Chapter 8: What Richard Cass Looked Like When the Room Changed
The meeting was held in a conference room at the state attorney general's office — not my division, but a floor I knew well.
I sat on one side of the table with Grace.
Marcus Vale sat on the other side with Richard Cass.
A senior prosecutor named Elaine Marsh sat at the head of the table.
Marcus was dressed carefully.
Dark suit, no tie, the particular studied casualness of a man who wanted to appear unconcerned.
He looked at me once when I came in and then did not look at me again.
Cass opened.
"My client is prepared to discuss a civil resolution.
He maintains that his involvement was limited to general financial guidance provided in a personal capacity and that he had no knowledge—"
Elaine Marsh held up one hand.
"Mr.
Cass.
Before you continue." She opened a folder.
"We received a sworn cooperative statement this morning.
I'd like you to review the first three pages before we go any further."
Cass took the folder.
He read.
His expression did not change, but his stillness changed — it became a different kind of stillness.
Marcus leaned toward him and said something quietly.
Cass put one hand on Marcus's arm.
A small gesture.
Stop talking.
"This statement," Cass said carefully, "was provided under what circumstances?"
"Voluntarily," Marsh said.
"Fully sworn.
Witnessed.
Submitted at 8:47 this morning."
Marcus's jaw moved.
He looked at the table.
"The statement," Marsh continued, "corroborates the digital evidence already in our possession, provides specific detail on fourteen individual transfers, identifies the offshore account structure, and includes a verbatim account of the coaching conversations." She closed the folder.
"Mr.
Vale, your attorney may want a few minutes."
"I don't need—" Marcus started.
"Marcus." Cass's voice was flat.
Final.
Marcus stopped.
Cass asked for a recess.
Marsh granted fifteen minutes.
Grace and I stepped into the hallway.
"He didn't think she'd do it," Grace said quietly.
"No."
"How do you feel?"
I thought about it honestly.
"Like I'm watching something that should have been stopped eight years ago, with his first wife."
When we went back in, Cass made a new offer.
Full financial restitution.
A guilty plea to a reduced charge of civil fraud.
Cooperation with the FINRA referral.
Marsh looked at me.
"The FINRA referral needs to be permanent," I said.
"Not a suspension.
Permanent bar from financial advising."
Cass started to object.
Marcus put his hand on the table.
"Fine," Marcus said.
His voice was flat and stripped of everything it had carried when he walked in.
"Fine."
He looked at me then — really looked at me — for the first and only time in that room.
"You know this doesn't fix your marriage," he said.
"I know," I said.
"I'm not trying to fix my marriage.
I'm trying to make sure you never do this to anyone else."
The chair scraped.
Marcus Vale stood up, buttoned his jacket, and walked out without another word.
Richard Cass gathered his papers slowly, methodically, the way experienced attorneys do when they need a moment to compose themselves after a loss.
At the door he paused.
May you like
"For what it's worth," he said, not quite looking at either of us, "I didn't know about the prior marriages when I took this case."
Then he left.
