Chapter 5: The Affidavit

Silas Croft slumped in his chair, the elegant office suddenly feeling like a cage. The mention of the money had broken him, the bravado draining from his face. He looked utterly defeated.

“I need immunity,” he mumbled, wiping his brow with a silk handkerchief. “Hallowell will ruin me. He’ll kill me.”

“Immunity is not for me to offer, Mr. Croft,” I stated, my voice firm. “But cooperation will go a long way. Silence, or further lies, will ensure you’re charged as an accomplice to federal wartime fraud.”

He squeezed his eyes shut. “He threatened my family. My daughter.” His voice was barely a whisper. “Said he’d make sure she never got her nursing scholarship. Never leave Philadelphia.”

A familiar, chilling tactic. Hallowell was consistent. My own stomach tightened, thinking of Thomas.

“Write it down,” I demanded, pushing a blank sheet of paper and a pen across his desk. “Everything. The dates, the amounts, Hallowell’s instructions. A signed affidavit.”

Croft hesitated, his hand trembling as he picked up the pen. He looked at the shredder, then at me. He knew his options were running out. The quiet hum of the machine seemed to mock his fading hopes.

He began to write, his pen scratching furiously across the page. He detailed how Douglas Hallowell had approached him a year prior, offering the staggering sum of fifty thousand dollars in cash – in installments – to bypass the standard metallurgical reviews. Croft, a maritime appraiser, usually only verified finished ship values, not the raw materials. But Hallowell needed a notary, a reputable civilian name, to legitimize the falsified lab reports his own engineers were creating.

He wrote about the pressure, the threats, and the carefully constructed scheme to forge the stress logs for eighteen active North Atlantic escort frigates. Eighteen ships. The number hit me with a fresh wave of dread.

When he was done, the paper was covered in his hurried script, detailing the systematic falsification of stress logs for the entire fleet. He signed it with a flourish, his hand still visibly shaking.

I took the affidavit, carefully folding it. “Now you’re coming with me, Mr. Croft.”

His eyes widened in panic. “Where?”

“To speak with Lt. Commander Albright,” I replied. “He’ll arrange for your safety. And for you to provide sworn testimony.”

He tried to resist, muttering about his appointments, his dignity. But the sight of the signed affidavit in my hand, coupled with my unyielding stare, quickly extinguished any thoughts of defiance. He reluctantly stood, adjusting his rumpled suit.

I walked him out of his office, down the stairs, and into the bustling street. He drew nervous glances, his face a mask of fear. I hailed a cab, and we rode in silence to the naval liaison office.

Albright’s expression hardened when he saw Croft. He read the affidavit, his jaw tightening with each line. The systemic nature of the fraud was now undeniable.

“Eighteen frigates,” Albright repeated, his voice laced with disbelief. “Every one of them compromised. This is an act of war, Hallowell.”

He immediately placed Croft under protective custody, ensuring his safety while preparing him for formal testimony. The affidavit, a flimsy piece of paper filled with hurried confessions, was a powerful weapon. It confirmed everything. The fraudulent tests, the compromised ships, the staggering cost to human lives. The true scope of Hallowell’s deception was finally laid bare.