20-Year-Old Apprentice Jeweler Rebuilding His Life Uncovers a $400 Million Oil Tax Evasion Microchip Inside a Sapphire, Exposed by His Boss Who Arms His Estranged Family Against Him
The drive to Harrison Chatman’s office was a blur of nervous energy. Marcus clutched Grandma Hattie’s ledger in one hand, the flash drive from the sapphire in the other. Devonte drove, a grim set to his jaw. He was quiet, the weight of his grandmother’s revelation clearly settling over him.
Chatman’s office was in a sleek, modern building downtown, a stark contrast to the old-world charm of Dupree Fine Jewelry. His receptionist looked annoyed when Marcus insisted on seeing him without an appointment.
“Mr. Chatman is very busy,” she said, her tone icy.
“Tell him Marcus Gaines is here,” Marcus replied, his voice firm. “And I have something he’ll want to see. Something about Arthur Dupree.”
The name seemed to work like a charm. Moments later, Chatman appeared at the door of his private office, a forced smile on his face that didn’t reach his eyes. He recognized Marcus from his apprenticeship at Dupree’s.
“Marcus, my boy. What a surprise.” He ushered Marcus and Devonte in, eyeing the ledger in Marcus’s hand. “What can I do for you?”
Marcus didn’t waste time. He laid Grandma Hattie’s ledger on Chatman’s polished mahogany desk. The old, faded entries stood out against the sleek surface.
“This is Dupree’s original fraud,” Marcus stated, pointing to a series of dated transactions. “Fake inventory losses, inflated appraisals. From thirty years ago.”
Chatman’s face went pale. His gaze darted to the dates, then back to Marcus. His practiced composure began to crack.
“And this,” Marcus continued, pulling out the flash drive. “This is the current one. The oil tax evasion. A few hundred million dollars hidden in plain sight.”
Chatman ran a hand through his thinning hair, his breathing quickening. He looked trapped, a cornered rat. “What do you want?” he rasped.
“The truth,” Marcus said, unwavering. “About Nia Washington. You’ve worked with her, haven’t you?”
Chatman slumped into his chair. He stared at the ledger, then at the flash drive. The dam broke. “She’s not a journalist, Marcus. Not really. She’s… she’s a negotiator. She works for the other side. The oil board. They use her to find these things, then she negotiates to bury the data. For a price.”
His voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. “She told them she had the chip. She was just waiting for you to get her the full, unencrypted drive. Then she was going to sell it back to them, for a multi-million dollar payoff.”
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