The physical therapists worked with him twice a day, helping him regain the strength in his legs.

I spent my evenings in his room, reading the newspaper to him by the light of the bedside lamp.

The headlines were filled with the details of the upcoming trials.

The state prosecutor had refused any bail for Julian Bellamy, citing him as an extreme flight risk.

The board members of the Bellamy Group had turned on Julian, offering testimonies in exchange for reduced sentences.

“They are tearing each other apart,” my father observed one evening, a faint smile on his lips.

“They were never loyal to anything but the money, Dad,” I said, peeling an orange for him.

“When the money stopped, the loyalty vanished.”

He took a slice of the orange, his hand much steadier than it had been a week ago.

“Charles came to see me today while you were at the office,” my father said.

“He did?” I asked, looking up.

“He wants to buy the old factory site,” my father explained.

“He wants to turn it into a public park and a community center.”