Chapter 4 - The Forensic Trail
Judge Hall slammed her gavel repeatedly until the chaotic murmurs in the courtroom ceased. “Ms. Frost, your statement will be recorded. Mr. Gregory, control your client, or he will spend the weekend in a holding cell.”
The judge turned back to me, her expression entirely changed from skepticism to a fierce, protective focus. “Mrs. Simmons, you mentioned forensic analysis. What else is in this binder?”
“The real reason my husband wanted me committed, Your Honor,” I said softly.
I signaled to the heavy oak doors at the back of the courtroom. They swung open. My legal team—three of the sharpest corporate litigators in Wisconsin—walked in, flanked by two agents wearing windbreakers with the letters FBI printed in stark yellow across the back.
Josephine gasped, her hand flying to her throat, clutching her pearls as if they could somehow choke out the truth.
“Your Honor,” my lead counsel, David Sterling, announced as he approached the bench. “We apologize for the delay. We were securing federal warrants based on the evidence Mrs. Simmons provided to the State Prosecutor's Office last week.”
Judge Hall raised an eyebrow. “Warrants for what, Mr. Sterling?”
“Massive corporate fraud, money laundering, and the forgery of a spouse's signature to secure illicit loans,” David stated clearly.
I looked at Alexander. The sheer terror in his eyes was the most beautiful thing I had seen in years.
“While I was on bed rest,” I explained to the court, “my husband assumed I was simply sleeping. Instead, I was doing what I do best. I audited the Simmons family estate. Under tab five, you will find a detailed map of seven offshore shell corporations. Alexander and Josephine Simmons have been siphoning millions of dollars from their investors to cover massive losses in their commercial real estate ventures.”
I turned a page in my own copy of the binder.
“Furthermore, they needed liquid capital to keep the scheme afloat. Six months ago, Alexander forged my signature on a document offering this very child’s future trust fund—a fund established by my late father—as collateral for a high-risk loan. If I had simply walked away, or if they had successfully committed me to an institution, they would have drained my family’s money to save theirs.”
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“That’s a lie!” Josephine screeched, entirely abandoning her aristocratic poise. She stood up, pointing a shaking, manicured finger at me. “She is a gold-digging harlot! She manipulated the books! My son is an honorable man!”
“Your son,” the FBI agent interrupted, stepping forward with a pair of steel handcuffs, “is under arrest.”
