Chapter 8: The Green Room
The security guard at the downtown television station checked my visitor badge twice before unlocking the heavy fire door that led to the private green rooms. Inside Studio B's VIP holding area, the air was cool and smelled faintly of expensive coffee and fresh hairspray. Marcus Vance was already waiting for me, pacing the small Persian rug with a tablet clutched tightly in his hand. When the door clicked shut behind me, he stopped and let out a long, audible breath.
"You're cutting it close, Clara," Marcus said, tossing his trench coat over the back of a velvet armchair. "The live broadcast goes in forty minutes. The network executives downstairs are already nervous. Arthur's legal team has sent three separate cease-and-desist letters threatening a multi-million-dollar injunction if we air a single second of those financial records."
I dropped my canvas bag onto the glass coffee table and pulled out the flash drive containing the county archive microfilms and the master study ledgers. I placed it squarely in the center of the table, right next to a tray of uneaten pastries.
"Let them try to sue," I said, unzipping my raincoat and draping it over a chair. "Every document on that drive is a public municipal record or verified wire transfer. There is no injunction in this state that can hide public embezzlement once it's broadcasted live across the network."
Marcus walked over, picked up the small silver drive, and slotted it into his laptop. Within seconds, the screen illuminated his face with the cold glow of the decrypted spreadsheets and scanned property deeds. He scrolled through the files silently, his expression shifting from professional skepticism to grim validation.
"My God," Marcus murmured, clicking on the municipal incorporation papers from 2001. "He didn't just skim from the charity fund. He stole the seed money from a federally funded bridge repair project and laundered it through the foundation to look like private philanthropic donations."
"And Vanessa was the one managing the secondary accounts for the past three years," I added, sitting down on the edge of the sofa and staring at my own hands. "She thought she was securing her place in his inner circle by handling the wire transfers. She didn't realize that when the house of cards fell, Arthur would throw her under the bus just as fast as he discarded everyone else."
A sharp knock sounded at the green room door. Marcus closed his laptop lid instantly. The door swung open to reveal Sarah, the senior segment producer, her face pale and her headset buzzing with frantic communications from the control room.
"Marcus, we're live in fifteen," Sarah said, her eyes darting nervously toward me. "The network president is on a secure line from New York. He wants to know if Mrs. Hayes is ready to make her statement on camera. If she steps out on that stage, there's no turning back. Arthur's PR machine is already spinning a narrative that she's unstable, vindictive, and experiencing a mental health crisis."
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I stood up, smoothing the wrinkles from my dark wool sweater. I looked at my reflection in the large illuminated vanity mirror—my face pale, hair pulled back neatly, eyes clear and resolute. The woman in the mirror was no longer the silent, compliant wife who had flipped a birthday cake in desperation. She was a witness ready to testify.
"Tell the president in New York that I'm completely stable," I said, walking toward the heavy soundproof door that led directly out onto the studio stage. "And tell him to roll the cameras. It's time for the interview."
