But even in the best case scenario, this will be a long process. Prosecuting a 40 year old murder case against a powerful man won’t be easy or quick. I understand, Taylor said.
Meanwhile, Margaret continued, there’s the immediate issue of you and Iris, she gestured around the office. This isn’t sustainable, especially now that you’re involved in what could become a high profile case. We’ve managed, you have, remarkably, Margaret acknowledged.
But you shouldn’t have to just manage. And practically speaking, if Pritchett’s people are watching, this place could become dangerous for you. The thoughts sent a chill through Taylor.
She looked at Iris, still sleeping peacefully, her stuffed rabbit clutched against her chest. What are you suggesting? I own a house, Margaret said. Nothing fancy, a small two bedroom on the west side.
I live alone, there’s a spare room that’s just collecting dust. She met Taylor’s eyes directly. Stay with me, both of you, at least until we figure this all out.
Why would you do that? She finally asked. Because 40 years ago, someone should have helped my family, but didn’t. Because my father died trying to protect people he didn’t even know.
Because, she paused, because I think he would want me to. Before Taylor could respond, Iris stirred. Is it morning? Yes, sweetheart, Taylor answered, smoothing her daughter’s tangled hair.
And we need to get ready. We have an important meeting at 10 o’clock. They prepared as best they could, washing with water from bottles, changing into their cleanest clothes.
Margaret watched with a mixture of sadness and admiration as Taylor helped Iris brush her teeth, using a cup of water and their carefully rationed toothpaste. You’ve thought of everything, she observed. Taylor shrugged.
You adapt. You have to. By 9 a.m., they were ready to leave.
Taylor packed a small bag with their most essential items, documentation, medications, Iris’s rabbit, the rest they would have to leave behind for now. Will we come back? Iris asked. I don’t think so, sweetheart.
Not to stay. But we’ll make sure to get the rest of our things later. They traveled cautiously to the address Frank had provided, a modest office building in a commercial district.
The door marked Eliza Chen, attorney at law, was on the third floor. Inside, Frank was already waiting, along with a sharp-eyed Asian-American woman in her 40s, Eliza Chen, presumably. The toolbox sat open on her desk, its contents spread out in organized piles.
You made it, Frank said. Any problems? No, Margaret answered. Eliza Chen stood, extending her hand first to Margaret, then to Taylor.
Frank has briefed me on the situation. I’ve spent the morning reviewing these documents. She gestured to the materials from the toolbox, their compelling evidence of multiple crimes, embezzlement, reckless endangerment, fraud, obstruction of justice, and potentially manslaughter or even murder.
She spoke with clinical precision. However, I want to be absolutely clear about the challenges. The statute of limitations has expired on most of these crimes.
Murder has no statute of limitations, but proving murder 40 years later, even with this evidence, will be difficult. What are you saying? Margaret asked. That Pritchett gets away with it? Again? Not necessarily, Eliza replied.
There are other approaches. Civil litigation against Pritchett personally. A wrongful death suit.
Media exposure. These options don’t result in prison time, but they could achieve a measure of justice, public acknowledgement of wrongdoing, and possibly financial compensation to the families of those who died. The families, Taylor murmured.
We should find them. The other workers who died, Frank nodded. I’ve already started compiling a list.
With your permission, Eliza could represent all of them collectively. What about Adelaide’s tape? Margaret asked. Frank took this to a specialist this morning.
They’re trying to restore it, but after 40 years, there’s significant degradation. We may not get anything usable. The conversation continued, delving into legal strategies, potential timelines, the strengths and weaknesses of their case.
Throughout it all, Iris sat quietly in a corner chair, drawing on paper Eliza had provided. Finally, Eliza addressed a topic that had been hovering unspoken. There’s also the matter of the safety deposit box at First National Bank.
According to Adelaide’s letter, it’s box 891. We have the access codes. She lifted the small envelope from the evidence.
Frank and I believe we should check it as soon as possible. Why the urgency? Taylor asked. Because if Pritchett knows about the toolbox, Frank explained, he might know about the box too.
Banks have procedures, but safety deposit boxes aren’t impenetrable, especially if someone has influence. They agreed to go immediately. First National Bank was only a few blocks away, its grand stone facade a testament to old money and established power.
Inside, Taylor felt acutely aware of her shabby appearance amidst the polished marble and mahogany. But Eliza, with her confident manner and professional attire, handled the interaction smoothly, presenting Adelaide’s letter, the access codes, and explaining that Margaret was Adelaide’s heir. After verification, they were escorted to the vault area.
Box 891 was larger than Taylor had expected, about the size of a small suitcase. The bank employee unlocked one lock with the master key, then left them to use the client key and access code. The four of them, Eliza, Frank, Margaret, and Taylor, gathered around as the box was opened.
Iris remained in the waiting area under the watchful eye of a bank security officer. Inside the safety deposit box were two items, a thick manila envelope and a small gift-wrapped package with a card addressed to Margaret. Margaret opened the card with trembling hands.
Inside, in the same spidery handwriting as the original letter, it read, My dear Margaret, if you’re reading this, someone finally found the courage I never had. This money was meant to be your inheritance, your father’s legacy. Thomas wanted it for your education, your future.
I couldn’t face giving it to you all those years ago. Blood money, I thought. Use it, however, brings you peace.
And, please know, I am sorry I wasn’t strong enough to protect your father’s memory. Adelaide The manila envelope contained cash, a substantial amount, all in older bills. Frank counted it quickly.
Forty-seven thousand dollars, he announced, his eyebrows raised. Margaret stared at the money, then, at the note, her emotions visibly warring. I don’t want it, she said finally.
Not for myself. This should go to the families of the other workers. Or, she looked at Taylor.
To those who found the truth when no one else would. No, it’s your inheritance, your father’s legacy. We’ll discuss options later, Eliza interjected, securing the money back in the envelope.
For now, let’s return to my office and formulate our next steps. Back in the sunlight outside the bank, Taylor felt a strange sense of unreality. In less than forty-eight hours, their lives had transformed completely, from the desperate routine of survival to the center of a decades-old murder conspiracy.
And now, there was money involved, further complicating the moral landscape. She glanced at Iris, who was skipping slightly ahead with Margaret, pointing out shapes in the clouds. Despite everything, her daughter seemed more carefree than she had in months…
