dragged it through a federal ledger. You should have stayed in Athens and sold real estate, Curtis. You were good at that.”
She turned her back on him before he could answer. As she walked through the heavy steel slider that led to the exit corridor, she could hear him calling her name through the glass—a small, thin sound that was quickly cut off by the heavy clack of the electronic lock.
In the waiting room outside, Arthur Pendelton was sitting on a plastic chair, his briefcase on his lap. He stood up as she approached, his face lined with the weariness of a man who had spent forty-eight hours writing motions for a client who didn't give him instructions.
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“Your mother’s attorneys filed for a medical continuance,” Pendelton said as they walked out into the bright, hot parking lot. “They claim her heart won't survive the transport to the federal courthouse in Atlanta.”
“Tell them the motion is denied,” Sarah said, unlocking her car. “I called General Carney’s office an hour ago. The Army is providing an ambulance and a military medical escort from Fort Stewart. If her heart is weak, she can have her deposition taken in the ICU. But she’s going to sign the asset release today, Arthur. Every single page.”
