Chapter 5 : Due Diligence
[FOGGY NELSON]
The background check took three days.
Foggy started with the obvious stuff—public records, news articles, social media. Roy Smith existed exactly as much as he should. Birth certificate from Manhattan Presbyterian. Education at private schools that cost more per year than Foggy's entire law school debt. Parents killed in a car accident six months ago, driver of the other vehicle charged with vehicular manslaughter.
The funeral notices were in the Times. The estate filing was public record. The inheritance was legitimate, down to the last decimal point.
"He's clean," Foggy announced, dropping a folder on Matt's desk.
Matt didn't look up from his Braille display. "Define clean."
"No criminal record. No civil suits. No angry ex-girlfriends posting about him online. No weird financial transactions. No connections to anyone shady." Foggy dropped into his chair. "The guy's basically a ghost. A very wealthy, very boring ghost."
"That's the problem."
"What do you mean?"
Matt finally turned, his fingers still resting on the display. "Everyone has something, Foggy. A speeding ticket. A college indiscretion. An argument with a neighbor. Roy Smith has nothing."
"Maybe he's just careful."
"Maybe." Matt's jaw tightened. "Or maybe he's too good at covering his tracks."
Foggy rubbed his face. He'd gotten maybe four hours of sleep, and it was starting to show. "Look, I get that you have your... instincts. And I trust them, usually. But we need this money. We're three months from closing the doors, Matt. Three months. And this guy is offering us a lifeline."
"A lifeline with strings attached."
"Every lifeline has strings. That's how lifelines work."
Matt was quiet for a long moment. His head tilted in that way it did when he was listening to something Foggy couldn't hear.
"There's something off about him," Matt said finally. "I can't explain it. His heartbeat is steady when it shouldn't be. His breathing is too controlled. And when we shook hands..." He trailed off.
"What?"
"I don't know. Something. Like he was bracing for me to notice something."
Foggy sighed. "Matt, is it possible—and I'm just throwing this out there—that the guy is nervous because he's meeting with lawyers about investing a ton of money? That maybe his heart does weird things because he's not used to situations like this?"
"It's possible."
"But you don't believe it."
"I believe he wants to help. I heard that much in his voice." Matt leaned back. "I just don't know why he wants to help. And that bothers me."
Foggy couldn't argue with that. It bothered him too, a little. Rich guys didn't usually show up at dive bars looking for struggling law firms to fund. There was always an angle.
But sometimes the angle was just... wanting to do something good. It happened. Rarely, but it happened.
"Let's take the meeting," Foggy said. "Hear him out. If something feels wrong, we walk away."
Matt nodded slowly. "Set it up."
[ROY SMITH]
The proposal took me two days to write.
Not because it was complicated—the terms were straightforward enough. Silent partner investment. Annual funding for pro bono cases. Advisory role only, no creative control. In exchange, I got ethical representation for any Hell's Kitchen investments and first look at cases involving neighborhood real estate.
The hard part was making it sound legitimate without sounding desperate. Too generous, and Matt would smell a trap. Too conservative, and they might not bite.
I sent it on a Thursday morning and spent the rest of the day walking Hell's Kitchen.
The bodega on 47th had become a regular stop. The owner—a heavyset Dominican man named Jorge—had started recognizing me. His daughter Maria was there today, textbooks spread across the counter, highlighter in her teeth.
"Bar exam?" I asked, grabbing a bottle of water.
She pulled the highlighter out. "Three more weeks. If I don't die first."
"You won't die."
"Easy for you to say." She gestured at the books. "Constitutional law is trying to kill me. There's a whole section on—" She caught herself. "Sorry. You don't want to hear about this."
"Actually, I do." I leaned against the counter. "What section?"
She stared at me like I'd grown a second head. "Seriously?"
"I've got time."
Twenty minutes later, I'd helped her outline the Commerce Clause and offered to buy her a study guide for property law. She refused—too much pride, like her father—so I pretended to find a coupon in my wallet for twenty percent off.
"This isn't a real coupon," she said, squinting at my handwriting.
"Sure it is. See? It says 'coupon' right there."
Jorge laughed from behind the register. "She's going to be a lawyer, Roy. You can't con a lawyer."
"I'm not conning anyone. I'm providing economic stimulus to local education."
Maria rolled her eyes, but she was smiling. "Fine. But only because property law is expensive."
I paid for the water—and slipped Jorge an extra twenty when Maria wasn't looking. He pocketed it without comment.
Outside, the afternoon was fading. I walked toward the subway, groceries from an earlier stop swinging in my hand. Eggs, bread, bacon, coffee. The penthouse kitchen had professional-grade equipment I still didn't know how to use, but I was learning.
Something prickled at the back of my neck.
I didn't turn around. Kept walking. But my senses—still normal, still human—strained to catch whatever had triggered the instinct.
A reflection in a storefront window. A man across the street, standing at the bus stop, face turned slightly away.
Not one of the tracksuit Russians. Different. Cleaner. A dark coat and a white cane.
Matt.
He wasn't even trying to be subtle about it. Or maybe he was, and I just knew what to look for. Either way, the message was clear: he was watching.
I turned the corner, let him lose sight of me for a moment, then doubled back through an alley. When I emerged on 48th, I could see him again—head tilted, listening.
He's tracking me by sound, I realized. Heartbeat. Footsteps. He knows exactly where I am.
I didn't try to lose him. Instead, I walked to the subway entrance like nothing was wrong. Let him follow. Let him listen.
He wouldn't hear anything incriminating. My heart was steady. My breathing was calm. Whatever secrets I carried, they didn't show up in my biology.
I descended into the station, and Matt's presence faded behind me.
Trust takes time, I reminded myself. He'll come around.
He had to. The alternative wasn't an option.
Author's Note / Promotion:
Your Reviews and Power Stones are the best way to show support. They help me know what you're enjoying and bring in new readers!
You don't have to. Get instant access to more content by supporting me on Patreon. I have three options so you can pick how far ahead you want to be:
🪙 Silver Tier ($6): Read 10 chapters ahead of the public site.
👑 Gold Tier ($9): Get 15-20 chapters ahead of the public site.
💎 Platinum Tier ($15): The ultimate experience. Get new chapters the second I finish them . No waiting for weekly drops, just pure, instant access.
Your support helps me write more .
👉 Find it all at patreon.com/fanficwriter1