Chapter 13 - MY FATHER'S TRIAL
Harrison’s trial lasted twenty-three days.
I testified on day eleven.
My father stared at me while I took the oath.
Not angry.
Disappointed.
That was his oldest weapon.
The prosecutor asked about Norchester.
I answered.
The guarantee.
I answered.
The fake vendors.
I answered.
The family office.
The Cayman transfers.
The forged account.
My father’s emails.
Then came cross-examination.
His attorney stood.
“Mr. Vale, you are a convicted felon awaiting sentencing.”
“Yes.”
“You forged your wife’s signature.”
“Yes.”
“You misused corporate funds.”
“Yes.”
“You cheated on your wife.”
The prosecutor objected.
The judge allowed limited questioning.
“Yes.”
“You lied repeatedly to your spouse.”
“Yes.”
“You lied to your own attorney.”
“Yes.”
“You expect this jury to believe you now?”
I looked toward my father.
For once, I did not need to appear better than I was.
“I expect them to compare what I say with the documents.”
The attorney paused.
“You benefited financially from these transfers.”
“Yes.”
“You approved them.”
“Yes.”
“So isn’t it true that you are blaming your father now to reduce your own sentence?”
“No.”
“No?”
“I am telling the truth to reduce my sentence.”
A few jurors looked up.
I continued.
“That doesn't make the documents false.”
His attorney changed tactics.
“Your father built the company that paid for your home.”
“Yes.”
“Your education.”
“Yes.”
“Your lifestyle.”
“Yes.”
“He gave you a career.”
“Yes.”
“And now you're sending him to prison.”
I looked at Harrison.
“No.”
His face hardened.
“I’m describing what he did.”
“The jury decides what happens next.”
The courtroom became silent.
My father looked away first.
Margaret testified.
Vanessa testified.
Bank officers testified.
Forensic accountants explained eighteen million dollars in diverted funds.
Four million had eventually been restored.
Millions more were recovered through frozen accounts and asset sales.
But several projects had been damaged.
Employees had lost jobs.
Investors had lost money.
People I never met had paid for decisions made in rooms where my father and I called numbers “liquidity.”
The jury deliberated two days.
Guilty on most counts.
My father showed no emotion.
At sentencing months later, he received fourteen years.
He was seventy-two.
Fourteen years might as well have been life.
I expected to feel victorious.
I felt hollow.
After court, Claire found me sitting alone.
“You okay?”
“No.”
She sat beside me.
Not close.
But beside me.
“He was still your father.”
“Yes.”
“You can know he deserved consequences and still grieve.”
I looked at her.
“When did you become the generous one?”
“I always was.”
That made me laugh.
She did too.
Then I said,
“My sentencing is next week.”
“I know.”
“Samuel thinks three to four years.”
Her smile disappeared.
“That's a long time.”
“Yes.”
“Noah will change.”
“I know.”
“He’ll talk.”
“Walk.”
“Start preschool.”
“I know.”
My voice cracked.
Claire looked away.
“I don't know how to do this.”
“Yes, you do.”
“How?”
“Same way everyone does consequences.”
“One day at a time.”
I pressed my palms together.
“Will you bring him?”
“When appropriate.”
“You don't have to.”
“I know.”
“Why would you?”
She looked at me.
“Because prison is your consequence.”
“Losing his father completely shouldn't be Noah’s.”
I cried then.
Not dramatically.
No collapse.
May you like
Just tears I couldn't stop.
Claire stayed until they did.
