“And who authorized these payments, Ms. Bennett?” Miller asked, stepping closer to the jury box.

“My father, Richard Bennett, signed every authorization,” I said.

“The secondary signature belonged to the foundation’s chief financial officer, Ethan Cole.”

Ethan looked down at his legal pad, scribbling furiously.

“And what was the source of these funds?” Miller asked.

“The donor-advised funds intended for the pediatric oncology wing at the municipal hospital,” I replied.

I looked directly at the jury.

“The money donated by the public to buy medical equipment was instead channeled through offshore shell companies to pay off local politicians.”

The lead juror, an older woman with gray hair, shook her head slowly.

“Let us turn to the journals of Margaret Bennett,” Miller said.

He handed me a leather-bound book with a brass clasp.

The cover was worn, the edges scuffed from years of being hidden in Eleanor Price’s attic.

“Please read the entry dated October third,” Miller said.

I opened the book, recognizing my mother’s neat, slanted handwriting.

My throat felt tight, but I forced my voice to remain clear.

“Richard brought Ethan into the office today,” I read aloud.