I didn't recognize you without the extra hundred and fifty pounds, Marcus, Chantal whispered across the VIP table at our ten-year high school reunion gala.
The smell of ozone and sawdust clung to Jamal, my younger brother. He was always tinkering, always building, his hands rough with the work of an independent electrician. I caught him in his garage workshop in Adams Park, surrounded by stripped wires and half-assembled breaker boxes.
“You’re late,” he grumbled, wiping grease from his forehead with the back of his hand. “Said you’d help me load these panels for the church job.”
“Jamal, I need to talk to you,” I said, my voice tight. My mind was still reeling from Elijah’s revelation, but a new, unsettling piece of information had just hit me.
He leaned against a workbench, a coil of copper wire draped over his shoulder. He looked tired, the shadows under his eyes speaking of too many late nights. Tools debt, I knew, was a constant cloud over his head.
“What’s up? You look like you just saw a ghost,” he said, attempting a joke that fell flat.
I explained what I’d found, the land covenant, the years of illegal rents. Jamal just stared, his mouth slightly open.
“That’s… that’s crazy, Marcus,” he finally managed.
Before I could dive deeper, his phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen, and a strange expression crossed his face – a mix of shock and hopeful disbelief.
“It’s Dubois,” he mumbled. “Chantal Dubois herself.”
He took the call, moving away, his back to me. His voice grew hushed, then animated. I could hear snatches of “emergency repairs,” “big contract,” and then, “$15,000.”
My stomach clenched. I had a bad feeling.
When he hung up, he practically bounced across the garage floor. His usual weariness had vanished.
“Marcus, you won’t believe this!” he practically shouted, his face beaming. “Chantal just offered me a contract. Urgent electrical upgrades at the campaign building, starting tomorrow morning. Fifteen thousand dollars, upfront half payment!”
He grabbed a worn, leather-bound folder from a stack of papers and pulled out a freshly printed contract. It was still crisp.
“She said it’s to ‘address immediate code compliance issues before the city gets involved.’ Needed it signed tonight, apparently.”
He didn’t wait for my reaction, his eyes scanning the document with an almost desperate eagerness. He grabbed a pen.
“This is huge, man,” he kept saying, more to himself than to me. “This clears half my supply debt. I can finally get ahead.”
My heart pounded against my ribs. “Jamal, wait. Let me see that.”
But he was already scribbling his signature with a flourish. He had always been impulsive, especially when money was on the line. He’d signed before I could even take a step towards him.
He beamed up at me, a mixture of pride and relief on his face. “Told you things would turn around. This is a game-changer.”
I took the contract from his hand, my fingers brushing over his fresh signature. My eyes darted to the fine print, the legal jargon swirling on the page.
And there it was. Buried deep in Clause 7, titled “Tenant-Induced Property Hazards”: *The undersigned contractor, by executing this agreement, acknowledges and certifies immediate observation of tenant-induced structural and electrical deficiencies constituting an imminent hazard, justifying municipal condemnation and immediate closure if not rectified.*
My blood ran cold. Chantal hadn’t offered him a contract to help the campaign. She had tricked him into signing an admission that *we* had caused structural damage to our own headquarters. An admission that justified immediate closure.
My brother, in his desperate hope to help me and himself, had just become an unwitting accomplice in her plan to shut down my campaign.
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