Chapter 7 - THE RECORDING DEREK KEPT FOR INSURANCE
Derek’s attorney advised him not to speak.
Derek ignored him.
That was the most believable thing he had done all week.
He placed his phone on the table.
“I knew Hawthorne was dirty.”
I almost laughed.
“You ran it.”
“I ran part of it.”
“You stole commissions.”
“I moved commissions.”
“From your employees.”
“I’m not saying I’m innocent.”
That sentence surprised everyone.
Even his attorney.
Derek leaned back.
“I’m saying I’m not the biggest criminal in this room.”
Dad lunged toward him.
Miriam stood.
“Frank, sit down.”
Dad stared at her.
She stared back.
He sat.
Derek opened an audio file.
Dad’s voice filled the conference room.
Clear.
Recorded six months earlier.
“Push the quarter through. I don’t care if the purchase orders are final.”
Derek’s voice:
“Finance is asking questions.”
Dad:
“Then use Hawthorne. That’s what it’s there for.”
Silence.
Miriam looked at Frank.
He went pale.
The recording continued.
Derek:
“Virgil will find out.”
Dad laughed.
“No, he won’t. Virgil sees the company he wants to see.”
I stopped breathing.
Derek glanced at me.
For once, he looked ashamed.
The recording continued.
Dad:
“He thinks rules protect him because he writes them. Rules protect whoever controls the information.”
Derek stopped the audio.
The room was silent.
I looked at my father.
“Is that your voice?”
He said nothing.
Outside counsel answered.
“Frank, do not speak without your lawyer.”
Dad looked at me.
“I was trying to protect Peterson.”
I laughed.
“By falsifying revenue?”
“We were smoothing timing.”
“That phrase belongs in prison documentaries.”
Mom covered her face.
Derek continued.
“The fake accounts got bigger last year.”
“How big?”
“Eleven million in booked revenue.”
My stomach dropped.
Peterson Tech generated hundreds of millions annually, but eleven million in fabricated sales was not a rounding error.
“Did those customers exist?”
“Some.”
“Did they buy?”
“Not when we said they did.”
“Why?”
“Dad wanted your valuation high before the credit facility renewal.”
I stared at Frank.
“You manipulated my company so the bank would lend against false numbers.”
Dad snapped:
“THE ORDERS WERE COMING.”
“That does not make them revenue.”
“I know accounting.”
“No.”
I lowered my voice.
“You know entitlement.”
Derek opened another recording.
Mom’s voice this time.
“Derek, stop using Virgil’s name. If he finds out, he’ll report everything.”
Derek:
“He’ll report his own family?”
Mom:
“Yes.”
Derek laughed.
“That’s because he thinks he’s better than us.”
Mom:
“No. It’s because he’s the only one who still thinks consequences are real.”
The recording stopped.
Nobody looked at me.
I did not know whether that was the kindest thing my mother had ever said about me or the saddest.
“Why record them?” I asked.
Derek looked at Dad.
“Insurance.”
“Against your own parents?”
“Look around.”
Fair.
“What changed?”
Derek’s expression hardened.
“Jenna found the shell accounts.”
“So you threatened her.”
“I told her to stop digging.”
“You used my name.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because it worked.”
No apology.
At least that was honest.
“She filed HR complaints.”
“Yes.”
“And you buried them.”
“I pressured Sales Operations.”
“You destroyed her career.”
“She still works here.”
“That isn’t a defense.”
Derek looked down.
“No.”
For the first time, he sounded small.
Then he said:
“But Jenna didn’t discover Hawthorne by accident.”
Miriam frowned.
“What do you mean?”
“She was sent to find it.”
“By who?”
“I don’t know.”
I stared.
“You threatened someone without knowing why she was investigating?”
“I thought Dad had sent her to test me.”
Frank looked shocked.
“I didn’t.”
“I know that now.”
“Then who?”
Derek unlocked his phone and showed us a message Jenna had sent him after filing the complaint.
YOU SHOULD ASK YOUR BROTHER WHY PETERSON TECH’S OLDEST CUSTOMER HAS THE SAME BANK ROUTING NUMBER AS HAWTHORNE.
Miriam leaned closer.
“What customer?”
Derek looked at me.
“North Harbor.”
The fake customer that saved Peterson Tech nine years ago.
Miriam immediately called finance.
Twenty minutes later, we had archived banking data.
North Harbor’s account.
Hawthorne’s original account.
Same bank.
Same branch.
Different numbers.
But both accounts had been opened by the same authorized representative.
Not Frank.
Not Carol.
Not Derek.
I stared at the name.
THOMAS PETERSON.
My chest tightened.
Thomas Peterson had been my mentor.
The man I named the company after.
The man who supposedly died ten years ago.
One year before North Harbor appeared.
Derek whispered:
“Now you understand why I made the drive.”
I shook my head.
“No.”
May you like
Because I understood something much worse.
Someone who was supposed to be dead had opened the account that saved my company.
