TINK.
“The family name was never yours to steal, Arthur,” Clara Bennett whispered softly.
Every syllable fell like an un-appealable epitaph that sealed forty years of dynastic treason into solid rock forever:
“My grandfather built with honest steel.”
“Colonel Carter protected with honest medicine.”
“And around here…”
I leaned down until my clear hazel eyes filled the Chief Justice’s entire field of vision:
“…an auditor… always closes the docket.”
CLICK-CLACK.
The two federal marshals hauled Chief Justice Arthur Sterling-Vance to his feet by his armpits, marching him down the greenstone corridor in waist-chains and leg-irons toward the armored transport BearCats waiting on the East Front Plaza.
Behind him were marched his clerk and the corporate executives, their designer shoes dragging through the drywall dust on the floorboards, leaving long, jagged, gray streaks across the stone as they were hauled toward the waiting tactical vans:
SCREEECH.
The heavy four-inch blast doors of the West Conference Room closed behind them with an authoritative, airtight, pneumatic THUD.
