Chapter 8 - The Firestorm of Public Retribution
By midday, the digital world had erupted into an unquenchable firestorm.
The press conference held on the steps of the federal courthouse by Daniel Brooks, accompanied by representatives from the Department of Justice and the Securities and Exchange Commission, was broadcast live across every major international network.
CNN, BBC, Bloomberg, and Fox Business carried the chyron:
"FALL OF A PHARMA TITAN: JASON MITCHELL STRIPPED OF CEO TITLE AMID EXPLOSIVE CRIMINAL PROBE."
The unsealed evidence was overwhelming.
Daniel had released high-resolution forensic scans of the original 2017 laboratory safety logs, showing that the fire suppression system had been manually disabled from the exterior hallway control panel using Jason Mitchell’s personal biometric keycard. Furthermore, the toxicological reports detailing my medical incapacitation during the signing of the fraudulent patent transfers were published in full on the Department of Justice public repository.
The public reaction was swift, visceral, and merciless.
Protesters gathered outside the Mitchell Medical headquarters and Jason's luxury Lake Michigan penthouse, carrying signs bearing the image of my scarred shoulders from Courtroom 4B. The phrase #TheScarsOfGreed became the number one trending topic worldwide across all social media platforms.
Major pharmaceutical retail chains—CVS, Walgreens, and European distributors—issued joint statements announcing the immediate suspension of all commercial contracts with Mitchell Medical until the ownership of the neural patent portfolio was fully resolved and restored to Dr. Iris Vance-Mitchell.
Inside the Chicago Board of Trade, trading of Mitchell Medical stock ($MMT) was halted after the share price plummeted by eighty-four percent in less than three hours, wiping out over four billion dollars in paper wealth.
Jason Mitchell was ruined.
He was sitting in the dimly lit VIP lounge of an exclusive private airport terminal on the outskirts of Gary, Indiana. A chartered Gulfstream G550 was idling on the runway outside, its jet engines emitting a low, continuous whine.
Jason had paid fifty thousand dollars in cash to charter the private flight to a non-extradition country in South America.
He checked his golden Rolex. It was 1:15 PM.
"Where is the pilot?" Jason barked at his private security guard, a hulking man named Miller who stood near the tinted glass doors. "We were supposed to be airborne twenty minutes ago! Go tell the cockpit crew we are leaving right now, with or without air traffic clearance!"
Miller didn't move. He stood with his arms crossed, his face expressionless.
"Miller! Did you hear me?!" Jason shouted, slamming his hand onto the armrest of his leather chair. "I pay you thirty thousand dollars a month to follow my orders! Get out there and get that plane moving!"
"Your card was declined twenty minutes ago, Mr. Mitchell," Miller said calmly, his voice completely flat.
Jason blinked, stunned. "What are you talking about? I gave you an emergency black card with a half-million-dollar limit!"
"The Treasury Department executed an emergency asset freeze on all domestic and international merchant accounts under your name at noon," Miller replied. He reached into his jacket, pulled out his security badge and company phone, and tossed them onto the table in front of Jason. "My contract is terminated. Have a nice flight, Mr. Mitchell. If you can find someone to fly you for free."
Miller turned and walked out through the security exit, leaving Jason completely alone in the cavernous private lounge.
"Miller! Come back here! I have cash! I have diamonds in the vault!" Jason screamed, his voice echoing pathetically off the high metal beams of the hangar.
He grabbed his two heavy leather duffel bags containing whatever cash and luxury watches he had managed to pull from his home safe that morning and sprinted toward the glass doors leading to the tarmac.
He pushed the doors open, the freezing autumn wind whipping against his face, carrying the sharp smell of jet fuel.
He ran toward the stairs of the Gulfstream.
"Hold it right there, Mr. Mitchell!"
The command came from behind the industrial fuel trucks parked near the wing.
Four black tactical SUVs rounded the corner of the hangar, their blue and red emergency strobe lights flashing against the gray afternoon clouds. Dozens of federal agents in tactical vests with "FBI" and "IRS-CI" emblazoned in yellow letters poured out of the vehicles, weapons drawn and raised.
"Jason Mitchell!" Special Agent Sarah Miller shouted through a megaphone. "Drop the bags and get on the ground! You are under federal arrest pursuant to an emergency warrant issued by the Northern District of Illinois!"
Jason stopped at the base of the airplane stairs.
He looked at the agents. He looked at the idling jet that represented his final escape.
May you like
He let out a dry, manic laugh.
He dropped the duffel bags onto the oil-stained tarmac, slowly raising his hands into the air as the cold Chicago rain began to fall upon his face.
