"Richard always did have an exceptional memory for numbers," I interjected quietly. Even when he was pretending not to care about the details during board meetings, a trait our son had apparently underestimated in both his parents. "The most egregious issue is the employee pension fund," Jonathan continued, pulling up another document. "Oliver has been using it as collateral for personal loans.
If we hadn't intercepted the sale to his shell company, those employees would have lost everything when the fund inevitably collapsed." I set down my teacup with deliberate control, fighting the wave of disappointment and anger threatening to overwhelm my carefully maintained composure. These weren't just numbers on a spreadsheet. They were the retirement savings of people who had worked alongside Richard for decades, people who had attended our Christmas parties, whose children had received college recommendation letters from us, whose life milestones had been marked with personal cards and gifts.
"Does he truly believe he would have gotten away with this?" I asked, more to myself than to Jonathan. "People who commit financial fraud typically share two characteristics," the attorney replied, "exceptional confidence in their own cleverness and absolute certainty that rules apply only to others." He closed the tablet with a decisive snap.
"Oliver possesses both in abundance." "Just like his grandfather," I murmured, remembering Richard's difficult relationship with his own father, a man whose gambling had nearly destroyed the family before his son was even born. Jonathan nodded soberly. "The board meets at 10:00 on Friday morning.
Oliver will be expecting to introduce the new ownership team from Monarch Holdings, specifically the mysterious Elizabeth Windsor. He believes he's been negotiating with her through intermediaries." "And instead, he'll get me." I smoothed my dress, a nervous habit from childhood that resurfaced in moments of stress.
"What about the board members? Can they be trusted?" "Two are firmly in Oliver's pocket, Henderson and Patterson. They've benefited directly from his schemes.
The others are either loyal to Richard's memory or completely in the dark." Jonathan slid a folder across the desk. This contains dossiers on each member, including what we know about their involvement or lack thereof. I accepted the folder, suddenly aware of the weight of what we were undertaking.
"And the employees? How do we protect them when this becomes public?" "The acquisition structure shields the operational side of the business from any legal repercussions. Your controlling interest through Monarch ensures that production continues uninterrupted."
Jonathan hesitated, then added, but there will be questions, Amelia. Shock, possibly anger directed at the entire Blackwood family. "Better temporary anger than permanent destitution," I replied, thinking of the pension fund and the families who depended on it. Richard built this company on integrity and innovation.
I won't let Oliver destroy that legacy through greed and shortcuts. As I gathered my belongings to leave, Jonathan asked the question he'd been delicately avoiding throughout our meeting. "And after Friday, have you decided what happens to Oliver?" The maternal instinct to protect my child warred with the moral obligation to hold him accountable.
In my mind's eye, I saw Oliver as a small boy, earnestly explaining his Lego creations. As a teenager, awkwardly navigating his first school dance. As a young man, standing proud in his graduation robes with Richard beaming beside him. Where had that boy gone?
When had ambition curdled into avarice? "That depends on him," I finally answered, "on whether he can face what he's done with honesty and remorse." Jonathan's expression suggested he had significant doubts on that front, but he merely nodded. "I'll have a car pick you up at 9:00 on Friday.
Try to get some rest before then." Rest, as if sleep were possible with the weight of Friday's confrontation looming. As if I could close my eyes without seeing Richard's face in those final hospital days, his features contorted with the effort to communicate what he discovered about our son. In the lobby of Jonathan's building, I checked my phone to find three missed calls from Oliver and a text message.