Chapter 8 - The Price of Treason
The central office of Duchamp Properties occupied the top two floors of the glass-and-steel monolith overlooking the city harbor. For twenty years, my father had run the company from the corner suite on the forty-second floor—a room with dark mahogany paneling, brass fixtures, and a panoramic view of the docks where his own grandfather had once worked as an unloader.
On Thursday morning, seventy-two hours after the arrest at St. Jude's, I walked into that corner office for the first time since my father's funeral.
Rosalind was resting against my chest in her wrap, completely undisturbed by the soft hum of the executive elevators. Behind me walked Arthur Vance-Sloan and a team of four forensic accountants from Deloitte, each carrying heavy black binders filled with audit reports.
The boardroom was packed.
Every member of the executive committee was present, seated around the twenty-foot walnut conference table. At the far end, two uniformed security officers stood by the private entrance, ensuring that no unauthorized personnel crossed the threshold.
Arthur cleared his throat and tapped the table with his gold pen. “Ladies and gentlemen of the board. The emergency meeting of Duchamp Properties is now in session. As of 8:00 a.m. today, Mrs. Clare Duchamp has resumed full, unencumbered executive authority as Chairman and Chief Executive Officer.”
A collective murmur of assent moved through the room.
“The preliminary forensic audit is complete,” Arthur continued, gesturing to the senior accountant. “Over the past eighteen months, former Vice President Elliot Corbett utilized unauthorized signature stamps and manipulated secondary escrow accounts to siphon approximately $6.2 million from our municipal redevelopment funds. The destination of these funds was a network of shell corporations registered in Delaware and the Cayman Islands under the names of his sister, Leanne Corbett, and his maternal relatives.”
I looked around the table. Several of the older directors, men who had known my father for decades, were shaking their heads in disgust.
“Where is the money now, Arthur?” asked Harrison, the head of our commercial lending division.
“Ninety percent of the diverted assets have already been frozen by court order,” Arthur replied. “The remaining ten percent was spent on luxury vehicles, residential improvements on the Elm Street property, and private aviation charters. We have initiated civil asset forfeiture proceedings against all personal property held by Elliot Corbett, Leanne Corbett, and their immediate associates.”
I raised my hand, and the room immediately went quiet.
“Thank you, Arthur,” I said, my voice carrying clearly across the expanse of the boardroom. “I know this past week has shaken the confidence of our partners and our investors. Elliot Corbett was allowed inside this organization because I trusted him. That was my mistake. It is not a mistake that will ever be repeated.”
I stood up, holding Rosalind securely against my body.
“The Harbor View parcel acquisition will proceed as originally scheduled,” I announced. “We will fund the purchase using our internal capital reserves, completely bypassing the third-party debt facilities Elliot had attempted to structure. Furthermore, the board will immediately authorize the creation of the Rosalind Duchamp Foundation for Pediatric Care, funded by an initial endowment of ten million dollars seized from the recovered accounts.”
The room broke into spontaneous, respectful applause.
“One more item,” I said, looking directly at Arthur. “Elliot’s criminal defense attorneys have approached our legal team requesting a plea agreement. They are offering full cooperation, asset surrender, and an uncontested divorce in exchange for our recommendation of a reduced sentence.”
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Arthur leaned forward. “What did you tell them, Clare?”
“I told them that the state of Illinois does not negotiate with kidnappers,” I said, my voice ringing like cold iron. “And neither do I.”
