Because Vance was desperate to pay off his gambling debts, he had gotten sloppy. As the head of the Physical Education department at Oakwood, he had access to the athletic booster club’s bank accounts. Marcus’s forensic trace proved, unequivocally, that over the last fourteen months, Jason Vance had embezzled exactly $42,500 from the booster club, funneling the money through a fake vendor LLC directly into an offshore betting account.
I didn’t just have a case for aggravated assault on a minor.
I had a bulletproof, federally prosecutable case for wire fraud, grand larceny, and systemic endangerment.
I spent Wednesday night compiling the files. I printed everything on heavy, legal-grade paper, organizing them into three thick, terrifyingly comprehensive red folders.
I didn’t sleep. I didn’t need to. The anticipation of the slaughter was all the fuel I required.
4. The Teacher’s Lounge
Thursday morning arrived with a crisp, cool autumn breeze.
At 8:30 AM, just as the first-period bell rang, Jason Vance swaggered into the main teacher’s lounge. He was holding a styrofoam cup of coffee, wearing his red windbreaker, a bored, slightly annoyed expression on his face.
He had received a vague summons from the principal’s office to attend a “brief disciplinary review meeting.” He likely expected a minor slap on the wrist, a boring lecture about “proper hydration protocols during PE,” and perhaps a tearful, helpless meeting with me where he could flex his dominance one more time.
Vance pushed the door open and stopped dead in his tracks.
The teacher’s lounge was completely empty of other staff. The tables had been pushed together to form one long, imposing conference table.
Sitting at the table were not just the school principal.
Sitting there was the District Superintendent, looking pale and sweating profusely. Next to him sat the Chief of the local police department, and two uniformed officers standing by the door.
And sitting directly at the head of the table, wearing a razor-sharp, tailored black power suit, was me. Resting on the polished wood in front of me were three thick, heavily redacted red folders.
Vance’s arrogant swagger evaporated instantly. His posture stiffened, his eyes darting frantically around the room, assessing the threat level.
“What is this?” Vance asked, his voice losing its deep, confident edge. It sounded slightly higher, laced with sudden, creeping panic. He looked at the principal. “Is this a witch hunt? I have a right to have my union representative present for any disciplinary action!”
“Take a seat, Mr. Vance,” the Superintendent said, his voice trembling slightly. He wouldn’t meet Vance’s eyes.
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