Chapter 9 - JUSTICE AND THE HARVEST
Jonathan walked over to his desk, picked up a sleek silver flash drive, and laid it on the edge of the wood, inches from her trembling face.
Alma gasped, reaching for it with eager, frantic fingers. “Is this... is this the evidence?”
“On that drive is the master audit log from the Vanguard logistics server,” Jonathan said. “It proves beyond a shadow of a doubt that Marcos Villanueva forged secondary authorization codes, altered digital timestamps, and used your identity to steal eighty million dollars.”
Alma wept with overwhelming relief, grabbing the drive to her chest. “Thank you! Oh, thank you, Jonathan! I knew you still loved me! I knew you wouldn't let me go to prison!”
“I didn't do it for you, Alma,” Jonathan said coldly.
Alma’s relief froze instantly. “What?”
“An hour ago, my legal security team handed an identical copy of that drive directly to the United States Attorney General,” Jonathan revealed smoothly. “And fifteen minutes ago, federal agents intercepted Marcos Villanueva at a private airfield in Miami as he was boarding a flight to South America. He is currently in federal custody.”
Alma blinked, her jaw trembling. “And... and me? What about me?”
Jonathan looked into her eyes with absolute clarity.
“The drive proves Marcos masterminded the fraud,” Jonathan explained quietly. “It saves you from forty years for high treason and racketeering. But it also includes your signed declarations of asset luxury acquisition—proof that you knowingly accepted three million dollars in illegal property, luxury clothes, and stolen jewelry without reporting it.”
Alma’s breath hitched in horror. “How long... how long will I serve?”
“The prosecutor estimates seven to ten years in state penitentiary,” Jonathan replied flatly. “No bail. No luxury. No pearls.”
“Jonathan, no!” she shrieked, dropping the drive as if it were on fire. “You can hire the best lawyers! You can pay the civil fine for me! Ten years will ruin my life! I’ll be old when I get out!”
Jonathan walked around his desk and sat down in his leather armchair. He picked up his pen—the same tool he used to sign fair-wage contracts for thousands of local farmers across the nation.
“Ten years is a long time, Alma,” Jonathan said softly. “You can spend it learning how to clean your own hands. Or you can spend it complaining that the world didn't give you what you deserved.”
He pressed a button on his desk intercom.
“Security, please escort Ms. Hastings down to the lobby. Federal Marshals are waiting for her at the front entrance.”
Two towering guards entered the room. They lifted Alma from the floor by her arms.
She fought, she screamed, she kicked her legs, her desperate shrieks echoing through the glass penthouse:
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“JONATHAN! PLEASE! I AM YOUR WIFE! JONATHAN!”
Jonathan did not look up. He opened his leather ledger, dipped his pen in ink, and began to write.
