Chapter 10 - The Price of Truth
The public fallout was indeed massive, but exactly as I had predicted, our transparency saved us.
We held a live, televised press conference that very afternoon. I stood before a wall of microphones, wearing a simple gray suit, and explained exactly what had happened. I did not hide behind corporate jargon. I told the public that two corrupt executives had tried to exploit our systems, and that our own internal security team had uncovered the plot and delivered them to the federal authorities.
By the time the evening news aired, Whitaker Medical Logistics was being praised as a model of corporate responsibility. Our hospital contracts were not cancelled; they were renewed with even higher levels of security integration.
But the true cost of the truth was felt in more personal ways.
Three days after Priya’s arrest, I received a package in the mail. It was a simple cardboard box, with no return address.
Inside was a single, hand-written letter on lined yellow paper.
Claire,
They moved me to the federal correction facility in Devens. It's colder here than Hartford. My ankle monitor is gone, replaced by a steel door.
I heard about Priya. I swear to God, Claire, I didn't know she was smuggling counterfeit drugs. She told me we were just moving parallel market cosmetics and grey-market medical supplies. I'm an idiot, but I'm not a murderer. I would never have agreed to that.
I know you'll never forgive me. I don't expect you to. But I wanted you to know that I'm glad you caught her. I'm glad you saved the company. It was always more yours than mine anyway.
I have ten years to think about what I did. I hope you find some peace.
Victor.
I read the letter twice.
For the first time in a year, I felt a faint, distant pang of sorrow for the man Victor had been before his ambition consumed him. I remembered him as the young, charismatic salesman who had brought a basket of flowers to my father’s garage in Ohio, promising to make us all rich. He had kept his promise, but the price of that wealth had been his soul.
May you like
I did not write back. I did not keep the letter.
I walked over to the fireplace in my study, struck a match, and watched the yellow paper turn to black, fragile ash. Some ledgers cannot be balanced with a payment; they can only be closed and forgotten.
