Chapter 7 - The Independent Counsel
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Camille Foster did not waste time with pleasantries. She walked straight to the foot of Leah’s bed, her sharp eyes taking in the bruises and bandages before settling on me.
“We received Leah’s encrypted files,” Camille said, her voice strictly professional but laced with underlying fury. “The corporate audit committee held an emergency session an hour ago. They have officially frozen all financial transactions connected to the suspected shell vendors. Celia attempted to use the forged power of attorney at two major banks this morning. Both institutions have suspended all action pending formal authentication.”
“Can she control the company with that document?” I asked, feeling a cold sweat on my palms.
“No,” Camille replied definitively. “Corporate voting authority cannot be legally transferred through the personal document she presented. However, she can create massive disruption in your personal estate.”
“What about the signature on the document?”
“A forensic document examiner is currently reviewing it. The digital metadata suggests the document was clumsily assembled from scanned pages of an old commercial lease. It’s a complete forgery.”
Leah shifted uncomfortably against her pillows, looking at Camille. “Did you check the specific folder called Athens Medical?”
Camille’s expression changed from professional anger to deep concern. “I did. Why did you flag it?”
“It contains the drafted letters claiming Adrian has early neurological decline,” Leah explained quietly. “Vanessa discussed finding a corrupt doctor willing to sign them for a fee.”
I felt as though the floor had dropped out from beneath me.
My own mother and siblings had meticulously planned to remove me from my own company by publicly depicting me as mentally unfit and locking me in a medical facility.
“Is there anything else in those files we need to prepare for?” Camille asked, her pen hovering over a legal pad.
Leah hesitated, glancing at me before looking back at the lawyer.
“I found multiple references to something they called the Black Ledger. The emails suggest it goes all the way back to Adrian’s father.”
The room grew very still. My father, Samuel Mercer, had died sixteen years earlier from what we were all told was a sudden, massive heart attack. He had been fifty-two years old and apparently in perfect health.
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“What did the messages specifically say about this ledger?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper.
“They said that he discovered money secretly moving through Uncle Raymond’s construction companies,” Leah answered. “He wanted to report it to the authorities. Your mother wrote to Raymond that history would repeat itself if you became difficult to manage.”
