Charles hired a prestigious law firm to represent the victims of the Bellamy Group.

They set up a temporary office in the ballroom of a hotel downtown.

The walls were lined with whiteboards detailing the complex network of shell companies Julian Bellamy had created.

I spent every morning at that office, helping the lawyers match names to the recovered ledger sheets.

Many of the former factory workers did not believe the letters we sent them.

They thought it was another scam, another cruel joke played by the wealthy.

But when they walked into the ballroom, they saw Charles sitting at a table with stacks of certified checks.

The first person I processed was Mrs. Gallagher, a widow whose husband had died of lung disease after thirty years at the plant.

She sat across from me, her woolen gloves worn thin at the fingertips.

“My husband worked double shifts for twenty years to build that pension,” she whispered.

“When they took it, I had to sell our home.”

I slid a check across the polished table toward her.