Part 2: The Audit of Betrayal

PART 8: THE SERVICE

Two days later, the trap snapped shut.

It was a Thursday afternoon, the fog rolling heavily off the Willamette River.

Eleanor Whitmore was stepping out of her private black car in front of the Multnomah Athletic Club.

She wore a tailored mink coat, her silver hair perfectly coiffed, a diamond brooch pinning her collar.

Two of her corporate lawyers walked beside her, carrying leather portfolios.

From the shadow of the concrete pillar, a young man in a plain grey suit stepped forward.

"Mrs. Whitmore?" he called out.

Eleanor stopped, her brow furrowing with mild annoyance. "I don't sign autographs."

"You're not signing anything, ma'am," the young man said calmly.

He reached into his jacket and pulled out a thick white envelope.

He held it out to her.

Eleanor didn't move her hands. One of her attorneys stepped in front of her. "Whatever this is, direct it to our corporate office on Fifth Avenue."

"I can't do that," the young man said, his voice echoing in the covered parking garage. "This is a federal grand jury subpoena. Mrs. Eleanor Whitmore, you are being ordered to surrender all internal financial ledgers for Whitmore Holdings, effective at 9:00 AM tomorrow."

The attorney froze.

Eleanor’s face didn't change immediately.

She was too well-trained for that.

But her fingers tightened around the handle of her designer purse until her knuckles turned white.

"On whose authority?" she asked, her voice dropping an octave, becoming dangerous.

The young man didn't flinch.

"The United States Attorney for the District of Oregon," he said.

He dropped the white envelope at her feet, right onto the damp concrete.

Exactly the way her son had thrown the dirty rag at me.

Exactly the way her family had treated those who couldn't fight back.

Eleanor looked down at the paper on the floor.

Then she looked up, her sharp grey eyes scanning the perimeter of the garage.