Chapter 16 - The Grand Jury Indictment
The shockwaves from that single message shattered what was left of the extended Vance family within an hour.
Aunt Clara’s husband called Dad to tell him that Clara had locked herself in the master bedroom with an ice pack after realizing she had spent three years paying for Mallory’s "miracle baby" supplements that Mom had purchased at a wholesale discount store.
Wayne filed for emergency divorce at the Johnson County courthouse at 4:15 PM, citing fraud and intentional emotional distress.
And at nine o’clock on Friday morning, the Marion County Prosecutor’s office held a brief, unscheduled press conference on the steps of the City-County Building.
Deputy Prosecutor Miller stood behind a bank of microphones, surrounded by four cardboard boxes marked *Evelyn Vance - Comprehensive Evidence*.
"Earlier today," the prosecutor announced to the six local news cameras assembled on the sidewalk, "a Marion County Grand Jury returned a superseding indictment against Evelyn Marie Vance, containing sixteen felony counts, including Corrupt Business Influence under the Indiana RICO statute, Grand Larceny exceeding fifty thousand dollars, Systematic Identity Theft, and Multiple Counts of Falsifying Charitable Trust Instruments."
He paused, adjusting his notes.
"The evidence reveals a thirteen-year pattern of predatory financial manipulation directed against members of her own family and community non-profit organizations, resulting in the unlawful diversion of over one hundred and ten thousand dollars in charitable and educational funds."
A reporter shouted from the front row: "Is the victim the child with the heart condition?"
"The child is one of several victims," the prosecutor replied. "And the state intends to seek the maximum statutory penalty under Indiana law."
In our small rental home on the north side, the television was off.
We had packed three duffel bags, put Theo’s astronaut helmet in the back seat of the Honda, and loaded Aaron’s toolbox into the trunk.
Dad stood on our porch, holding a brown paper bag full of fresh cinnamon rolls from the bakery in town.
"You really going?" Dad asked, looking at the car.
"Just for a few weeks, Dad," I said, wrapping my arms around his neck and holding him tight. "Aaron’s brother has a cabin up in Michigan near the dunes. Theo needs to see some big water. He needs to run around on the sand where nobody knows his name, nobody knows his grandmother, and nobody talks about hospitals or pink cakes."
"Are you coming back?" Dad asked, his voice cracking with that quiet, terrifying vulnerability of an old man who has lost his bearings.
"Of course we’re coming back," Aaron stepped up, putting a heavy, steady hand on Dad's shoulder. "We have to come back. You’re our landlord now, remember?"
Dad managed a weak, watery smile.
Yesterday afternoon, Dad had officially signed the title of our rental house over to Aaron and me as an advance on his estate, wiping out our landlord's mortgage and giving us full, unencumbered ownership of our home. It was the only way he felt he could balance the ledger.
"Take care of Commander Theo," Dad whispered, leaning down to tap Theo's nose through the car window. "Keep the space station safe, buddy."
"I will, Grandpa," Theo beamed, waving his railroad pocket watch from the back seat. "I'm winding it up every morning at eight hundred hours!"
As Aaron put the car in reverse, my phone—my new phone, with the unlisted number that only Dad, Greg, and the clinic had—buzzed on the console.
It was an email from the Marion County Victim Assistance Office.
Attached was a scanned copy of a handwritten letter submitted by Evelyn Vance from the psychiatric observation unit of the county jail, addressed to the court:
*To the Honorable Judge,*
*I have dedicated my life to being a servant of God and a shield for my ungrateful children. If I have erred in my accounting, it was only because the burden of carrying two weak, incapable daughters was too heavy for one Christian woman to bear alone. I ask for leniency not for myself, but so that I may return home to guide my family back to the light of righteousness before they destroy themselves without me.*
I didn't finish reading it.
I hit the red *Delete* icon, clicked *Empty Trash*, and tossed the phone into the glove compartment next to the maps.
May you like
Aaron turned the car north toward Highway 31, the morning sun breaking through the autumn clouds, lighting up the road ahead like a clean, open runway.
***