Chapter 8 - The Financial ForensicBy the following week, I was discharged from San Jose Memorial Hospital under high-security protective protocols.
Because my parents' house was a designated crime scene and my own apartment was deemed insecure, Detective Cole arranged for me to stay at a private, secure residence in the Santa Cruz hills owned by a retired state prosecutor.
The house was surrounded by tall redwoods, accessible only by a single gated driveway.
Every morning at 8:00 AM, Detective Cole and a team of financial forensic analysts from the District Attorney’s office arrived with heavy cardboard bankers' boxes filled with documents retrieved from my father's corporate offices.
I sat at the long pine dining table, my wrist still immobilized in its cast, my ribs tightly bound under a medical vest, going line by line through twenty years of financial records.
"He wasn't just hiding money from my mother," I explained to Assistant District Attorney Sarah Lin, sliding a yellow highlighter across a ledger sheet. "Look at these entries from 2022. These aren't just shell company transfers. These are bribe payments."
ADA Lin leaned in, her sharp eyes scanning the numbers. "Bribe payments to whom?"
"The regional zoning board," I said, pulling a secondary folder from the box. "Hector’s firm secured approval for the commercial redevelopment on North First Street despite major structural and environmental violations. He paid off two municipal inspectors through a fake sub-contracting firm registered under his brother's name in Nevada."
Detective Cole stood by the window, pouring a cup of dark coffee. "Which means this isn't just an attempted murder trial anymore."
"No," ADA Lin said, a grim smile spreading across her lips. "This is a full federal racketeering and public corruption indictment. The U.S. Attorney's office is already preparing to freeze all assets associated with Santos Commercial Real Estate."
At that moment, my phone hummed on the pine table.
It was an incoming video call from an unknown, encrypted number.
I looked at Cole. He immediately stepped over, signaling for ADA Lin to activate the line trace on his laptop before nodding at me to answer.
I swiped the screen.
The image resolved into a small, sterile visitor's room inside the Santa Clara County Main Jail.
Sitting on the other side of the thick plexiglass partition was my father.
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He wore an orange jumpsuit. His hair was cropped short, his face hollowed out, his posture rigid. But when his dark eyes locked onto mine through the camera lens, the cold, arrogant authority inside him hadn't dimmed a single bit.
"Hello, Valeria," Hector said, his voice coming through the speaker with a low, metallic buzz.
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