Chapter 12 - The Federal Holding FacilityWhile the Mediterranean villa adjusted to its newly restored peace, forty miles away at the federal correctional holding facility in Middlesex County, reality was settling in with all the grace of a sledgehammer.
Marcus Vance forwarded me the initial transcripts from the federal magistrate's preliminary bail hearings.
Grant Miller and Arthur Hart had both entered pleas of not guilty during their initial arraignment, but their high-priced defense counsel were already desperately trying to negotiate cooperation deals with the U.S. Attorney’s office.
According to the federal prosecutor’s notes, Grant had spent four hours in an interrogation room trying to shift the entire blame onto my father, claiming that the fraudulent power-of-attorney documents had been orchestrated through Arthur’s legal estate channels. In return, my father had reportedly broken down in tears, screaming that Grant was a greedy parasite who had manipulated an aging patriarch into signing papers he didn't understand.
They were turning on each other before the ink on their indictment briefs had even dried.
My phone buzzed on the kitchen island. An encrypted text from Marcus:
“Bail was denied across the board, Commander. Judge Holloway cited severe flight risk and clear evidence of document tampering. They’re sitting tight in federal custody until the trial date next quarter.”
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I locked my phone, tossed it onto the counter, and walked out onto the stone terrace to watch the tide roll in against the base of the cliffs.
They had wanted a legacy built on lies, dominance, and the systematic erasure of my achievements. Now, their legacy was a shared prison cell and a mountain of legal fees that would auction off every luxury asset they had ever boasted about.
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