Chapter 8 - The Clearing of the Name

The sunrise over Lake Michigan the following morning was not gray. It broke through the clouds in brilliant bands of gold and violet, burning off the fog that had blanketed the city for a week.
By 8:00 a.m., the financial world had detonated.
Headlines across the globe blared the news: *Harrison Global Senior Partner Arrested in Multi-Million Dollar Fraud and Conspiracy Probe.* Marcus Croft had been taken into federal custody without bail. The Guernsey accounts had been frozen, their assets earmarked for full restitution to the Eleanor Harrison Memorial Foundation.
At 10:00 a.m., I stood before a packed press conference in the auditorium of the Chicago Federal Building.
The room was blinding with camera flashes, reporters shouting over one another, demanding to know how long the firm had been compromised.
I stepped to the podium. I didn't have a prepared statement from our public relations firm. I had only a single page of handwritten notes, authored by Arthur Vance.
“Two years ago,” I began, my voice carrying over the crowd through the bank of microphones, “this firm and the federal government committed a grave and monstrous injustice. Arthur Vance, our Chief Financial Architect, was accused of crimes he did not commit. He was labeled an embezzler, a thief, and a coward.”
I paused, looking directly into the primary lens of the network pool camera.
“Arthur Vance was none of those things. Arthur Vance was a hero. He was a man of incorruptible integrity who discovered corporate malfeasance at the highest levels of our firm and sacrificed his life attempting to bring the truth to light. He did not commit suicide. The Department of Justice has reopened the investigation into his death as a coordinated homicide orchestrated by Marcus Croft.”
A collective gasp swept through the press corps.
“Furthermore,” I continued, “every penny of Arthur Vance’s seized estate has been restored with interest. The Harrison Global board has voted unanimously to rename our primary analytical division the Vance Memorial Institute of Applied Mathematics, endowed with a permanent fifty-million-dollar grant. And to his daughter, Maya Vance...”
My voice wavered for the briefest fraction of a second, but I held my ground.
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“To Maya Vance, who survived on the streets of this city while the men who murdered her father sat in penthouses: this city and my family owe a debt that can never truly be repaid. But we will spend the rest of our lives trying.”
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