CHAPTER 6
Three days later, I sat in a motorized wheelchair inside the grand conference room of the United States Attorney's Office in downtown Chicago.
I was wearing an elegant cream-colored wool suit, my hair styled impeccably, my posture straight and strong despite the titanium plates holding my pelvis together.
Across the long oak table sat Grant, wearing an orange prison jumpsuit, flanked by three high-priced defense attorneys who looked thoroughly defeated.
His sisters sat in the gallery behind him alongside their mothers, stripped of their designer jewelry and luxury lifestyles, facing multiple felony fraud indictments.
"Mr. Whitmore," the lead federal prosecutor declared, tapping a heavy stack of documents on the table. "In light of the physical evidence recovered from the basement vault, the state of Illinois is upgrading your charges to attempted premeditated murder, aggravated felony fraud, and racketeering."
Grant’s chief attorney leaned over, whispering frantically into his ear before turning back to face the prosecutor.
"My client is prepared to offer a full guilty plea to all financial counts," the attorney stammered, "if the state agrees to drop the attempted murder charges."
May you like
I leaned forward in my wheelchair, looking directly into Grant's hollow, sunken eyes with cool, absolute authority.
"There will be no deal, Grant," I said, my voice echoing through the silent room with razor-sharp clarity. "You called me a worthless cripple, but today, this 'cripple' is taking every single thing you ever cared about."
