Chapter 13 - My Mother Confronted Franklin
Mom asked to see him.
Every attorney told her she didn’t need to.
She insisted.
Not alone.
Not privately.
Through a monitored meeting with her lawyer present.
“I need to ask him one question.”
I knew the question.
Why did you pretend you didn’t know Michael?
Franklin entered the secure visitation room looking worse than before.
Unshaven.
Eyes shadowed.
He smiled when he saw Mom.
“Dana.”
She didn’t smile back.
I watched remotely from another room with permission from investigators.
Her attorney sat beside her.
Franklin’s lawyer sat beside him.
Mom placed the frozen security photograph on the table.
Franklin looked down.
His face changed.
“You were there.”
He said nothing.
“The morning Michael died.”
“Dana—”
“You told me you never met him.”
“I said I barely knew him.”
“You told me you had never spoken to him.”
Franklin looked toward his attorney.
His attorney looked tired.
“Answer carefully.”
Mom leaned forward.
“Did you know Victor planned to poison my husband?”
“No.”
“Did you know Michael was in danger?”
“Yes.”
She shut her eyes.
For one second.
Then opened them.
“And you said nothing.”
“I warned him.”
“When?”
“Days before.”
“The tape?”
Franklin nodded.
Mom’s voice hardened.
“Why were you at Halston that morning?”
“Victor told me to meet him.”
“Why?”
“He thought Michael had copies of Dean’s records.”
“What did he want you to do?”
“Search Michael’s truck.”
My hands tightened outside the room.
Mom stayed remarkably calm.
“Did you?”
“Yes.”
“Did you find anything?”
“No.”
“What happened in the break room?”
“I stayed in the hallway.”
“You expect me to believe that?”
“I swear.”
Franklin leaned forward.
“I didn’t know Victor was going to kill him.”
Mom stared at him.
“How did you meet me?”
Franklin’s mouth closed.
Her attorney looked at her.
She continued.
“Three years after Michael died, you walked into the clinic where I worked because your shoulder hurt.”
Franklin looked away.
“You asked me to coffee.”
Silence.
“You told me it was chance.”
“Dana.”
“Was it?”
He whispered, “No.”
She flinched like he had struck her again.
I wanted to enter the room.
Her attorney touched her hand.
Mom stayed seated.
“Why?”
Franklin rubbed his face.
“Victor wanted to know whether Michael left anything behind.”
“So you courted me?”
“At first.”
“At first?”
“I started caring about you.”
“You searched my house.”
Silence.
“You married me.”
“I loved you.”
“You forged my name.”
“I was desperate.”
“You stole from me.”
“I was trapped.”
“You hit my son.”
“He—”
Mom slammed her palm onto the table.
“No.”
Franklin stopped.
“You do not get to finish that sentence.”
I had never heard my mother speak like that.
“You hit Caleb because you wanted him at that warehouse so you could frame him.”
Franklin’s eyes dropped.
“You planned to steal his future after helping steal his father.”
“I did not kill Michael.”
“You helped the man who did.”
“I was nineteen.”
“So is Caleb.”
That sentence landed like a hammer.
Franklin looked up.
Mom continued.
“You were nineteen when you helped Victor. Caleb is nineteen now. Do you know what he did when he was scared?”
Franklin said nothing.
“He told the truth.”
My eyes burned.
“You were given choices,” Mom said. “Again and again. You keep acting like Victor made them for you.”
Franklin began crying.
Actual tears.
Once, that would have changed Mom.
I could see it.
Her shoulders trembled.
But she didn’t move toward him.
“I’m sorry.”
“I believe you’re sorry.”
His face lifted hopefully.
She continued.
“I think you are more sorry about where you are sitting than what you did.”
His expression collapsed.
Mom removed her wedding ring.
She placed it on the table.
“I don’t want this.”
Franklin stared at it.
“Dana, please.”
“You told me I would regret choosing my son over you.”
She stood.
“You were wrong.”
Then she left.
When she reached the hallway, her legs nearly gave out.
I caught her.
For a long time, we stood there holding each other.
Not fixed.
Not healed.
But together.
Franklin’s interview gave prosecutors one crucial admission.
He had been at Halston the morning Dad died.
He claimed he didn’t know about the poison.
He did admit Victor ordered him to search Dad’s truck.
That tied him directly to obstruction surrounding Dad’s evidence.
The federal case expanded again.
Victor still denied everything.
Then Franklin gave investigators the name of another man.
Louis Grant.
Victor’s former driver.
Louis had been present when Dean Mercer died.
Police located him in Arizona.
He was dying from pancreatic cancer.
He had weeks, possibly months, left.
And for the first time in eleven years, he wanted to talk.
Agents flew to Arizona.
Louis admitted Victor ordered Dean’s car sabotaged.
He described how brake fluid had been drained before Dean drove home.
Then he spoke about my father.
Victor had become convinced Dad was preparing to turn evidence over to state investigators.
“He said Michael Turner was more dangerous than Dean because Michael didn’t scare easy.”
I almost smiled when Collins repeated that.
Louis said Victor arranged for Patricia Nolan to alter Dad’s medication.
Franklin did not know the exact plan.
But Louis remembered Victor telling Franklin afterward:
“Michael won’t be bothering us anymore.”
Franklin didn’t report it.
He took money and stayed silent.
Prosecutors finally had enough.
Victor Sloane was charged with conspiracy to commit murder in connection with my father’s death and Dean Mercer’s death.
The news broke nationally because of the scale of the corruption case.
I thought that would be the biggest moment.
It wasn’t.
The biggest came two days later.
Samuel called.
“Caleb, there’s been a ruling on the fraudulent insurance proceeds.”
“What ruling?”
“The court froze several Redstone accounts.”
“And?”
“Investigators traced part of your father’s stolen death benefit.”
My heart sped up.
“How much?”
“Approximately one hundred and eighty-seven thousand remains traceable.”
“Can we get it back?”
“Eventually, possibly.”
I sat down.
Samuel continued.
“There’s also interest and restitution.”
I didn’t care about becoming rich.
I cared because Dad had tried to leave me something.
And someone had taken it.
For five years, I had worked nights believing Dad’s plan for me had vanished when he died.
It hadn’t.
It had been stolen.
May you like
There was a difference.
And for the first time, there was a chance we were going to take it back.
