Chapter 11: The Last Thing He Said
The formal cooperation agreement took eleven days.
Amara spent most of them at Nadia's apartment, with two exceptions: a meeting with her own attorney, a woman named Patricia Osei who had been recommended by Ashworth and who arrived at their first meeting with a legal pad, a flat expression, and the energy of someone who had seen worse and was not impressed by it; and a prenatal appointment at a clinic on the North Side where a doctor told her the baby was healthy, her blood pressure was elevated but manageable, and she should try to reduce stress.
Amara had looked at the doctor and said, "I'm working on it."
On the twelfth day, Patricia called.
"The divorce petition has been filed," she said.
"Dante's attorney has agreed not to contest the primary terms.
Given his cooperation agreement with the federal government, contesting the divorce in open court would require him to disclose financial information he is currently obligated to keep confidential under the terms of that agreement.
He can't fight you without fighting them."
"What are the terms?"
"Full custody of your daughter, pending a parenting plan to be reviewed after the criminal proceedings conclude.
The Chicago house goes to you — it was purchased with funds that predate the shell company structure and can be cleanly separated from the federal case.
Monthly support at a level Patricia described as 'significant.' And a legal order preventing him from contacting you directly."
Amara sat at Nadia's kitchen table with the phone against her ear.
"He agreed to all of it?" she asked.
"His attorney agreed.
Which is the same thing, at this point."
"Did he say anything?
When he signed?"
Patricia paused.
"His attorney relayed one message.
Dante asked that it be passed to you directly."
"What was it?"
"'Tell her I'm sorry it took me this long to understand what I had.'"
Amara was quiet.
"Do you want me to respond?" Patricia asked.
"No," Amara said.
"No response."
She set the phone down on the table.
She sat for a moment with the words.
Not with grief.
Not with anger.
With something more like the feeling of setting down a bag she had been carrying so long she had forgotten the weight of it until it was gone.
The criminal proceedings moved faster than anyone expected.
Dante's three names were significant enough that Ashworth's office agreed to the reduced counts.
He pled guilty to two federal charges in a proceeding that lasted forty minutes.
The sentencing was scheduled for eight weeks later.
The men he named — the ones above him — were arrested within seventy-two hours.
Their assets were frozen.
Their lawyers began making calls.
Selena Ward received a civil judgment and a fine.
She lost the Larimer townhouse.
She moved out of Chicago.
Amara did not know where she went, and did not try to find out.
The person inside Reyes's building was quietly removed from the investigation and placed on indefinite leave.
Reyes told Amara this in a brief call.
He did not give her the name.
She did not ask for it.
On a Thursday morning six weeks after the coffee shop meeting, Amara's phone rang.
Ashworth's number.
"Sentencing is confirmed for next Tuesday," Ashworth said.
"You are not required to attend.
But you are permitted to submit a victim impact statement if you choose."
"I know," Amara said.
"I've been thinking about it."
"Whatever you decide is right."
"Can I ask you something?"
"Yes."
"In your experience," Amara said, "do they ever actually understand?
The men like him.
When it's over.
Do they understand what they did?"
Ashworth was quiet for a moment.
"Some of them understand the consequences," she said.
"Very few of them understand the cost."
"There's a difference."
"Yes."
Amara thanked her and ended the call.
She did not submit a victim impact statement.
She thought about it for three days.
She sat at Nadia's kitchen table and she started writing twice and stopped twice.
Not because she had nothing to say.
Because she realized, on the third morning, that everything she needed to say she was already saying — in every choice she made, in every document she had retrieved, in every word she had spoken at that table in Lincoln Square.
She had already made her statement.
She didn't need a courtroom to hear it.
On Tuesday, Dante Moretti was sentenced to four years in a federal facility in Indiana.
His personal assets — the house, the cars, the accounts not connected to the shell companies — were divided according to the divorce agreement.
His name appeared in the financial news on a Thursday.
Amara read the first paragraph and set her phone face-down on the desk.
She didn't read the rest.
She didn't need to.
She went back to the Chicago house two weeks before her due date.
It felt different without him in it.
Larger.
Quieter.
More like a house and less like a territory.
May you like
She walked through every room.
She opened windows.
