Chapter 27 - The Sting at the Halfway House
On Wednesday afternoon, Preston’s attorney, a disheveled man named Bradley Vance—no relation, but clearly chosen for his cut-rate fees—arrived at Marcus Vance’s downtown office for what he believed was an expedited settlement negotiation.
Bradley brought Preston with him, having secured a temporary travel furlough from the parole officer under the pretext of "attending a binding civil mediation." Preston walked into the conference room trying desperately to project his former swagger, wearing a cheap rented blazer that didn't fit his gaunt frame and attempting to avoid making direct eye contact with Marcus and me.
"Let’s make this simple, gentlemen," Bradley announced, opening a faux-leather briefcase. "My client is prepared to sign a full intellectual property release for two hundred thousand dollars cash, wired to an offshore escrow account by five o'clock. If not, we file an emergency injunction in federal district court tomorrow morning freezing the patent office proceedings and notifying Vance Engineering’s municipal municipal partners."
Preston leaned forward, his voice oily and dripping with suppressed malice. "It’s a fair price, Harrison. Wyatt is young. He’ll make plenty of money later. Consider it family restitution for the years I spent locked in a cage because of you."
I sat across from him, my hands folded on the table. "Where are your engineering notebooks, Preston? Where is the source code you claim to have authored five years ago?"
Preston smirked, tapping a manila folder Bradley slid in front of him. "Right here. Handwritten notes, sketches of bridge pylons, and operational schematics dated six years ago, signed by me and witnessed by Richard Vance."
Marcus Vance smiled—a cold, terrifying expression that made Bradley’s eyes dart sideways.
"Fascinating," Marcus said. "Because thirty minutes ago, forensic document examiners from the State Police Forensic Laboratory reviewed high-resolution scans of those exact pages, which your office provided as pre-mediation exhibits yesterday."
Preston’s smirk froze. "What are you talking about?"
"The chemical analysis of the ink," Marcus explained smoothly, "demonstrates that the gel pen used to write those 'six-year-old notes' was manufactured in November of last year. Furthermore, the paper stock comes from a legal pad purchased three weeks ago at the commissary of the North Shore Correctional Center—using your inmate identification number, Preston."
The room went dead silent. Bradley’s jaw dropped open. He turned white, looking at his client in absolute horror. "Preston... you told me these were original archival records from your home storage unit!"
"Shut up, Bradley!" Preston shrieked, jumping to his feet.
Before he could take a single step toward the door, the side entrance of the conference room swung open. Two plainclothes detectives from the State Police Financial Crimes Bureau stepped inside, accompanied by Preston’s primary state parole officer.
"Preston Vance," Detective Kowalski stated, producing a pair of steel handcuffs. "You are under arrest for attempted grand larceny by extortion, uttering forged instruments, and violating the conditions of your state parole."
"No! Wait!" Preston screamed, thrashing as the detectives slammed him against the glass wall and ratcheted the steel cuffs around his wrists. "Harrison, tell them! It was just a negotiation! Bradley told me to do it! Mom! Call Mom!"
"Your mother has already been served with an indictment for conspiracy, Preston," Detective Kowalski replied, pulling him toward the door. "You’re going back to state prison to serve the remaining two years of your sentence in maximum security."
As the officers dragged Preston down the corridor, his frantic, pathetic screams echoed off the marble tiles until the elevator doors slid shut, cutting him off from our world once and for all.
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Marcus closed his leather portfolio with a sharp click. "That patent is clean, Harrison. Wyatt’s legacy is untouched."
I stood up, adjusting my tie. "His legacy was never in doubt, Marcus. When an inventor builds on solid truth, no con artist can shake the foundation."
