Chapter 8 - The Price of Silence
Arthur’s eyes darted frantically from the small black recorder to Frank's stone-cold face. The color drained from the manager's cheeks so fast he appeared ghostly beneath the dim desk lamp.
"You... you can't use that," Arthur whispered, his booming, authoritative voice reduced to a pathetic, raspy squeak. "State law... wiretapping... you didn't have my consent..."
"I don't need your consent for a corporate ethics investigation, Arthur," Frank replied softly, leaning over the desk until his grease-stained face was inches from Arthur’s nose. "And I certainly don't need it for the District Attorney's fraud division. You've stolen over fifty thousand dollars from working-class people in this neighborhood since January. That's a felony, Arthur. Real time. Real prison."
Arthur slumped back into his leather swivel chair, his arms hanging limp at his sides. The arrogant manager who had slammed his hand down on the black tool chest ten minutes ago had completely vanished, replaced by a terrified man realizing his freedom was hanging by a single thread.
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"What... what do you want, Frank?" Arthur whimpered, his hands shaking uncontrollably as he wiped cold sweat from his forehead. "Money? I can give you a cut. Ten percent of every ticket. Fifteen!"
Frank looked at him with an expression of profound, unadulterated disgust. "I don't want your filthy money, Arthur. I want you to open your computer, clear every fake invoice pending in the system, and issue full refunds to the six people you scammed this week."
