He plugged it in. Data flooded the screens: transfers, shell structures, vendor payments, internal approvals, project budgets, private reimbursements, and layers of debt stacked like unstable scaffolding around projects that barely existed.
The final number glowed at the bottom of one model in uncompromising red: three hundred million dollars.
“Ghost developments,” I said, pointing to a cluster of properties Prescott had championed. “He poured money into sites that never moved beyond permits and renderings. Paid contractors who vanished. Rolled losses into new debt. Covered breaches with offshore shifts. Randolph knew enough to look away and not enough to stop him.”
My father leaned back, studying the screen. “The banks are terrified,” he said finally. “They know they’re holding poison. If we move now, we buy the notes for pennies.”
“Do it.”
He reached for a secure phone and started issuing instructions.
In less than an hour, the trap was closed. One by one, lenders sold the debt. My father’s firm acquired the entire toxic portfolio. On paper it looked like rescue. In reality it was ownership.