Chapter 9 - The Interrogation Mirror-9
Six months later.
The air inside the interrogation suite at the Federal Building in downtown Washington, D.C. was crisp, smelling faintly of institutional floor wax, cold espresso, and the heavy, undeniable weight of absolute justice. The room was a stark, sterile cube of brushed steel and white concrete, dominated by a massive, one-way observation mirror.
On the opposite side of the ballistic glass sat my brother, Jim.
He wore a bright orange federal inmate jumpsuit, his wrists and ankles secured to floor anchors by heavy steel chains that clinked dismally with his every movement. His head was shaved, his face thin, his dark eyes rimmed with deep, hollow shadows of absolute exhaustion. The foolish, ambitious young man who had tried to shortcut his way to wealth had completely vanished, replaced by a broken, desperate prisoner waiting for his final sentencing hearing.
I stood behind the one-way mirror in the observation room, my arms crossed over my tailored gray wool suit jacket, my gray eyes fixed flat on the monitor tracking his vitals. Beside me stood Special Agent Harris.
"He signed the full confession forty-eight hours ago," Harris said, flipping a page on her electronic tablet. "He gave up the entire structural layout of the Noraline shell firms in Cyprus, including the identities of the regional corporate handlers who facilitated Bruce's real estate loans. His defense team is pushing for a plea bargain, but the Department of Justice is looking at a minimum twenty-year sentence."
"And Bruce?" I asked, my voice completely flat, devoid of any anger, grief, or hesitation.
"Bruce refused every plea deal offered to him," Harris replied, her tone hardening. "He tried to claim that you were the true mastermind behind the transponder node and that he was acting under your coercion. But when our forensic cyber team presented the un-redacted audio recordings extracted from your suite's smart home system... his defense completely collapsed. He's facing thirty-five years without the possibility of parole."
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I looked through the glass at my brother one last time. I didn't feel hatred, nor did I feel the bitter sting of betrayal anymore. The law had done its work with clinical, absolute precision.
"The federal receivership finalized the asset distribution yesterday morning, Sarah," I said softly, stepping back from the glass. "Every dollar of the recovered eighty-five million dollars has been officially transferred into an irrevocable public trust fund—The Lily Jennings Foundation for Forensic Advocacy and Child Protection."
