Chapter 3 - Exhibit Forty-Two
The courthouse archive should have contained Exhibit Forty-Two.
It did not.
Judge Harrison personally authorized the search.
Two clerks checked sealed physical storage.
Nothing.
The evidence-management log showed the item had been transferred out of the courthouse on January 23, 2012.
Receiving office:
United States Attorney, Eastern District of Michigan.
Receiving prosecutor:
Martin Hale.
Nobody spoke when Harrison read the name.
Martin finally said, “I handled the investigation.”
“Where is the exhibit?”
“I don’t remember.”
“You checked it out.”
“Fourteen years ago.”
“Fifteen.”
Martin’s irritation flashed.
Samuel noticed.
So did Harrison.
The judge said, “You appear strangely comfortable forgetting a piece of evidence created by a man who died three days later.”
Rebecca stood.
“This has become improper.”
Harrison looked at her.
“You may leave.”
Her jaw tightened.
She left.
Daniel remained.
That choice did not escape anyone.
Samuel’s new lawyer arrived shortly afterward.
Priya Shah was thirty-nine, sharp, fast and visibly furious that Samuel had gone to the courthouse without telling her.
She waited until they were alone.
“What were you thinking?”
“That Rebecca might try to stop me.”
“And you decided the safest strategy was to approach her alone?”
“I didn’t approach her.”
“Samuel.”
“She saw me.”
“You are sixty-five years old.”
“I am aware.”
“You have coronary medication in your pocket.”
“I’m also aware of that.”
“And you thought wrestling a billionaire’s sister in a rainstorm was acceptable litigation strategy?”
He almost smiled.
“She did the wrestling.”
Priya stared.
Then sighed.
“We have a preservation order. That is good. We have Judge Harrison’s attention. Also good.”
“And Exhibit Forty-Two.”
“Missing. Very bad.”
Samuel looked out the window.
“I heard Thomas record something.”
Priya stopped.
“When?”
“Two days before he died.”
“You never told me that.”
“I didn’t know it reached the court.”
“Samuel, what else haven’t you told me?”
He looked at her.
Too long.
Priya’s expression changed.
“That pause terrifies me.”
Before he could answer, his phone rang.
His daughter.
Anna Carter was thirty-eight and taught high school history in Dearborn.
“Dad?”
“Hi.”
“Why are you on television?”
Samuel closed his eyes.
Apparently a courthouse reporter had captured footage of him kneeling in the rain while Rebecca stood over him.
“Anna—”
“Channel Seven says you’re accusing Sloan Dynamics of a fifteen-year cover-up.”
“I didn’t talk to reporters.”
“That isn’t what I asked.”
Samuel rubbed his forehead.
“I reopened something.”
“You promised me you were done.”
“I promised I wouldn’t do anything reckless.”
“You’re on video crawling through traffic for papers!”
Priya pretended not to listen.
Samuel said, “It mattered.”
“It always matters more.”
That hurt.
Anna ended the call.
Priya waited.
“You should have told her.”
“She hates this case.”
“She hates what it did to your family.”
Samuel looked at her.
“That isn’t the same thing.”
“Maybe ask her.”
That evening Samuel returned to his small brick house in Dearborn Heights.
The front door was open.
He stopped at the sidewalk.
Priya, who had insisted on following, immediately called police.
Nothing obvious had been stolen.
Kitchen untouched.
Television still there.
Lena’s jewelry box remained in his bedroom.
Only Samuel’s study had been searched.
File drawers open.
Boxes overturned.
One framed photograph smashed.
It showed Samuel and Lena at Mackinac Island twenty years earlier.
Samuel picked it up.
Priya said, “Don’t touch anything.”
He slowly lowered his hand.
On his desk someone had left one dry sheet of paper.
Typed.
THE MERGER HAPPENS FRIDAY.
LET THE DEAD STAY DEAD.
Priya photographed it.
Samuel stared.
“Rebecca.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I know her.”
“No. You know who she was fifteen years ago.”
Samuel looked toward the broken picture of his wife.
“People don’t become kinder when billions are involved.”
Police took the threat seriously but could not identify who entered.
There was no forced entry.
Samuel’s spare key had disappeared from a garden box months earlier.
He had assumed he misplaced it.
At 9:40 p.m., Daniel Sloan called.
Samuel almost ignored him.
Then answered.
“Why?”
Daniel’s voice was quiet.
“I want to see Richard’s letter.”
“It’s with my lawyer.”
“Good.”
Samuel heard something in Daniel’s tone.
Not arrogance.
Fear.
Daniel continued.
“I found something.”
“What?”
“My signature archive.”
Sloan Dynamics kept digital reference samples for executive authorizations.
Daniel had located a 2011 document with what appeared to be the exact same signature as the one on the remediation agreement.
Samuel stood straighter.
“Same shape?”
“Not similar. Identical.”
Human signatures varied slightly.
Perfectly identical signatures usually meant copying.
“Where was the legitimate signature?”
“A recall authorization dated July 28, 2011.”
Before Thomas Keene died.
Daniel’s breathing changed.
“I signed a blank signature counterpart because Rebecca said counsel was still finalizing the schedules.”
Samuel closed his eyes.
There it was.
A mistake.
Not innocence.
“What did you think you were approving?”
“Forty-one million dollars for a voluntary recall.”
“Was there a recall?”
Silence.
“Daniel.”
“Not that I can find.”
Samuel’s stomach tightened.
“Then where did the money go?”
“I don’t know.”
“Ask your sister.”
“I did.”
“What did she say?”
“That I was remembering wrong.”
Samuel laughed bitterly.
“Welcome to the club.”
Daniel lowered his voice.
“Mr. Carter, if my signature was reused—”
“It means somebody needed you responsible.”
Daniel went silent.
Samuel looked at the threatening note on his desk.
“Do you still think I’m the danger?”
Daniel did not answer.
Then Samuel heard another voice on Daniel’s side of the call.
Rebecca.
Distant.
“You should not be speaking to him.”
May you like
Daniel whispered, “How did you get in here?”
The line went dead.
