Chapter 5: Gathering the Arsenal
The diner on Route 9 was a dilapidated aluminum box marinating in the stench of burnt coffee and oxidized frying oil. I limped inside, my bloodied knees concealed beneath my slacks. The establishment was vacant, save for a lethargic waitress and a massive silhouette occupying the furthest corner booth.
I approached. Briggs was a mountain of a man in his late thirties, wearing a grease-stained canvas jacket. His face was deeply weathered, his eyes carrying the permanent, heavy luggage of a man who had lost his entire world and refused to rebuild.
“Sit,” he instructed.
I slid into the cracked vinyl booth. I bypassed introductions and pleasantries. I unloaded the entire horrific narrative. I detailed the steep asphalt, the white Porsche, Fallon’s apathetic shrug, the skeletal radiographs, and the meticulously orchestrated frame-up currently sitting on a detective’s desk.
Briggs didn’t interrupt. He simply rotated his ceramic mug with thick, scarred fingers. When my voice finally cracked into silence, he reached inside his jacket. He extracted a folded, yellowing document. The creases were worn soft, as if he had unfolded it ten thousand times. He slid it across the sticky formica table.
“Read the summary,” he ordered.
It was a photocopy of an official police incident report dated six years prior. My eyes scanned the blurry typography. The report centered on a three-year-old boy named Leo—Briggs’s biological son from a previous marriage.
I read the narrative paragraph, and the breath evacuated my lungs.
Suspect Fallon Caldwell stated that she threw the child’s heavy wooden playpen down the basement stairs. The child was inside the playpen at the time. Suspect stated that the playpen was blocking the hallway to her walk-in closet. When asked why she did not remove the child first, suspect stated she did not realize he was inside, adding, “It was blocking my way.”
I stared at Briggs, nausea rising in my throat. “It was blocking her way. She said the exact same words to me today. She said the pram was obstructing her car door.”
Briggs tapped a heavy finger on the lower half of the page. “Keep reading. Look at the witness affidavits.”
Statement from Lawson Caldwell: “I was present in the residence. Fallon was in the living room with me. Briggs was the individual in the basement with the child.”
Statement from Merit Caldwell: “Briggs possesses an explosive temper. We have suspected he was physically disciplining the boy for months. Fallon is terrified of his violence.”
“They utilized the exact same playbook on you,” I whispered, the parchment vibrating in my hands.
“They are a highly efficient machine, Sloan,” Briggs stated, his voice devoid of emotion. “They are a meat grinder insulated by generational wealth. Leo was my flesh and blood. Fallon despised him because he diverted my attention. When she hurled him down a flight of oak stairs, he shattered his clavicle. But by the time the paramedics arrived, Merit had assumed operational control. She had her corporate fixers on speed dial.”
“What was the outcome?” I asked, terrified of the answer.
“Merit legally eviscerated me,” Briggs said. “She retained the most vicious, predatory family law firm in the state. They dragged my reputation through the mud. They manipulated the court into believing I was a psychotic abuser. I lost primary custody to Leo’s biological mother, who already despised me. Fallon walked away without a single misdemeanor. The police shuttered the investigation due to ‘conflicting testimonies.’ The Caldwells wrote a massive check, and the inconvenience vanished.”
He leaned forward, his dark eyes locking onto mine. “You cannot fight them fairly, Sloan. The truth is entirely irrelevant to a judge when the opposing counsel has three impeccable witnesses wearing Armani suits, and you look like a deranged, sleep-deprived warehouse worker. If you attempt a fair fight, they will crush you, steal your daughter, and force you to finance their legal fees.”
I looked down at the ghost of a police report. “I have absolutely no intention of fighting fairly,” I replied. My voice didn’t sound human. It sounded like the low, threatening rumble of a diesel engine preparing to pull ten thousand tons of steel.
Briggs evaluated me for a long moment. He reached into his pocket and produced a thick, embossed business card. He placed it atop the police report.
“His name is Hayes,” Briggs stated. “He used to be a ruthless corporate litigator before pivoting to criminal defense. He is astronomically expensive, aggressively unethical, and he harbors a deep, personal vendetta against the Caldwell syndicate. Merit attempted to have him disbarred a decade ago over a commercial real estate bloodbath. He survived, and he holds grudges forever. If you want to slaughter them, you need a shark.”
I picked up the card. It felt heavier than a loaded firearm. “I have capital,” I said quietly.
Briggs raised a skeptical eyebrow. “You manage logistics at a rail yard.”
“I do,” I agreed. “But unlike my husband, I do not squander my compensation on luxury leases and country club dues. I invest it. And I have been investing it silently, aggressively, for five years.”
I slid out of the booth. “Thank you, Briggs,” I promised. “I will ensure they choke on your name.”
