Chapter 9: Craig Ellison Speaks
He came to Daniel's office on a Wednesday morning, accompanied by his attorney, a thin man named Forsythe who kept his briefcase on his lap and his eyes on the table.
Craig Ellison was younger than I had expected.
Mid-forties.
He had the look of a man who had been sleeping badly — a gray tinge to his skin, a slight unsteadiness in the way he settled into his chair.
He glanced at me once when he sat down, then looked away.
Daniel opened.
"Mr.
Ellison, you've indicated a willingness to provide a full account of the events surrounding the falsification of Dennis Pruitt's logbook records.
In exchange, you're seeking reduced personal liability in the civil proceeding.
Is that correct?"
Ellison's attorney answered.
"That's correct."
"Then let's begin," Daniel said.
"Mr.
Ellison — whose decision was it to keep Dennis Pruitt on active routes after Greta Simms flagged his third violation?"
Ellison's hands were on the table.
He didn't move them.
"Warren Fitch's," he said.
"And the instruction to resubmit the logs with corrected hours — where did that come from?"
"Fitch.
Directly.
He called me.
He said Pruitt was one of our most experienced long-haul drivers and we were already short-staffed on the I-95 corridor.
He said to have Simms fix the paperwork and move on."
"And when Simms refused?"
"Fitch told me to handle it." Ellison's voice was flat.
"I told her the logs needed to be resubmitted or there would be a performance review.
She resubmitted them under protest.
She documented her protest internally.
Fitch saw the documentation and had her terminated."
Daniel slid a printed email across the table.
"Is this the email you sent to Fitch after Simms's termination?"
Ellison looked at it.
"Yes."
"Read the last line, please."
A pause.
"*Problem resolved.*"
The room was silent.
I was looking at Ellison.
He wasn't looking at me.
"Mr.
Ellison," I said.
His attorney put a hand on his arm.
"My client—"
"It's all right," Ellison said quietly.
He looked at me.
"Did you know," I said, "when you wrote those words, that Dennis Pruitt was scheduled to drive the I-95 corridor the following week?"
"Yes."
"And you sent that email anyway."
"Yes." His voice had dropped to almost nothing.
"My daughter was seven years old," I said.
"My son was four."
Ellison's jaw worked.
His eyes were wet.
"I know."
"I don't want your tears," I told him.
"I want your testimony.
Every word of it.
On record.
In court if necessary."
"He'll provide it," his attorney said quickly.
"Good." I looked back at Daniel.
Daniel nodded once and continued the session.
Two hours later, when it was over, Ellison stood to leave.
At the door, he stopped.
"Ms.
Vance," he said without turning around.
"I have a daughter.
She's nine."
I didn't answer.
He left.
Daniel gathered his papers.
"His testimony, combined with Greta's documentation and the recorded call, is more than enough.
Fitch's attempt to isolate himself from the decision is finished."
"What happens to Fitch?"
"Civil liability is certain.
Criminal exposure is possible — falsifying federal safety records carries real consequences.
The DOT investigation that Carla's article triggered is already underway." Daniel looked at me steadily.
"This is going to land, Sienna.
All of it."
I nodded.
"There's one more thing," he said.
"Greta Simms is outside.
She asked if she could speak with you.
Just the two of you."
I looked at the door.
"Send her in," I said.
Greta Simms was a woman in her early fifties with steady eyes and a folder she held against her chest like she had been holding it for a long time.
She sat down across from me and set the folder on the table between us.
"I tried," she said.
"I want you to know that.
I filed every report.
I documented everything.
I thought if I put it in writing, someone above Fitch would have to act."
"I know," I said.
"I'm sorry it wasn't enough.
I'm sorry it wasn't in time."
Her voice broke on the last word.
"You're here now," I said.
"That matters."
She pressed her lips together and nodded.
"The Foundation," she said after a moment.
"What you built — I read about it after the article.
I read about the families you've helped." She looked at the folder.
"I'd like to volunteer.
If you'd have me.
I'm good at documentation.
At making sure things don't get buried."
I looked at her for a moment.
"We could use someone like that," I said.
She exhaled — a long, shaking breath that had clearly been held for a very long time.
Outside Daniel's office, the city continued.
Traffic.
Wind.
Ordinary life moving at its ordinary speed.
May you like
Warren Fitch didn't know yet what Wednesday morning had produced.
He was about to find out.
