Gentle, polite, absolute. The third call, the fourth, the fifth. Same pattern. Fear, shame, refusal. By noon, Garrett had called 15 of the 22 families.
Zero had agreed to testify. Most hung up before he finished explaining. Two threatened to call the police if he contacted them again. He sat at his kitchen table, the list in front of him. 14 names left to try.
Zero success rate. This was the problem Douglas had warned about. The problem William had seen before. People were too scared, too broken, too certain that fighting Wade was suicide. Sarge whined, pushed his head under Garrett's hand.
Comfort gesture. Not giving up, boy, Garrett said. Just recalculating. He thought about it. About why people were saying no.
Not because they didn't want justice, because they didn't believe justice was possible. Because they'd seen Wade win too many times. Because they were alone and scared and convinced that one person couldn't make a difference. One person couldn't. But what about 22?
What if instead of calling them individually, instead of asking each family to be brave in isolation, what if he brought them together? What if he showed them they weren't alone? Garrett picked up the phone, called William. I need the church, he said. Tonight, 7:00 p.m. I need you to personally call every family on that list.
Tell them to come. Tell them it's important. Tell them He paused. Tell them it's time to stop being victims. William was quiet for a moment.
Then, I'll make the calls. But Garrett, if they don't show, if we get two or three people rattling around in that big fellowship hall They'll show, Garrett said. They're scared. But they're also angry. They're also tired of being ashamed.
They just need to see they're not the only ones. That there's strength in numbers. I hope you're right. So do I. Garrett spent the afternoon preparing. He drove to Evelyn's house.
She was sitting on her porch staring at nothing. The kind of stare that comes from shock settling into depression. Meeting tonight, Garrett said without preamble. First Baptist Church, 7:00 p.m. Other families who've been hurt by Wade. We're organizing, building a case.
I need you there. Evelyn looked at him. I can't face them. They'll know I'm just like them. Another fool who signed a contract she didn't understand.
Exactly. You're just like them. Which means they need to see you. Need to know you're fighting back. That it's possible.
Is it possible? Don't know yet, Garrett said honestly. But I know doing nothing guarantees Wade wins. Doing something gives us a chance. She was quiet for a long time.
Then, will you be there, you and Sarge? Every step. Then I'll come. That evening, Garrett rode to First Baptist with Sarge in the sidecar. The church was lit up against the darkening sky.
White steeple, red brick. The kind of church that had stood in the center of Ridgmont for 70 years and probably would stand for 70 more. Inside the fellowship hall was set up with folding chairs in a rough circle. William was there. Douglas, too, looking more alert than yesterday.
Cleaner. Like he'd actually showered. Evelyn arrived 10 minutes early. Garrett helped her with the wheelchair ramp. She looked terrified.
7:00 p.m. came and went. The circle of chairs stayed mostly empty. 7:15. One couple arrived. The Pattersons, Robert and Linda.
They sat in the back. Didn't make eye contact. 7:20. Margaret Sterling, the widow. She looked like she'd been crying.
7:30. Garrett was starting to think this had been a mistake. That he'd miscalculated. That fear was too strong and hope too weak. Then the door opened.
A man walked in. Late 60s, military bearing. He looked around the room. Saw the small group. Nodded once.
Harvey Stillwell, he said. Wade Kimball took my business, my savings. Almost took my marriage. Where do I sign up? 2 minutes later, another family.
Then another. Then three at once. By 8:00 p.m., there were 18 people in the fellowship hall. 18 out of 22. More than Garrett had dared to hope for.
William stood up. " Let's begin." He led them through introductions. Each person stood, said their name, told their story, how Wade had approached them, what he'd taken, what it had cost. The stories were devastating.
Homes lost, marriages destroyed, children who'd stopped talking to parents out of shame. Grandchildren who'd never know the family property because it had been seized. But something else happened, too. As people spoke, as they heard their own pain reflected in others' experiences, something shifted. The shame started dissolving.
The isolation started breaking down. They weren't alone. They weren't uniquely foolish. They were victims of a systematic predator who'd refined his tactics over 12 years. When the last person finished speaking, Douglas stood up. "
What Wade Kimball has done to you is illegal," he said. His voice was strong, certain. The voice of a man who'd prosecuted hundreds of criminals and knew guilt when he saw it. " Usury, fraud, extortion, these are federal crimes. And with your help, we can prove it.