I am stopping this wedding before my family merges with a thief, groom Andre Dupree announced, his voice echoing across the silk-draped ballroom as he pulled out a stack of bank audits.
Julian’s desperate move with the forged inspection reports only strengthened the federal case against him. Special Agent St. James saw it as further evidence of Julian’s attempts to obstruct justice and retaliate against anyone who crossed him. My firm was back on track, but the fight was far from over.
Federal investigators, working tirelessly with the evidence Maya provided, had been digging deeper into Pembroke Holdings’ finances. Their focus sharpened on Howard DeWitt, Julian’s nervous accountant.
St. James called me. “Mr. Pembroke, our forensic team uncovered something interesting. A series of off-the-books transfers from Julian Pembroke’s personal accounts to a numbered offshore account.”
“And who’s the beneficiary?” I asked, already guessing.
“Traced it back to a shell corporation registered in the Cayman Islands,” St. James replied. “But the funds were then routed directly to a personal account. Guess whose name is on it?”
“Howard DeWitt,” I said, a bitter taste in my mouth.
“Precisely,” St. James confirmed. “Over the past three years, totaling exactly $400,000. It looks like a retainer, paid in installments, for… services rendered.”
The number was specific, concrete. $400,000. Not just a bonus, but a deliberate payment for loyalty, for discretion. For his silence and complicity.
I knew what those “services” were. Falsifying my original tax filings, perhaps, to paint a picture of financial instability before the bankruptcy. Manipulating ledger entries. Anything to help Julian achieve his ends.
St. James provided me with the federal subpoenas. I didn’t need to be asked twice. I walked into Howard DeWitt’s small, cluttered office on the 15th floor of the Pembroke Tower, the very building where federal agents had swarmed days earlier. DeWitt, slumped at his desk, looked even more disheveled than usual. He had seen the news. He knew the walls were closing in.
He looked up, startled, when I entered. “Marcus? What do you want now?”
I didn’t answer. I simply placed the stack of federal subpoenas on his desk, directly on top of his ledger. The FBI seal glinted under the fluorescent lights.
His eyes fixated on the documents, then flickered to my face. His jaw went slack.
“These are from Special Agent St. James,” I said, my voice calm, betraying none of the satisfaction I felt. “They want to talk about that $400,000 Julian paid you. The off-the-books payments to your offshore account.”
DeWitt’s face went white. He knew. He absolutely knew. The color drained from his skin, leaving him looking like a ghost.
“That’s… that’s for consulting,” he stammered, weakly. “Private consulting services.”
“Consulting for Julian to ruin my life?” I pressed, leaning over his desk. “Consulting to falsify my original tax filings? To cook the books when my developments were being undervalued?”
He started hyperventilating, his hand shaking as he reached for a glass of water. “I… I didn’t want to! He made me! He threatened my family!”
“Threats, Howard?” I scoffed. “Or did the $400,000 convince you? Because federal prosecutors have a different name for it: conspiracy. And tax fraud.”
I picked up one of the subpoenas. “That’s twenty years in federal prison, Howard. Twenty years, minimum. Or you can cooperate. Tell the truth, name Julian as the ringleader. You can still save yourself.”
He stared at the documents, at the grim reality of his situation. His greed, his fear, his complicity – it was all coming to a head. Howard DeWitt, the nervous, greedy accountant, finally crumbled.
He pushed the subpoenas away, burying his face in his hands. “Okay. Okay, I’ll talk. I’ll tell them everything. Just… just don’t let them take everything I have.”
The first domino had fallen. Howard DeWitt was ready to sing.
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