Altha met her outside the legal office rather than asking her to return to work immediately. Miriam began apologizing for becoming another problem in an already difficult case, and Altha gently interrupted. "You're not a problem. You're a person who was treated unfairly, and we're going to make sure that fact doesn't disappear into a file." Miriam accepted the offered arm, blinking back tears that had more to do with relief than exhaustion.
Later that afternoon, Elias sat across from Celeste and reviewed the court's inspection order. The document identified authorized personnel, restricted access requirements, and the process for documenting whatever emerged from the dedication wall. He would accompany the team as a family representative, but he would not be allowed to interfere with hotel operations or wander through secured corridors. Celeste wanted everything done under witnesses and clear authority, precisely because Preston might challenge the evidence later.
"He'll try to stop you anyway," Miriam warned. "He's planning to make that reception the biggest event this hotel has held in years. He thinks the guests will keep everyone distracted from the sale documents." Altha looked toward the hotel visible between downtown buildings. "Then let them see what he is celebrating," she said. "If the truth is hidden inside his walls, I would rather retrieve it with witnesses than have him call it another rumor."
Preston, meanwhile, stood before a mirror in his private suite and adjusted the cuffs of a tuxedo that cost more than the rent most of his former community tenants paid in a year. Outside his window, Atlanta glimmered under the evening sky. He believed that the money waiting at Saturday's closing would solve every problem: the debt, the investors, the old records, the questions about housing funds, even the humiliation of seeing an elderly woman speak his family's history aloud. All he had to do was make it through one evening with his image intact.
Friday evening arrived under a sky streaked with pale gold. Black cars formed a line beneath the Monroe Crown's awning, where valets opened doors for investors, board members, consultants, and guests invited to celebrate what the company's announcements called a new era of international growth. A quartet played near the ballroom entrance, waiters carried trays of sparkling drinks, and enormous flower arrangements made the marble lobby look like a carefully designed advertisement. The same desk where Altha had been humiliated stood beneath the lights, polished and immaculate as though nothing had happened.
Preston Vale moved through the reception with a smile he had practiced in front of mirrors for years. He wore a black tuxedo with silver cufflinks and greeted investors by recalling details about their families, their hobbies, and their recent acquisitions. He talked about unprecedented opportunity, neighborhood transformation, and strategic returns. He did not mention the four hundred thirty-seven residents who were awaiting notices that might uproot their lives.