The interrogation suite at the federal building in Lower Manhattan smelled of stale coffee and paper files.
Arthur Rochefort sat in a gray institutional chair, his velvet robe traded for a plain navy jumpsuit.
His defense attorney sat beside him, nervously tapping a ballpoint pen against a yellow legal pad.
Across the stainless steel table sat Damon and District Attorney Harrison.
A red recording indicator blinked on the digital console between them.
"Your father built the Cross empire on trust, Damon," Rochefort wheezed, his shoulders slumped in defeat. "In business, corners are cut. Every corporation does it."
"Cutting corners doesn't involve cutting the brake lines of a pregnant woman's sedan," Damon replied coldly.
Rochefort looked down at his cuffed hands.
"I didn't order the crash," he muttered.
"Who did, Arthur?" Harrison pressed.
The old man hesitated, his jaw working silently before he closed his eyes.
"Elisa," Rochefort whispered.
The word hung in the sterile room like poisoned air.
"She managed the field security detail for BioCrest," Rochefort confessed, tears of shame finally breaking over his aged cheeks. "When Evelyn told her she had the tainted batch manifests, Elisa panicked."
"She hired two dock enforcers to run Evelyn’s car into the ditch before she could reach the federal building."
Damon leaned forward, his hands flat on the cold metal table.
"And when Evelyn survived and hid in the city?"
"Elisa had informants at St. Jude's," Rochefort said, his voice cracking into a broken rasp. "She monitored the pediatric intake logs for four years. That’s why she recognized the girl the moment she saw her by the cake."
"She knew the child’s face from the hospital birth records."
Damon pushed back his chair and stood up.
He didn't need to hear another word.
Every piece of the puzzle had locked into place.
"File the formal charges for attempted murder, Harrison," Damon said to the prosecutor.
"And make sure bail is denied indefinitely."
