Chapter 8: The Morning Before the Arraignment
The arraignment was scheduled for a Thursday morning, eight days after the wedding that didn't happen.
On Wednesday evening, Lucas's phone rang at seven-fifteen.
He looked at the screen, and something in his face changed.
"Who is it?" I asked.
"Judge Calloway's clerk," he said.
He answered.
I watched his face while he listened.
He said four words: *When did this happen.* Then he thanked the clerk and hung up.
"What?" I said.
"The federal case has been reassigned," Lucas said.
"New supervising judge.
Judge Calloway has recused herself."
"Why?"
"The clerk didn't say.
But Calloway has been on the federal bench for twenty-two years.
She doesn't recuse without a reason."
I sat down slowly.
"My father."
"I don't know that."
"Lucas."
He set the phone on the table.
"Harrison served on the Savannah Judicial Foundation's fundraising committee for six years.
Calloway's re-election campaign received a significant donation from that committee in 2019."
I stared at him.
"You knew this."
"I flagged it in the investigation.
I noted it as a potential conflict.
I assumed the task force would route around it." He paused.
"Apparently your father's attorney filed a motion this afternoon requesting Calloway's assignment to the case.
Calloway recused herself within two hours."
"So he tried to get a friendly judge."
"And it didn't work.
Calloway did the right thing." Lucas looked at me.
"But it tells us something.
He's not just defending himself.
He's actively working to shape the conditions of the case."
"Who's the new judge?"
"Hargrove.
Federal.
No prior contact with your father's foundation that we've found."
I exhaled.
"So it failed."
"This attempt failed." Lucas looked at me steadily.
"Victoria, I need you to understand something.
Your father has significant resources and a very experienced attorney.
Between now and sentencing, there will be more attempts.
Motions to suppress evidence.
Challenges to the chain of custody on the USB drive.
Possibly an attempt to argue your mother's cooperation agreement was coerced."
"Can any of it work?"
"Some of it could create delays.
None of it changes the core evidence."
"How long could delays stretch this out?"
"Realistically?
Eighteen months to two years before trial, if he fights every step."
Two years.
I looked at the window.
Outside, Savannah was doing what Savannah always did in the evening — going quiet and warm and unhurried, Spanish moss moving slightly in the river air, the city indifferent to the specific weight of any one family's reckoning.
"My mother's cooperation agreement," I said.
"Is it solid?"
"Her attorney negotiated it directly with the task force.
She's a material witness with eleven years of documentation.
The agreement is solid."
"And Brandon?"
"Brandon hasn't been contacted as anything other than a potential character witness.
He has no exposure."
I nodded slowly.
Commander Hayes had called that afternoon.
He had been careful and thorough, the way he was careful and thorough about everything.
He told me the USB drive had been fully imaged and catalogued.
He told me the forty-one families had been formally notified that a restitution process was underway.
He told me that my father's arraignment would proceed as scheduled regardless of the judge reassignment.
He also told me something else.
"Your father's accountant," he said.
"A man named Terrence Doyle.
He contacted us this morning through his own attorney.
He wants to cooperate."
"His accountant," I said.
"Fourteen years with your father.
He has records that predate your mother's documentation by three years.
If his cooperation agreement is finalized, the evidentiary picture becomes very complete."
After Hayes hung up, I had sat quietly for a long time thinking about Terrence Doyle.
A man I had met at Christmas parties for most of my adult life.
A quiet man who always stood near the food table and asked polite questions about my work.
A man who had apparently spent fourteen years helping my father move money and had finally, at the moment of maximum pressure, decided he did not want to go down with the ship.
I didn't feel angry at him.
I felt something more complicated than that.
Lucas came and sat beside me at the kitchen table.
"Tomorrow," he said.
"After the arraignment.
Whatever happens — we start figuring out the next part."
"The next part," I said.
"The wedding.
Eventually.
When you're ready."
I looked at him.
"You still want to."
"Victoria." He said my name like it was a complete sentence.
"I walked into a chapel this morning knowing federal agents were going to follow me in.
I stood at that altar while your father humiliated you in front of everyone we know.
And the only thing I wanted, the entire time, was to get to the end of that aisle." He paused.
"Yes.
I still want to."
My eyes burned.
I didn't cry.
Not yet.
"Ask me again," I said.
"After the arraignment.
Ask me properly."
"I will," he said.
I believed him.
The next morning, we drove to the federal courthouse together.
My mother was already there when we arrived, seated beside her attorney in the corridor outside the courtroom, her hands folded, her face composed.
She looked up when she saw me.
I sat down beside her.
We didn't speak for a moment.
The courthouse corridor was all hard floors and fluorescent light, nothing like the Savannah chapel with its candles and white roses.
"How are you?" I asked.
"Ready," she said.
I nodded.
The courtroom doors opened.
Harrison Bennett walked in with Gerald Fitch at his side.
He was in a dark suit.
He did not look at my mother.
He did not look at me.
He walked to the defense table and sat down.
The judge entered.
May you like
Everyone rose.
And it began.
