When a Hollywood Celebrity Handler Survives a $15 Million Staged Brake-Failure Crash Engineered by Her Neighbor and Husband, She Crashes Her Memorial with Telemetry Evidence to Destroy Their Empire.
With Julian and Marcus sentenced, the next phase began: the arduous process of corporate dissolution and asset review. I sat across from court administrators in a sterile conference room at the Los Angeles Superior Courthouse, surrounded by stacks of paper and the drone of an air conditioner.
My attorney, a sharp-witted woman named Eleanor Vance, kept her hand on my arm, a reassuring presence.
“This is mostly administrative now, Nora,” Eleanor whispered, sensing my fatigue. “The finalization of the corporate liquidation.”
The court trustees, grim-faced and efficient, began reviewing the details of Julian’s media empire. They methodically cataloged his assets, from obscure music catalogs to shell corporations, all destined for liquidation to satisfy creditors and victims.
Then, they arrived at the section pertaining to Julian’s fraudulent insurance claim. My studio shareholding, the source of the $15 million key-person policy, was under scrutiny. The trustee, a woman with reading glasses perched on her nose, picked up a document.
“Now, regarding the specific 2014 distribution agreement,” she began, “and the rider clause, which Ms. Delacroix so effectively presented as evidence in proving Mr. Kincaid’s motive…”
She paused, adjusting her glasses. My stomach tightened. I knew this clause had been crucial. It had sealed their conviction.
“The court is bound to strictly enforce the terms of this expired rider clause,” she continued. “Its activation, which demonstrated Mr. Kincaid’s fraudulent intent, also triggers certain… default provisions.”
I leaned forward. Default provisions? I hadn’t considered any further implications beyond proving Julian’s fraud. I had been so focused on using the clause as a weapon against him.
“This clause,” the trustee explained, “originally served as a protective measure for the parent conglomerate. If the primary contract holder, in this case, Julian Kincaid’s original label, breached its terms within five years, the key-person insurance policy assigned to any co-signers—” she looked directly at me—”would become null and void.”
“Yes,” I confirmed, “that was the basis of his fraud. The policy was worthless.”
“Precisely,” she said, her voice devoid of emotion. “And in such an event, to mitigate further financial risk to the parent company, the original master agreement stipulates a mandatory reversion.”
Reversion. The word hung in the air, heavy and unfamiliar. What could possibly revert?
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