Chapter 7: What He Did to the Others
Dennis Farrow was not the only one.
Within forty-eight hours of his statement becoming part of the court record, Grace received two more calls.
A former waitress named Carol Briggs, who had been let go after she asked why her reported tips didn't match what she had actually earned.
And a supplier named Raymond Chu, who had been pressured to backdate three years of invoices and had kept the original copies because, as he told Grace, "I didn't know what else to do, but I knew I shouldn't throw them away."
Grace called me after the second call.
"He did this systematically," she said.
"It wasn't careless.
He built the whole structure deliberately."
"I know," I said.
"Evelyn.
Did you know while it was happening?"
"No.
I knew something felt wrong sometimes.
But I was deployed for long stretches.
When I was home, Victor was always the one who managed the books.
I asked questions occasionally.
He always had answers." I paused.
"He was very good at answers."
"He was counting on your trust," Grace said.
"Yes.
He was."
The hearing resumed on Thursday.
Victor walked in with a new attorney — a man named Garrett, known in the city for taking cases that needed aggressive defense.
Garrett was tall, well-dressed, and he moved through the courtroom with the specific confidence of someone who had won difficult cases before and expected to win this one.
He opened by challenging the chain of custody on the ledger.
"Your Honor, the document in question was obtained by a third party under circumstances that have not been fully disclosed.
We have no verified record of how this ledger was stored, who had access to it, or whether it has been altered."
Grace stood.
"The ledger was delivered directly to Mr.
Aldridge of the financial crimes division by the individual who removed it from Mr.
Hale's property.
That individual has provided a sworn statement.
The lockbox it was stored in has been fingerprinted.
Mr.
Hale's prints are on the interior surface.
The ledger's ink and paper have been submitted for forensic dating."
Garrett didn't pause.
"We also question the credibility of the individual who provided the ledger, given her personal relationship with my client and her potential motivation to—"
"Her motivation," Grace said, "is that your client was in the process of transferring financial liability into her name without her knowledge or consent.
We have the paperwork he initiated.
We have a recorded conversation in which he explains his reasoning." Grace turned to face Garrett directly.
"If you'd like to argue her credibility, I'm prepared to play that recording for the court right now."
Garrett looked at his notes.
He said nothing.
The judge made a note and looked at Victor.
Victor was looking at the table.
Garrett tried a different angle.
He called into question the relevance of the kitchen accident to the divorce proceedings, arguing that a seventeen-year-old insurance matter was outside the scope of asset division.
The judge stopped him.
"The insurance reclassification is relevant because it speaks directly to Mr.
Hale's pattern of misrepresenting Colonel Hale's role and contributions.
It is part of the same documented behavior we have been examining all week." She set her pen down.
"Move on, counselor."
Garrett moved on.
He tried three more angles over the next two hours.
Each time, Grace had something — a document, a record, a statement, a date.
The folder on the evidence table had not gotten smaller.
At one point, Garrett leaned toward Victor and said something quietly.
Victor shook his head.
Garrett sat back.
Then Victor did something I had not expected.
He asked to address the court directly.
The judge looked at his attorney.
Garrett gave a small, reluctant nod.
Victor stood.
"Your Honor.
I want to be clear about something." He straightened his jacket.
"Whatever financial irregularities may exist in the restaurant's records — and I am not conceding that they do — they have nothing to do with my wife's contributions.
Evelyn ran the household.
She supported the family.
I have never denied that."
I looked at him.
"You called her a pack mule," the judge said.
"That was poorly chosen language.
I was frustrated.
I did not mean to imply—"
"Mr.
Hale." The judge's voice was quiet and final.
"You said it in open court.
It is in the transcript.
The question of what you meant is less relevant than what you said and what the evidence shows." She looked down at her notes.
"Please sit down."
Victor sat.
But before he did, he looked at me.
Not with anger.
Not with the smirk from the first day.
Something else.
Something that, on a different man in a different life, might have been the beginning of understanding.
It didn't move me.
May you like
He had seventeen years to understand.
He had chosen something else every single time.
