Chapter 7 - The Subpoena Drops
Three weeks later, the digital dragnet tightened around Belle’s operations faster than she could delete her social media history.
Marcus called me on a Tuesday morning while I was sitting at my kitchen desk reviewing work reports.
“Elena, we just received the compliance dump from the crowdfunding platform and the associated bank subpoenas,” Marcus said, his voice brimming with professional satisfaction.
“What does it show?” I asked, leaning forward.
“It’s worse—or better, depending on how you look at it—than we anticipated. Belle didn't just mismanage a few thousand dollars. Of the sixty-two thousand raised, over forty-five thousand was immediately transferred into a secondary personal checking account under her name within twenty-four hours of major donation spikes.”
“Where did that money go?” I asked, though I already had a sickening hunch.
“Boutique clothing store charges, weekend spa getaways in Asheville, a three-thousand-dollar deposit on a used BMW, and several cash withdrawals at local ATMs,” Marcus read off the forensic spreadsheet. “Furthermore, her IP logs prove she actively blocked and deleted dozens of donors who tried to ask pointed questions about payout receipts in the comment sections.”
“Can we press full criminal charges?”
“With this level of documented paper trail and willful deception, the district attorney won't even need us to argue,” Marcus said firmly. “However, her defense counsel just reached out to me this morning. They want to cut a deal before formal indictments are filed.”
“What kind of deal?”
“Full restitution of every misallocated dollar, complete public retraction and confession posted on her social media channels admitting the fund was mishandled, and a permanent, legally binding injunction barring her from ever launching a fundraising campaign again. In exchange, you agree not to push for maximum prison sentencing.”
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I closed my eyes and breathed in deeply, feeling the cool, clean air fill my lungs completely without restriction. The physical weight I had carried around for thirty-nine years—the invisible backpack of family guilt, debt, and obligation—finally slipped off my shoulders and hit the floor.
“Tell her she has twenty-four hours to sign every term, or the deal is off the table,” I instructed.
