Chapter 12 - THE GRAND JURY CHAMBER
The ninth-floor executive conference room of the Dirksen Building was silent.
The blinds were drawn against the blizzard outside.
U.S. Attorney Sarah Vance-Cross sat at the head of a twenty-foot mahogany conference table.
Her dark hair was pulled back in a severe bun.
Her sharp green eyes—the only feature she shared with her corrupt father—were fixed on the blue carbon pages spread across the table.
Two senior forensic accountants and a court stenographer worked silently in the corner.
Norah sat in a leather armchair beside the window.
She had washed the soot from her face.
She wore a clean gray woolen sweater provided by a female marshal.
Clara sat beside her, wrapped in a fleece blanket, sipping hot tea.
Her color had returned, her eyes clear and calm as she held her older sister’s hand.
Declan stood behind Norah’s chair, his arms crossed over his chest.
Sarah Vance-Cross finally closed the third leather binder with a decisive snap.
She looked up at Declan.
"This is conclusive," Sarah said.
Her voice was steady, devoid of familial sentiment.
"These carbon records prove Marcus Vance ran an extortion and smuggling ring through Terminal Four for fifteen years."
"Every single shipping manifest was forged by his internal team."
"Arthur Hayes never signed a single fraudulent bill of lading."
Sarah turned her gaze toward Norah.
"Your father, Miss Jenkins, was an extraordinary man."
"He logged every container number, every bribe, every vessel registration."
"He knew he was in danger."
"He preserved this evidence to protect you."
Tears welled in Norah’s eyes, but this time they were tears of vindication.
"He loved this city," Norah said softly.
"He wouldn't let them steal it."
Sarah stood up.
She picked up a red leather folder containing forty-eight pages of federal warrants.
"Judge Miller has just signed the emergency federal indictments," Sarah announced.
"Racketeering."
"Extortion."
"Kidnapping."
"And in Jonathan Hayes's case: first-degree murder for the death of Arthur Hayes."
Declan felt a profound weight lift from his shoulders.
An eight-year-old ghost had finally been laid to rest.
"What about Marcus?" Declan asked.
Sarah’s eyes grew cold as winter ice.
"My father is currently hosting a breakfast for thirty Cook County commissioners at the Chicago Athletic Association."
"He believes he’s celebrating your arrest."
Sarah looked at the clock on the wall.
Ten-fifteen in the morning.
"The FBI tactical team is staging on Michigan Avenue right now."
Sarah looked Declan straight in the eye.
"Would you like to accompany the arrest team, Mr. Hayes?"
Declan looked down at Norah.
She looked up at him, her dark eyes clear and steady.
"Go," she said softly, squeezing his hand.
"Finish it."
Declan leaned down and kissed her forehead gently.
"Wait for me here," he whispered.
May you like
"I’m not going anywhere, Mr. Hayes," she replied with a faint, beautiful smile.
Declan turned and walked out of the conference room behind six federal marshals in full tactical body armor.
