Chapter 6: The Journalist
Her name was Diane Marsh, and she met us on a Tuesday morning at a coffee shop far enough from downtown that none of us were likely to run into anyone we knew.
She was younger than I'd expected.
Early forties, dark coat, a recorder on the table beside her coffee that she'd asked permission to use before she switched it on.
She had the folder Joanna had shown me, plus a second one she'd built herself.
"I want to be clear about what this is and what it isn't," she said, before any of us had spoken about Marcus directly.
"This isn't a criminal investigation.
I'm not law enforcement.
What I'm building is a documented pattern of behavior that has caused financial and emotional harm to multiple women.
The goal is a published piece that names him, describes the pattern, and includes enough sourced detail that it can't be easily challenged."
Sandra had her hands around her coffee cup.
"Will it stop him?"
"It may not stop him legally," Diane said.
"But it will make him findable.
Anyone who searches his name will find it.
Dating apps, employers, anyone doing basic due diligence." She paused.
"That tends to change the landscape considerably."
Joanna was looking at the recorder.
"How many sources do you need?"
"I have enough to publish.
What I want is enough to make it undeniable." She looked around the table.
"Each of you adds weight.
The more specific the detail — dates, locations, exact words, financial amounts where you have them — the harder it is for him or anyone representing him to call it vague or exaggerated."
I'd brought nothing with me except my memory of Friday night.
I told her everything I remembered.
The restaurant.
The two hours of monologue.
The check.
The silence.
Sandra walking in.
Diane took notes even with the recorder running.
When I finished, she asked: "Did he say anything to you directly that you'd characterize as deceptive?
Not just boastful — specifically false."
"He implied he was currently employed in a senior role.
He talked about his portfolio in the present tense.
He mentioned the car as though it was a recent purchase he'd paid for outright."
"All false."
"All false."
She made a note.
"And when Sandra showed you the bank balance — his reaction?"
"He didn't deny it.
He deflected.
Then when he left, he made the comment about Sandra's account.
Like he was reminding her he still had leverage somewhere."
Diane looked at Sandra.
"The transfer attempt.
You have documentation from the bank?"
"They're sending a written confirmation this week," Sandra said.
"The attempt was made at 7:52 PM.
We were still at the table."
"He tried to move money while sitting across from a woman he was expecting to pay for his dinner," Diane said.
Not a question.
She wrote it down.
The coffee shop filled up around us.
A mother with a stroller.
Two men in work jackets.
A teenager with headphones.
Everyone living their regular Tuesday.
Joanna opened her folder and slid a page across to Diane.
"This is from my bank.
The transfer he made from our joint account.
Dated, with the account number partially redacted.
My lawyer said I could share it for editorial purposes."
Diane examined it carefully.
"This is strong," she said.
"This is very strong."
"I want him named," Joanna said.
"I've waited a year.
I want his name in the piece."
"It will be," Diane said.
"I've already run it past our legal team.
Given the documentation, given the number of sources, given the bank records — they've cleared it."
Sandra set down her cup.
"When?"
"I'm targeting three weeks.
I want to give him the opportunity to respond first — that's standard practice.
I'll contact him with a summary of the allegations and a deadline to reply.
He'll almost certainly either ignore it or deny everything.
Either way, it goes in the piece."
"And if he tries to stop it?" I asked.
Diane looked at me.
"He can try.
People do.
It rarely works when the documentation is this solid." She closed her notebook.
"What he should be more worried about is what happens after it publishes.
I've covered stories like this before.
The response from other women is usually — significant."
She said that last word carefully.
We all understood what she meant.
Joanna gathered her papers back into the folder.
Her hands were steady.
"I keep thinking about the women who haven't found each other yet," she said.
"The ones he's going to meet next month.
Next year."
"That's exactly why we publish," Diane said.
She reached over and switched off the recorder.
Tucked it into her bag.
Stood and pulled on her coat.
"I'll be in touch by end of week," she said.
"If anything else surfaces before then — anything at all — contact me directly." She left a card on the table.
"Thank you.
All of you."
She walked out.
The three of us sat for a moment in the quiet she left behind.
"Do you think he'll respond to her?" Sandra asked.
"When she contacts him?"
"Yes," Joanna said, without hesitation.
"He won't be able to help himself."
She was right.
We found out four days later, when Diane forwarded us his reply.
May you like
It was three pages long.
And in it, he made a mistake none of us had anticipated.
