Chapter 12 - Greg Cuts a Deal
The Hamilton County Sheriff deputies did not waste time with pleasantries.
They breached the side doors with service weapons drawn, ordering Harper and Brian face down onto the sawdust-covered concrete floor. Brian complied instantly, sobbing into the floorboards, pleading that he had been coerced.
Harper fought until the very last second. She screamed, kicked, and spat at the officers as they forced her hands behind her back, clicking the steel cuffs over her wrists for the second time in twenty-four hours.
“Call my mother!” Harper shrieked as they hauled her out the door toward the cruiser. “Tell her to call Judge Hollister! He plays golf at Camargo! He knows our family! Tell him Rebecca set me up!”
Deputy Miller walked over to the catwalk stairs, looking up at me and shaking his head.
“You’ve got a real piece of work for a sister, Rebecca,” Miller said, wiping his brow. “Her bail is officially revoked. Breaking into a crime-related property while out on bond for felony theft? She won't be seeing daylight until her trial concludes.”
“What about Brian?” I asked, descending the metal stairs.
“Brian is looking at accessory to burglary and trespassing,” Miller replied. “Though based on his complete confession on your security footage, the prosecutor will probably squeeze him to testify against Harper and your mother in exchange for probation.”
At 8:00 AM on Monday morning, Margaret Lawson and I sat in a conference room on the fourth floor of the Hamilton County Courthouse.
The door opened, and Margaret’s associate ushered in Greg Vance, accompanied by his public defender.
Greg looked like a broken shell of a man. His clothes were rumpled, dark purple bags hung beneath his eyes, and his hands shook so hard he couldn't hold his paper cup of water without spilling it. When he saw Caleb sitting beside me, Greg couldn't even raise his head.
“Greg,” Margaret Lawson said, opening her leather portfolio. “The assistant district attorney has authorized me to present the terms of your proffer agreement. You have thirty minutes to review and sign before the grand jury convenes.”
Greg swallowed hard, his voice barely above a whisper. “What does she want?”
I leaned forward across the oak conference table.
“I want the complete truth, Greg,” I said. “Every bank account. Every forged authorization. Every asset my mother has hidden over the last five years. And I want the corporate release for the fraudulent lien you filed against Whitaker Woodworking’s warehouse.”
Greg nodded frantically, tears welling in his bloodshot eyes. “I’ll sign it. I’ll sign whatever you want, Becca. I swear to God, I never wanted to do this! It was Evelyn and Harper! They came to my office six months ago when Arthur got the terminal diagnosis.”
“Tell Margaret on the record,” I instructed, pushing the digital voice recorder toward the center of the table.
Greg took a trembling breath, staring down at the recorder’s red indicator light.
“In May of this year,” Greg began, his voice cracking, “Evelyn called a meeting at her house. Arthur was in the hospital having his lung drained. Evelyn told me that Arthur had discovered nearly three hundred thousand dollars missing from the personal accounts and was threatening to remove her from the trust.”
Caleb’s jaw clenched, but he remained silent, letting his brother speak.
“Evelyn said that if Arthur died while Rebecca was the successor trustee, all of us would be cut off,” Greg continued. “She told me that Harper had found Arthur’s old checkbook in the safe at the Indian Hill house. Harper practiced Arthur’s signature for three weeks until she could duplicate it perfectly.”
“And the lien?” Margaret asked. “Who drafted the fraudulent corporate resolution pledging the warehouse as collateral for your logistics company?”
“Uncle Dan’s law firm,” Greg confessed, looking down at his trembling hands. “Dan didn't sign it personally—he had a junior paralegal notarize it using an expired corporate seal from 2018. Evelyn promised Dan that when they liquidated the workshop after Arthur’s death, Dan’s commercial millwork debt would be erased from the books, and Brian would get fifty thousand dollars in cash to start his business.”
Margaret Lawson smiled—a cold, terrifying smile of absolute legal triumph.
“Grand conspiracy, bank fraud, wire fraud, subornation of perjury, and commercial extortion,” Margaret summarized, writing notes rapidly on her legal pad. “Dan Miller is going to lose his law license by the end of the week.”
Greg looked up at me, his eyes filled with desperate, pathetic pleading. “Becca... please. Tell the prosecutor I cooperated. I have a son. Miles needs a father. Harper is going away for a long time... please don't let Miles end up in foster care.”
I looked at Greg—the man who had laughed on Friday while his son poured sticky soda all over my late father’s gift to me.
“Miles won't end up in foster care, Greg,” I said softly. “Caleb and I have already discussed it. If you and Harper go to prison, Caleb will petition the family court for legal guardianship of Miles.”
Greg blinked, stunned, looking over at his older brother.
Caleb met Greg’s gaze with absolute, unyielding gravity. “I won't let your son grow up to be a thief, Greg. I’ll raise him in the workshop. I’ll teach him what Arthur taught us: that an honest man builds his life with his own hands, not by stealing from the people who love him.”
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Greg broke down completely, burying his face in his hands, his shoulders shaking with silent, agonizing sobs.
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