restitution, they’ll have to admit to specific things they owe. And they’ll do it through the courts. Not in a private deal.” I pushed the paper back across the table. “My innocence isn’t for sale.”
Helen nodded. Just once.
“Then we keep going,” she said.
Helen asked the court for orders preventing Trevor and Monica from moving or selling any more of
the disputed assets while the case went on. The house. The company. The money in TM Strategic.
The judge granted them.
We also sent everything we’d found, about the forged documents and the money that kept moving after my arrest, to the county prosecutor’s office.
I’ll be honest. I’d seen a lot of TV shows in prison. I’d expected something dramatic. Police cars. Handcuffs. Trevor being dragged out of his office in front of everybody.
That’s not what happened.
What happened was paperwork. Investigators read documents. They sent subpoenas to banks. They interviewed people. Gordon. Tonya. Dr. Ferris. Loretta’s oncology nurse, who remembered me
sleeping in the chair next to her bed. The notary in Dublin who’d stamped my limited power of attorney in 2020.
It was painfully slow.
Sometimes whole weeks went by without anything happening. I’d call Helen and she’d say, “Nothing new. Be patient.” I’d hang up and scrub Opal’s kitchen floor until my knees hurt.
Trevor changed lawyers. Then changed them again. Monica’s lawyer told the investigators that every
single thing she’d ever done at Buckeye had been on my instructions. That she’d just followed company procedures. That she was an employee doing her job.
But every month, the records made that harder to believe.
One of the most important pieces was that shareholder meeting from March 14, 2022.
