Chapter 24 Amara
Amara
The thing about being a litigator is that you spend your entire career waiting for moments like this.
The surgical dismantling of someone who thought they were smarter than you.
It’s the closest thing to legal bloodsport, and I’ve spent years honing my skills for exactly this purpose.
Corin’s standing near the clinic entrance, talking quietly with Marisol, and the morning light catches the sharp line of his jaw.
The sleeves of his shirt are rolled to his forearms, and I can see the tendons shift as he gestures.
His hair is slightly disheveled from the humidity, which shouldn’t be attractive but hey, he’s Corin Saelinger.
Exhibit A: That gorgeous man.
Exhibit B: My complete inability to concentrate in his presence.
“You ready?” Marisol asks, turning to me.
I tear my eyes away from Corin and school my features into something resembling professionalism. “Born ready. Well, actually, born screaming and covered in amniotic fluid like everyone else, but metaphorically ready.”
Marisol raises an eyebrow. “You’re weird sometimes.”
“Nervous,” I correct. “As you’ve probably noticed by now, if I start making puns, run!”
Corin crosses to us, and I catch the faint scent of his cologne mixed with sea salt. It’s distracting.
Scratch that.
Everything about him is distracting. Last night we were tangled in his sheets, saying things like “I love you” and “I don’t think I ever stopped,” and now I’m supposed to focus on procedural justice?
The defense would like to request a recess. For kissing purposes.
“Xavier is on the way,” Corin says, checking his phone. “Thorne confirmed his car is fifteen minutes out.”
My stomach tightens.
Showtime.
I smooth down my linen dress and check my legal pad for the fortieth time. Every question I’m about to ask is mapped out. Every potential evasion has a follow-up. Every trap has been laid with the kind of precision that would make my law school professors weep with pride.
Or possibly horror. Depending on their ethics.
“The recording equipment?” I ask.
“Tested three times,” Marisol confirms. “Signage is posted at the entrance. He’ll see the disclosure notice before he even walks in. Everything’s compliant.”
Corin’s hand brushes the small of my back as he moves past me. It’s a small gesture, barely there, but I feel it everywhere.
“You’ve got this,” he says quietly. “I’ve never seen anyone prepare like you do.”
I try not to flush. Fail. “That’s because I’m neurotic and incapable of relaxing.”
“It’s because you’re brilliant.”
Okay, now I’m definitely blushing.
“Save the flattery for after I’ve crushed him,” I manage.
Corin’s mouth quirks. “Deal.”
The next fifteen minutes feel like an eternity. I review my notes. I pace. I remind myself that I’ve done this a hundred times before, that Xavier Laurent is just another arrogant man who thinks he’s untouchable, that I eat arrogant men for breakfast.
Figuratively.
Mostly figuratively.
Then his car pulls up outside, and I watch through the window as he emerges.
He’s wearing an expensive Armani suit. His hair is slicked back, his smile practiced, and he radiates confidence. You know, the kind that comes from never having to face real consequences.
Oh, you poor idiot.
You have no idea what’s about to hit you.
I position myself at the main table, Marisol on my left, an outside investigator named Joseph Sands on my right. Corin takes a seat in the back, deliberately unobtrusive. He’s there as an observer, nothing more.
This is my show.
And what a show it’s going to be.
Xavier walks in, notices the disclosure signage, and barely glances at it. Of course he doesn’t read it carefully. Men like him never do. They assume the fine print doesn’t apply to them.
“Ms. Khan. Ms. de la Cruz.” He nods to each of us, then looks at Joseph expectantly.
“Mr. Sands,” Joseph explains. “I’m an outside investigator.”
“I see.” Xavier spots Corin and his smile tightens almost imperceptibly. “And Mr. Saelinger. I wasn’t expecting such a full house for an informal discussion. I was told this would be a ‘conciliatory’ meeting.”
“It will be, we just wanted to ensure all relevant parties were present,” I say smoothly. “Please, have a seat.”
He does. Adjusts his cuffs. Crosses one leg over the other.
So comfortable.
So profoundly unaware that he’s about to incriminate himself on a live recording.
“Before we begin,” I say, sliding a document across the table, “I need you to acknowledge that you’ve seen and understood the notice posted at the entrance regarding audio and visual recording of these proceedings.”
Xavier waves a hand. “I have nothing to hide. Let’s get on with it.”
He signs the document without even reading it.
Exhibit C: Xavier Laurent’s signature on a consent form. Witness notes his complete failure to exercise due diligence.
“Wonderful.” I flip open my legal pad. “Let’s start with some clarifying questions.”
For the next twenty minutes, I walk him through the setup. Easy questions. Foundation history. His tenure on the board. The nature of his relationship with Corin.
Xavier answers smoothly, probably wondering why I’m wasting his time with this.
Patience, Mr. Laurent. I’m building the trap.
I can feel Corin’s eyes on me from the back of the room. They ground me.
“Now,” I say, “I’d like to discuss some specific documents that have come to our attention.”
I produce the forged board memo dated March 15 from five years ago. Slide it across the table. “Can you identify this?”
Xavier barely glances at it. He shrugs. “Appears to be a foundation board memo.”
“Specifically, a memo authorizing certain land acquisition activities on Eleuthera. Activities that would result in the displacement of local families.”
He shrugs. “The foundation has various investment strategies. I’m not familiar with every internal document. Considering I’m not even on the board anymore. As you know.”
“Right. You’re not on the board.” I tap the document. “So you wouldn’t have any reason to know about this memo. Or to have created it.”
“Correct.” He flashes that oily grin.
I return his smile coldly. “And you certainly wouldn’t have forged Mr. Saelinger’s signature on a document authorizing land purchases through shell companies you control.”
His eyes narrow. “I don’t know what you’re implying.”
“I’m not implying anything. I’m establishing that you claim no knowledge of this memo.” I pull it back and replace it with the Windward Solutions formation documents. “Now let me show you something you definitely do know about.”
The document lands in front of him with his signature clear as day. Six years old. Undeniably his.
His face goes carefully blank.
Gotcha.
“And what about Coral Bridge Holdings?” I produce another document.
“A shell company registered in the Caymans. Our investigation has traced significant fund transfers from the Saelinger Foundation to this entity over the past eighteen months. The same Coral Bridge Holdings is listed as the beneficiary in that recent forged memo.”
Xavier’s jaw tightens. “I’m not familiar with that company.”
“Really? Because we have records indicating you’re the beneficial owner.
Along with a Bahamian entity called Atlantic Cove Investments, which is currently buying up coastal properties using money from the aforementioned Coral Bridge Holdings.
All of which trace back to this. “ I tap the Windward Solutions document.
“The shell company you set up six years ago.”
Silence.
I can hear birds outside. The distant crash of waves.
“These records are falsified,” he says finally.
I study him. “By whom?”
He hesitates. This is the moment. The pivot point. I can see him calculating, trying to figure out how to deflect blame without implicating himself further.
Come on, Xavier. Tell me who’s been helping you. Give me a name.
“There are certain individuals,” he begins, “within the foundation’s Manhattan office who have been... sympathetic to alternative interpretations of the foundation’s mission.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Can you be more specific?”
Another hesitation. Then: “Noemi Varela, Mr. Saelinger’s Chief of Staff, has been instrumental in facilitating certain administrative processes. Perhaps you should talk to her?”
I hear a sharp intake of breath from the back of the room. Corin.
Noemi.
His own Chief of Staff.
The woman he trusted to run his Manhattan office.
I keep my face neutral, but inside I’m reeling. We suspected there was a mole. But Noemi? She’s been with Corin for years.
“So you’re confirming that Noemi Varela has been working with you to create and distribute falsified documents?” I ask.
Xavier’s face goes pale as he realizes what he’s just admitted. “I didn’t say that. I said she’s been helpful with administrative matters.”
“You specifically stated she’s been ‘instrumental in facilitating certain administrative processes.’ Processes that you’ve already acknowledged relate to documents you’re claiming are falsified.” I tap my legal pad. “The logical inference is that she facilitated the creation of those documents.”
“You’re twisting my words,” he exclaims.
“I’m clarifying them,” I reply. “For the record.”
I let the silence stretch. Xavier is sweating now. I can see the sheen on his forehead.
“Mr. Laurent,” I continue, “you are aware that this meeting has been recorded in its entirety, in compliance with the disclosure notice you signed upon arrival?”
His face goes white.
There it is.
The moment of realization.
God, I love this part.
“Furthermore,” I say, “this recording will be submitted to both the foundation’s board of directors and local authorities, as well as broadcast on island radio this evening for the community’s awareness.”
“This is entrapment!” Xavier stands so abruptly his chair scrapes against the floor.
Marisol leans forward. “No. This is transparency.”
I swear I could kiss her.