Chapter 7 - THOMAS’S DEFENSE
Thomas blamed everyone.
Victor.
Franklin.
Larkin.
Me.
Especially me.
His lawyers filed motions arguing CLEAN was an unauthorized personal copy of confidential company information.
Technically complicated.
Nadia handled it.
I did not need to become my own attorney.
Good.
They argued I manipulated internal records.
Forensic imaging disproved that.
Source invoices existed.
Approval logs existed.
Franklin’s reclassification trail existed.
My missing drive turned up later in Victor Dane’s storage unit after federal agents executed a warrant.
Still encrypted.
Still intact.
Chain of custody documented.
Better.
Victor himself was found in Montreal after attempting to cross back into the United States using his own passport.
Criminal mastermind.
Apparently not.
He was arrested.
No chase scene.
No body count.
Thomas’s second ledger did more damage than CLEAN ever could.
It recorded years of Sable activity.
Payments to people who left Larkin’s organization.
Recruitment.
Property purchases.
Bribes to intermediaries.
Threats used in business disputes.
And a long section labeled L.S.
Larkin Steves.
Insurance.
Not financial insurance.
Blackmail.
Every crime Thomas thought could destroy his cousin if needed.
I saw only portions through discovery relevant to my testimony.
That was enough.
Larkin had authorized things I did not want details about.
Illegal collections.
Threats.
Property damage.
Cash paid to men after “problems” were solved.
He had turned violence into a polished corporate machine.
A thought from my first years in his office returned.
I had admired his efficiency because chaos seemed worse.
That was how dangerous systems survive.
They make order look moral.
Thomas’s defense strategy was obvious.
If Larkin was a criminal, Thomas argued, then secret accounting was self-protection.
If the underlying organization was illegal, siphoning money from it became less sympathetic as theft.
If I knew the books were criminal, I was complicit.
Some of that would matter legally.
None made Thomas innocent automatically.
Federal prosecutors charged Larkin months later.
Not for Thomas’s fraud.
For Larkin’s own conduct.
Extortion conspiracy.
Illegal debt collection.
Obstruction tied to a prior civil matter.
Financial offenses linked to off-book cash systems.
The news hit while I was at Mason & Vale reviewing invoices for a healthcare client.
Normal fraud.
Beautiful fraud.
No guns.
Anika appeared beside my desk.
“You okay?”
I looked at the headline.
LARKIN STEVES INDICTED AS FAMILY EMPIRE COLLAPSES.
“No.”
Good.
“Need to leave?”
I thought.
“No.”
Also good.
Work could continue without pretending emotion did not exist.
I finished the review.
Then called Nadia.
“Do I need to do anything?”
“No.”
“Will they ask me about him?”
“Possibly.”
“Do I testify?”
“If subpoenaed or if we agree cooperation is appropriate.”
“Okay.”
“Do not call him.”
I had not planned to.
That was a lie.
I wanted to.
Not because I loved him.
I barely knew him outside work.
But three years of daily coffee creates habits.
He was the fixed point of every morning.
8:15.
Black coffee.
No sugar.
A man can become part of your nervous system without becoming part of your heart.
I waited.
He called me.
I almost did not answer.
Then did.
“Nadia says we should not discuss case facts.”
His voice sounded tired.
“My lawyer says same.”
Good.
Silence.
Then:
“Are you okay?”
He laughed once.
“No.”
“Good.”
“I deserve that.”
“No. It’s just the honest answer.”
He went quiet.
“I’m being arraigned tomorrow.”
“I saw.”
“I’m stepping down from every remaining board.”
“Good.”
“Penelope.”
“Sorry.”
“No. Keep doing it.”
I smiled despite myself.
Then:
“Did you do what they say?”
“Some.”
“Which?”
“I can’t discuss details.”
“Fair.”
“What I can say is I authorized intimidation I knew was illegal.”
My stomach tightened.
“Did you hurt people?”
“Yes.”
Direct.
Painful.
“Personally?”
He paused.
“Not in the way the headlines imply.”
Lawyer answer.
I disliked it.
“Then say what you can.”
“I created orders that predictably led to people being threatened and property being damaged.”
There.
“Violence?”
“Sometimes.”
My throat tightened.
“And you kept doing it.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because it worked.”
I closed my eyes.
Ugly truth.
Good.
“Do not tell me you changed because of me.”
“I wasn’t going to.”
“Good.”
“I started changing because the system became a liability.”
Worse.
More honest.
“And?”
“Then I realized liability was not the only problem.”
“Prison makes men philosophical before prison.”
He almost laughed.
“Apparently.”
I sat in an empty conference room.
Glass walls.
No secret stains.
No guns.
“I don’t know what to do with you, Larkin.”
“You don’t have to do anything.”
That sentence mattered.
Then:
“I wanted to tell you before I plead anything that the gala invitation was one of the smaller cruel things I did, and it still matters.”
My chest tightened.
“Why?”
“Because cruelty does not become irrelevant just because larger crimes exist.”
I stared at the city outside.
That was not a bad sentence.
Therapy?
Maybe.
“Are you getting help?”
“Yes.”
“Actual therapist?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
He laughed.
I ended the call.
His case moved.
Some charges narrowed.
Others held.
His lawyers challenged counts that bundled conduct too broadly.
Good.
Accountability did not require confessing to things he did not do.
Thomas’s trial preparations continued separately.
Victor Dane negotiated a plea.
Franklin Shaw too.
Both agreed to testify.
Thomas refused.
Of course.
Then prosecutors asked me for a cooperation meeting.
Nadia sat beside me.
They wanted my testimony about vendor approvals, Thomas’s behavior, the gala texts, and CLEAN.
Nothing more.
“Will I testify about Larkin?”
“Only if relevant and permitted.”
I looked at Nadia.
She said:
“You tell the truth. You do not shape it for either man.”
Good.
That became my rule.
Thomas’s trial began eleven months after the gala.
I wore a navy suit.
Flat shoes.
Hair still dark.
Bob grown to my jaw.
No red lipstick.
No armor.
I did not need it.
Thomas saw me enter.
He smiled.
The same cruel smile from the office.
Then his eyes moved over my suit.
“Back to gray?”
His microphone picked it up.
The judge looked annoyed.
I sat on the witness stand.
His attorney asked:
“Ms. Woods, did you spend five thousand dollars to attend the Solstice Gala?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because my employer invited me to a formal event and I wanted to stop being the joke he expected.”
Larkin was not in the room.
Good.
“Did you want Mr. Steves to notice you?”
I thought.
“Yes.”
Truth.
The attorney smiled.
“Romantically?”
“No.”
His smile weakened.
“I wanted him to notice he had underestimated me.”
Good.
“Did you develop feelings for him?”
“At the time?”
“Yes.”
“No.”
“Later?”
Nadia objected.
The judge sustained.
Good.
My private life was not evidence unless tied to motive.
The attorney tried another angle.
“You created a secret ledger.”
“An analytical spreadsheet.”
“Without authorization.”
“I used company records I was authorized to process and made notes for my own protection.”
“Protection from whom?”
I looked at Thomas.
“Men who thought quiet employees did not understand what they saw.”
Silence.
His smile disappeared.
During a recess, I sat alone in the courthouse hallway.
Nadia brought me water.
“You’re doing fine.”
“I hate when lawyers say fine.”
“Would you prefer technically admissible?”
“No.”
She sat beside me.
Across the corridor, Thomas laughed with one of his attorneys.
For years, that laugh had been enough to make me lower my eyes.
Now it sounded smaller.
Not because I had become fearless.
Because a judge, a jury, lawyers, records, and rules stood between his opinion of me and what happened next.
Institutions fail.
I knew that.
But when they work, even imperfectly, they can make one cruel man less important.
The bailiff called us back.
I stood.
No dress armor.
No performance.
Just testimony.
The prosecutor later asked:
“Why did you call the file CLEAN?”
“Because I wanted one place where the numbers were not being renamed.”
That landed.
Thomas was convicted on multiple fraud, conspiracy, witness-intimidation, and unauthorized-access counts.
Not every charge.
The jury acquitted on one broader conspiracy theory prosecutors could not prove.
Good.
Evidence mattered.
Victor and Franklin were sentenced under their pleas.
Thomas received a substantial prison sentence months later.
I did not attend.
No need.
Then Larkin’s plea agreement arrived.
Two counts.
Extortion conspiracy.
Obstruction.
A factual statement.
I read the public version after work.
It was ugly.
He signed.
My phone rang.
Larkin.
I answered.
“You signed.”
“Yes.”
“How long?”
“Sentencing in ten weeks.”
“Recommendation?”
“Two to three years.”
Silence.
“I’m sorry.”
“Thank you.”
“And I’m glad you admitted true facts.”
He laughed.
“You are very consistent.”
“Yes.”
Then:
“Will you have coffee with me before sentencing?”
I froze.
Not boss.
Not employee.
Not defendant asking a witness to discuss case.
Danger.
“Nadia?”
“I already asked my lawyer whether contacting you socially would be inappropriate.”
That annoyed me.
“Of course you did.”
“He said avoid case discussion. Your lawyer should decide too.”
Good.
I called Nadia.
She listened.
Then:
“Do you want to go?”
I hated the question.
“Yes.”
“Then public place. No case discussion. Keep it clean.”
“Pun intended?”
“No.”
Liar.
I met Larkin at a café nowhere near Financial District.
No bodyguards at the table.
One security person outside because threat assessments remained real.
We agreed.
Larkin stood when I arrived.
I stopped.
“Don’t.”
He sat.
Good.
May you like
For the first time in three years, I looked at him without a desk between us.
And for the first time, he looked at me like my answer might actually be no.
