The conference room was cold. Sterile. Government-issue.
Marcus Chen sat at one end of the long table, his attorney on one side, a federal prosecutor on the other, and two FBI agents standing by the door like sentinels.
They'd offered him a deal this morning. Eighteen months in a federal facility.
He'd laughed in their faces.
Now they were walking him through the evidence anyway, as if his refusal meant nothing.
"The payments to Claire Morrison trace directly to a shell company you control," the prosecutor said, sliding papers across the table. "Bank records. Signatures. IP addresses from your personal computer."
"Circumstantial."
"The photographs of you meeting with her three days before she made her initial accusation."
"I meet with anyone I want, whenever I want to . It's called networking."
"What about the testimony of your former driver, who confirms he drove you to that meeting and waited while you handed her an envelope."
