Chapter 507 Not Guilty
Darren crossed his arms and rested his chin on them, staring intently at the surveillance footage.
On the screen, Michael sat quietly on the couch in Wanda's therapy office, his back to the camera the entire time.
The clock on the wall clearly showed the time, from 7:00 PM to 10:15 PM, over three hours of recorded footage.
"Does this footage prove he was in the office the whole time?" Darren looked up, his sharp gaze fixed on Wanda. "I need to verify every detail."
Wanda adjusted her gold-rimmed glasses with a professional smile. "Absolutely. My assistant Dolly was at the reception desk the entire time. She can confirm Michael arrived at 7:00 PM and didn't leave until after 10:00 PM."
She paused and added, "I also conducted two psychological assessments during that period, all thoroughly documented."
Wanda smiled innocently. Only she and Michael knew just how flawlessly this elaborate ruse had been executed.
That evening at 6:45 PM, Michael's black Maybach pulled up to the back door of the therapy center. He glanced at his watch, the platinum face gleaming in the twilight.
"Is everything set?" he asked without looking up.
The man in the driver's seat responded respectfully, "Dr. Salazar has arranged everything. The back door cameras will undergo 'maintenance' at 7:00 PM, lasting five minutes. The editing team is on standby in the building next door."
Michael smirked and stepped out of the car.
He had deliberately worn the same dark gray suit and tie as he had during his appointment the previous Thursday, ensuring the surveillance footage would appear seamless.
At 7:00 PM sharp, he walked through the front door of the therapy center.
Dolly, Wanda's assistant, immediately stood to greet him. "Mr. Russell, you're right on time. Dr. Salazar is expecting you."
Dolly had no idea that three hours earlier, her bank account had received a sudden transfer of $100,000, labeled as an "annual bonus," an amount equivalent to three years of her salary.
Inside the therapy room, Wanda was adjusting the recording equipment.
When Michael entered, she promptly turned off the audio recording. "We only have twenty-five minutes," she whispered. "The editing team needs enough material."
Michael sat in his usual spot, the single couch that perfectly avoided the direct view of the surveillance camera.
They chatted about trivial matters, ensuring the audio sounded natural.
At 7:25 PM, Michael frowned. "Sorry, I need to use the restroom."
Wanda immediately understood. "It's at the end of the hallway. Dolly, please show Mr. Russell the way."
The hallway cameras displayed a "maintenance" message, a false signal planted by hackers.
Michael quickly walked towards the restroom but slipped into the emergency exit at the corner. His Maybach was already waiting at the back door.
Meanwhile, in the office building next door, three top-notch video editors were working in sync.
Using previously recorded footage, they meticulously pieced together the illusion that Michael was present the entire time, perfectly replicating light changes and background noise.
"The hardest part is handling his shadow," the lead editor said, staring at the screen. "Luckily, Dr. Salazar provided plenty of angle references."
At 8:00 PM, the edited surveillance video was silently replaced in the system.
Following instructions, Dolly neatly wrote in the logbook: [Michael Russell 19:00-22:15 in therapy session.]
She would never know that this log entry would become the most crucial piece of false evidence, and her "annual bonus" had been laundered through five offshore accounts, making it untraceable.
In the police department's special investigation unit meeting room.
Darren slowly pushed a thick stack of documents towards George, his tone tinged with frustration. "Based on all the evidence we have, we can't formally charge Michael."
He opened the top report. "The forensic blood tests show your parents had high concentrations of LSD, which severely affects memory and judgment."
George's long fingers tapped the wooden conference table slowly and deliberately. His custom smart glasses displayed a rapid stream of data codes.
"The surveillance footage has editing marks," he suddenly said, his voice cold as ice. "Between the thirty-seventh and forty-second minutes, the background noise has an unnatural break."
"Our tech team has checked it three times," Darren sighed. "They used the most advanced verification system and found no signs of tampering."
He hesitated before continuing, "Unless you can provide more compelling direct evidence, according to protocol..."
At that moment, the heavy wooden door of the meeting room was gently knocked and then opened.
A man in a tailored suit with slicked-back hair walked in confidently. It was Michael's attorney, Curtis Tate, a renowned top lawyer.
"Sorry to interrupt," Curtis said politely, nodding to everyone.
He took a document with a red seal from his briefcase. "I am fully authorized by Mr. Michael Russell to handle this matter."
He laid the document flat on the table. "My client deeply regrets this baseless accusation and reserves the right to pursue legal action against the accusers."
George suddenly laughed coldly, his voice filled with icy disdain. "He doesn't even have the guts to show up in person? Afraid we'll spot the flaws?"
Curtis calmly adjusted his glasses, his tone as steady as discussing the weather. "Mr. Michael Russell is currently undergoing professional psychological rehabilitation. His doctor advises against meeting outsiders for now."
He shifted gears, taking a gold-edged envelope from his briefcase. "However, he specifically instructed me to deliver this to you."
The envelope was slowly pushed towards George, the gold lettering gleaming under the light: [To My Dear Nephew.]
Late night, 11:45 PM, in the study of The Russell Villa.
George sat alone in a leather armchair, his fingers repeatedly rubbing the gold-edged envelope.
The special function of his smart glasses converted the text on the letter into clear audio, word by word, into his ear.
"Dear George: This game is just warming up. The blood debt from that car accident eighteen years ago will be repaid in full, with interest. Do you think you can beat me with those little tricks? You're too naive. Enjoy your last moments of peace, because I don't want you to die too easily. That would be too boring. Your forever uncle, Michael."
The letter crumpled in George's tightening grip, eventually crushed into pieces. Tiny fragments of paper fell from his fingers like a small snowfall.
He didn't know that at the same moment, in an apartment on the other side of the city, Wanda was carefully hiding a syringe filled with pale blue liquid in the inner pocket of her designer handbag.
The label on the syringe read "X-7," dated three days ago, freshly taken from the lab.
"George, you didn't want me? Fine, I'll show you the consequences of that." Wanda looked at her reflection in the mirror, her face unrecognizable, and smirked.
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