Chapter 6
Nathan stood up. He didn't look at Victor again. The man was an irrelevance now—just another small-minded predator who thought power was something to be used as a club against the weak.
Nathan walked past the row of offices, his worn boots clicking rhythmically against the pristine marble, until he reached Station Four.
Leah Dawson was sitting behind the counter on a small stool, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. Her nametag was slightly askew. Her face was flushed, her eyes wide with shock as she watched federal agents unplug Victor Hale’s desktop computer and begin sealing the file cabinets with yellow evidence tape.
When Nathan stopped in front of her counter, she started to stand up, her eyes dropping immediately to his work boots.
“Sit down, Leah,” Nathan said gently.
She sank back onto the stool, swallowing hard. “Mr. Mercer… I didn't know who you were. I swear I didn't know. I just… I saw what he was doing to you. He’s been doing it to people every Tuesday and Thursday for eight months. He always calls them in during the afternoon when the branch is quiet.”
“Why didn't you go to the police, Leah?” Nathan asked, his voice entirely free of judgment.
A bitter, trembling smile touched her lips. “Who would believe a twenty-five-year-old junior teller earning twenty-one dollars an hour over Victor Hale? His father was a state senator. The regional compliance officer plays golf with him every Sunday. Three months ago, another teller, Marcus Webb, tried to report a suspicious transfer on a widow’s account. Victor fired him the next morning for ‘cash drawer discrepancies,’ blacklisted his bond with the state banking board, and threatened to have him prosecuted for theft. Marcus works at an auto-parts warehouse now. I have eighty thousand dollars in student loans, Mr. Mercer. I have a mother in assisted living. If I lost this job… if Victor ruined my license… I had nowhere to go.”
She pulled open a lower drawer behind the counter with trembling hands. Inside was a worn, blue spiral-bound notebook.
“I didn't stay quiet completely,” she whispered, sliding the notebook across the marble counter toward him. “I couldn't stop him, but I kept track. Every account number. Every date. Every time he used the Westbridge code. I copied down the names of every customer he called into that office. I was trying to find an investigative reporter or a lawyer who wouldn't just sell the story back to the board. I was terrified, Mr. Mercer. Every day I came in here, my stomach was in knots.”