The Believers

Or, What We Tell Ourselves When Everything's on Fire

PATRICIA VANCE

FCI Danbury Federal Correctional Institution
October 2029

Dear Ms. Winters,

You don’t know me. But you ruined my life.

My name is Patricia Vance. Chemical company whistleblower. 2019. I gave you documents proving the company was covering up contamination. You said you’d protect me. You published everything. I went to prison for violating my NDA. Three years. Released 2022.

I wrote you a letter from prison. You never answered.

I’m writing again because I saw your Pulitzer speech. You talked about protecting sources. About remembering whistleblowers. About learning lessons.

But here’s what you didn’t say: You destroyed me. I lost my career. My savings. My marriage. Three years in prison. And when I got out, you’d moved on to the next story. No follow-up. No checking if I was okay. No acknowledgment that I paid the price for your award.

I’m not asking for an apology. I’m asking you to remember: Every story has casualties. Every award is built on someone’s destroyed life. You say you’ve learned. But CARDINAL went to prison. Morrison went to prison. How is that different from what happened to me?

You save democracy. But you destroy everyone who helps you. And you sleep at night because you tell yourself it’s necessary. That the story matters more than the people.

Maybe it does. Maybe democracy is worth the casualties. But at least admit what you are: You’re not a hero. You’re a weapon. And weapons don’t get to feel good about the damage they cause.

-Patricia Vance

Rebecca Winters reads this letter three times in her office at ProPublica.

Outside, Washington in autumn. Inside, the Pulitzer Prize sits on her desk next to cold coffee and the Zara blazer she wore to the ceremony. Coffee stain on the right cuff. She bought it in 2024 for $89. She’s worn it to every major interview since. She still hasn’t cleaned the stain.

Her burner phone rings. Number seven. Always new numbers.

She answers.

“Ms. Winters? You don’t know me, but I work in the Department of Defense. I have information about something terrible that’s about to happen. Something that will kill people. Thousands of people. Maybe more.”

Rebecca closes her eyes.

Here we go again.

I.

Ten months earlier.
December 3rd, 2028, 11:47 PM

Rebecca Winters is running.

Not jogging. Not hurrying. Running,full sprint through the parking garage at 2121 Crystal Drive, Arlington, Virginia, with two men in dark suits forty yards behind her and closing fast.

The thumb drive CARDINAL gave her three hours ago is in her right pocket, and if those men catch her, democracy dies in approximately sixty-three hours.

She hits the stairwell door at full speed. Crashes through. Takes stairs three at a time going down. Behind her: footsteps. Heavy. Professional. Getting closer.

Six floors down. Her heart hammers. Her phone buzzes,she ignores it. The footsteps echo in the concrete shaft, getting closer.

She bursts into the lobby. The night security guard looks up but she’s already past him, out the front doors, cutting right into an alley.

A cab. Yellow. Ancient. Idling at the curb.

She yanks the door open, throws herself inside.

“Drive!”

The driver,sixties, turbaned, startled,stares at her.

“Lady, I’m waiting for…”

“Two hundred dollars cash. Drive. NOW.”

The men burst from the alley.

The driver sees them. Sees their suits. Sees their hands reaching inside jackets.

He drives.

Rebecca collapses in the back seat, gasping. Her phone buzzes again. She pulls it out.

Text from unknown number: Stop running. We just want to talk.

She throws the phone out the window.

“Where to?” the driver asks.

Rebecca thinks fast. Not her apartment,they know where she lives. Not ProPublica’s office,they’ll have people there. Not Marcus’s house,she can’t endanger him yet.

“Union Station. Drop me at the side entrance.”

Her backup phone,the one she bought at 7-Eleven six months ago, the one only three people have the number to,buzzes in her jacket pocket.

Text from CARDINAL: They know there’s a leak. Lockdown starting. 48 hours until they announce. Get out.

Rebecca stares at this message.

She thinks: The arrest is scheduled for Friday night. That’s December 6th. Today is December 3rd. Seventy-three hours.

She thinks: If DOJ arrests the President-elect before inauguration on fabricated evidence, Trump stays in power.

She thinks: I have the proof it’s fabricated. I have documents. I have witnesses. I have seventy-three hours.

She thinks: Those men weren’t trying to talk. They were trying to disappear me.

The cab pulls up to Union Station. Rebecca hands the driver two hundreds.

“You didn’t see me.”

“Didn’t see who?” He smiles. “Be safe, daughter.”

She runs into the station.

Behind her, two blocks back, the black SUV makes the turn onto Massachusetts Avenue.

II.

ProPublica has a basement bunker. Marcus Reynolds built it years ago. The architectural plans filed in 1987 show a sub-level used for utilities and storage. Marcus converted part of it into a windowless room with its own power supply, internet connection routed through seven VPNs, and a reinforced door that locks from inside.

Rebecca knows the code.

She enters through the loading dock at 1:47 AM. The security system is disabled,Marcus did that remotely after she texted him. She takes the service elevator to the basement. The bunker door is open. Marcus is inside, waiting.

“Tell me everything.”

Rebecca plugs the thumb drive into the air-gapped computer.

“DOJ fabricated evidence to arrest President-elect Mitchell. They’re announcing Friday at noon. Arresting her Friday night. If she’s in custody when inauguration happens, Trump argues he stays president until the matter is resolved. Supreme Court rules five-four in his favor. Democracy ends.”

Marcus’s face goes white.

“Show me.”

She opens the first file.

EMAIL FROM: sarah.mitchell@michigan.gov
TO: rachel.sullivan@wa.gov
DATE: September 22, 2028

Rachel, I know you’re getting pressure from the White House to hold off on quarantine. Don’t. I have your back on this. I’ll coordinate with the other governors. Let them scream. We need this before the election. Our friends in Beijing think the timing is good too. They’re ready to move on the economic support we discussed. -S

Marcus reads it. Reads it again. Looks up.

“This is fake.”

“Yes.”

“But it’s perfect. The metadata. The headers. The routing. Someone with NSA-level access created this.”

“Keep reading.”

She shows him the financial records. Eight wire transfers totaling $8.7 million from Chinese-connected consulting firms to a Wells Fargo account in Mitchell’s name. Account numbers. Routing numbers. Transaction dates. All in Wells Fargo’s actual database.

Then the witness statements. Six staff members from both governors’ offices, all claiming they witnessed coordination between Mitchell and Sullivan. All quoted saying things like “Governor Sullivan seemed to be taking direction from Governor Mitchell” and “There were calls from people with Chinese accents.”

Marcus closes the last file.

“If this is fake…”

“It’s all fake. I’ve started calling the witnesses. Four have already recanted. They say DOJ contractors interviewed them, asked normal questions about crisis management, then fabricated statements making it sound like they witnessed a conspiracy.”

“Where did you get this?”

“A source inside HHS. Code name CARDINAL. They have access to the DOJ task force files. They sent me everything.”

“Why?”

“Because they have an eight-year-old daughter who asked what they do at work. They want to tell her they help keep people healthy. They want that to be true.”

Marcus stands. Paces. The bunker is twelve feet by fifteen feet. He makes four circuits.

“You realize what this means.”

“Yes.”

“If we publish this, we’re directly interfering with a DOJ investigation…”

“A fraudulent investigation designed to overthrow an election…”

“They won’t see it that way. They’ll charge you with espionage. Unauthorized disclosure of classified information. They’ll charge me with conspiracy. They’ll try to shut down ProPublica. They’ll destroy us.”

“I know.”

“And you want to publish anyway.”

Rebecca meets his eyes.

“Democracy is about to end. We have the proof. We have seventy hours. What else would we do?”

Marcus stares at her for a long moment.

Then he smiles. Actually smiles. The smile of a man who’s been waiting forty years for this exact moment.

“I edited the Pentagon Papers in 1971. I was twenty-seven years old. I thought that was the most important thing I’d ever work on. I was wrong. This is bigger. This is the entire republic.”

He sits down at the computer.

“We have seventy hours. Let’s get to work.”

III.

By 4:00 AM, Rebecca’s burner phone rings.

“Rebecca Winters.”

“Ms. Winters, this is David Rosen. I’m a federal criminal defense attorney. I represent whistleblowers. I’d like to represent you. Pro bono.”

“Why would I need a criminal defense attorney?”

“Because in approximately ten hours, DOJ is announcing an investigation into whether you violated federal law by receiving classified documents from an unauthorized source. This is pretextual. They’re trying to intimidate you before you publish.”

Rebecca sits down.

“How do you know this?”

“I have sources in Main Justice. They’re preparing a press release right now. ‘Ongoing investigation into unauthorized disclosure of sensitive law enforcement information.’ They won’t name you directly but everyone will know who they mean.”

“And if I publish anyway?”

“They’ll probably charge you. Espionage Act. Unauthorized disclosure. You could face ten years.”

“And if I don’t publish?”

“Mitchell gets arrested Friday night. Perp walk Saturday morning. Constitutional crisis. Trump stays. Democracy ends. Your choice.”

Rebecca looks at CARDINAL’s documents on the screen.

“I’m publishing.”

“I know. That’s why I called. My number is 202-555-0147. Memorize it. Don’t talk to anyone without calling me first. Especially not federal agents.”

“Noted.”

“One more thing. You should know the men who chased you tonight? Not FBI. Not DOJ. Private contractors. Meridian Strategic Intelligence. They’re the ones who fabricated the evidence. They’re also trying to stop you from exposing it.”

The line goes dead.

Rebecca Googles “Meridian Strategic Intelligence.”

Meridian Strategic Intelligence
4200 Wilson Boulevard, Suite 850, Reston, Virginia
Founded: 2019
CEO: Thomas Ashford (Former NSA Deputy Director)
Annual Revenue: $47 million

Government Contracts:

• DOJ: $4.7M (2028) - “Investigation support services”

• DHS: $8.2M (2027) - “Threat assessment and analysis”

• DOD: $12.4M (2026) - “Information operations support”

She clicks deeper. Other clients from leaked documents include Saudi Arabia ($3.2M - “Narrative management”) and UAE ($2.8M - “Opposition research and documentation”).

Narrative management. Opposition research.

Fabricating evidence.

These are mercenaries. They work for whoever pays. And now they’re working for DOJ.

Marcus appears behind her. “CARDINAL sent something new. Encrypted. Took me forty minutes to decrypt.”

He turns his screen.

Rebecca reads.

Her hands start shaking.

MEMORANDUM
FROM: Jonathan Williams, Attorney General
TO: Elena Morrison, Assistant Attorney General for National Security
DATE: September 28, 2028
RE: EYES ONLY - Mitchell Investigation

Elena,Begin immediate development of evidence package supporting foreign influence investigation into Governor Sarah Mitchell (MI). Coordinate with Meridian Strategic Intelligence for technical support and evidence development.

Timeline: Evidence package complete by December 1st for public announcement December 6th.

Objective: Establish that Governor Mitchell coordinated with Governor Rachel Sullivan (WA) on the Washington State quarantine order as part of a Chinese influence operation designed to create economic disruption and damage the President’s re-election prospects.

Evidence Requirements:

• Communications between Mitchell and Sullivan showing coordination

• Financial records linking both governors to Chinese-connected entities

• Witness testimony from staff members in both administrations

• All evidence must be forensically sound and withstand judicial scrutiny

Classification: TS/SCI - Briefings restricted to principals only

This investigation has the full support of the President. The timing is critical given the electoral calendar. Mitchell’s inauguration must be prevented to preserve national security.

Use whatever resources necessary. Meridian has authorization for database access and technical operations.

Do not discuss this matter outside secure channels.

-JW

Rebecca reads it three times.

“This is a smoking gun.”

“This is the Attorney General ordering the fabrication of evidence to prevent a presidential inauguration. This is a coup. In writing. With his signature.”

“Where did CARDINAL get this?”

“Morrison’s files. Elena Morrison. Assistant Attorney General for National Security. She resigned November 20th. Effective immediately. No explanation. CARDINAL says she kept copies of everything. Including this.”

“Why would she keep it?”

“Insurance. Documentation. Lawyers always keep paper trails.”

Rebecca’s mind races.

“We need to talk to her.”

“Already tried. Phone goes straight to voicemail. Email bounces. She’s gone dark.”

“Where does she live?”

Marcus pulls up an address. “3847 Woodley Road NW. Cleveland Park.”

“Not yet. First I need to call the witnesses. If I can get all six on record saying DOJ fabricated their statements, the story becomes bulletproof.”

“You have fifty-three hours until DOJ announces.”

“Then I better start calling.”

IV.

David Park answers on the third ring.

“Mr. Park, this is Rebecca Winters with ProPublica. I’m investigating allegations that you gave testimony about Governor Sullivan coordinating with Governor Mitchell on the Washington quarantine.”

“I never said that.”

Rebecca’s pulse quickens.

“Can you tell me what happened?”

“Two men came to my house. October 17th. Said they were DOJ Inspector General. They asked about Governor Sullivan’s phone calls in September. I told them she talked to other governors, to CDC, to epidemiologists. That’s what governors do in a crisis.”

“What about Governor Mitchell specifically?”

“They asked about her. I said yes, they spoke several times. Michigan had early cases. We were worried about cross-border transmission. They seemed very interested in that.”

“And Chinese contacts?”

“They asked about foreign contacts. I mentioned Dr. Chen from UC San Francisco. Some epidemiologists we consulted had accents. Park, Chen, Kumar,these are common names in public health. They kept asking about ‘people with Chinese accents.’ I told them what I knew.”

“Did you sign a statement?”

“They said they’d send one for my review. I never got it. Two weeks later I saw my name in a DOJ filing. They quoted me saying things I never said. ‘Governor Sullivan seemed to be taking direction from Governor Mitchell.’ ‘There were calls from people with foreign accents, possibly Chinese intelligence.’ Complete fabrications.”

“Would you go on record saying this?”

“Absolutely. What they did is criminal. Governor Sullivan saved lives. To turn that into a conspiracy theory is obscene.”

Rebecca thanks him. Hangs up.

By 11:47 AM she has all six witnesses. All six recanting. All six willing to go on camera. All six describing the same pattern: DOJ contractors asking normal questions about crisis management, then fabricating statements that make it sound like they witnessed a conspiracy with Chinese intelligence.

Rebecca updates her notes.

Her burner phone rings.

Unknown number.

“Rebecca Winters.”

Heavy breathing. Then: “They’re coming for me.”

“CARDINAL?”

“Counterintelligence review started this morning. They’re checking everyone who had access to the Mitchell files. They know there’s a leak. They don’t know it’s me yet but they will. Maybe hours. Maybe days. But they will.”

“Then stop. Don’t send me anything else. Protect yourself.”

“I can’t stop. Not yet. There’s one more thing you need.”

“What?”

“Elena Morrison. She didn’t just keep the directive. She kept everything. Notes from meetings. Recordings of phone calls with Williams. Documents showing Meridian’s work. She built a complete record because she knew what they were doing was criminal and she wanted insurance.”

“Where is she?”

“Home. 3847 Woodley Road. But you need to move fast. FBI visited her last night. They threatened her. Told her if she talks to reporters she’ll be charged with unauthorized disclosure. Around 10:00 PM. Two agents. She’s terrified. But she’s also angry. And she has a daughter. Seventh grade. National Cathedral School. The agents mentioned the school by name.”

Rebecca feels something cold in her chest.

“They threatened a child.”

“They didn’t say it directly. They just asked questions. ‘Your daughter goes to National Cathedral, right?’ ‘Beautiful school.’ ‘Expensive.’ ‘Would be terrible if something happened to her education.’ That kind of thing. Implications. But Morrison understood.”

“I’m going to talk to her.”

“Be careful. They’re watching her house. Black SUV. Two men. They’ve been there since midnight.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I drove by at 2:00 AM. I wanted to warn her. Couldn’t get close.”

“CARDINAL…”

“I have to go. They’re calling me for a meeting. ‘Routine security review.’ Sure. Routine. If this is the last time we talk,thank you for publishing. At least I’ll be able to tell my daughter I tried.”

The line goes dead.

Rebecca sits in the bunker.

She thinks: CARDINAL is about to be caught.

She thinks: Morrison is being threatened.

She thinks: I have forty-two hours until DOJ announces.

She thinks: I need Morrison’s evidence.

She tells Marcus she’s leaving.

“Where?”

“Cleveland Park. To meet someone who’s about to decide whether to risk everything.”

Marcus hands her something. A small device. Looks like a USB stick.

“GPS tracker. Keep it in your pocket. If something happens, I’ll know where you are.”

“You think something’s going to happen?”

“I think you’re walking into a surveillance situation involving federal agents who have already fabricated evidence to overthrow an election. So yes.”

Rebecca pockets the tracker.

She leaves through the loading dock.

Behind her, Marcus watches the monitor showing her GPS signal moving north on 13th Street.

V.

3847 Woodley Road NW looks normal.

Colonial Revival. Built 1927. Four bedrooms. Brick facade. Solar panels. BMW X5 in the driveway. “Grateful Schools, Grateful Students” yard sign.

Rebecca approaches at 2:47 PM.

The black SUV is parked three houses down. Same make and model as the one that chased her last night. Two men inside. Watching.

Rebecca walks past Morrison’s house. Doesn’t stop. Doesn’t look. Keeps walking like she belongs here.

She circles the block. Approaches from the alley behind the house. There’s a back gate. Wooden. Six feet tall. She tries the latch.

Unlocked.

She slips into the backyard.

Through the window she can see Morrison. Pacing. On the phone. Agitated.

Rebecca knocks on the back door.

Morrison spins. Sees her. Goes white.

Mouths: Go away.

Rebecca knocks again.

Morrison looks at the front of the house. At the street. At where the SUV is parked.

Then she opens the door.

“Are you insane? They’re watching…”

“I came through the back. They didn’t see me.”

“You don’t know that. They have technology. Cameras. Surveillance…”

“I need the evidence. The documents you kept. The recordings. Everything.”

Morrison’s hands shake. Visible tremor.

“If I give you those documents, they’ll know it was me. They’ll charge me. Unauthorized disclosure. Theft of government property. I’ll go to prison.”

“They’re going to charge you anyway. The FBI threatened you last night. Mentioned your daughter’s school. They’re building a case. The only question is whether you go down for staying silent or for telling the truth.”

Morrison looks past Rebecca. At her backyard. At the gate. At where the SUV is parked three houses away.

“My daughter is twelve. She wants to be a lawyer like me. If I do this, she grows up with a mother in prison.”

“If you don’t do this, she grows up in a country where the government fabricates evidence to arrest presidents.”

Morrison stares at her.

Then, quietly: “How much time until they announce?”

“Forty hours.”

“And you think you can stop them?”

“If I have your evidence. If I can prove the Attorney General ordered this. If I can show the directive and the recordings and the documents. Then yes. Maybe.”

Morrison looks at her daughter’s backpack in the hallway. Math textbook visible. Pre-Algebra.

She looks at Rebecca.

“If I give you this, my life is over.”

“Yes.”

“My career. My reputation. Everything I’ve worked for.”

“Yes.”

“And you’re asking anyway.”

“Yes.”

Morrison closes her eyes.

When she opens them, they’re different. Clearer. Decided.

“Come inside. But we have to be fast.”

Rebecca follows her into the home office.

Morrison pulls a banker’s box from the shelf. “2028 - Personal Archive” written on the side.

Inside: documents. Hundreds of pages. Meeting notes. Phone transcripts. Email chains. All documenting the fabrication of evidence against Mitchell.

And recordings.

“I recorded every meeting about the Mitchell investigation. Williams didn’t know. Nobody knew. I wore a digital recorder. Voice-activated. 847 hours of audio. Everything.”

Rebecca stares at the box.

“This is proof of a coup.”

“Yes.”

“They’ll destroy you for this.”

“I know.”

“Why are you doing it?”

Morrison looks at the backpack. At the math textbook.

“Because last night, FBI agents threatened my daughter. They mentioned her school. They asked if I wanted her to have a mother in prison. And I realized: they’ve already destroyed me. The only question is whether I let them destroy her future too.”

Rebecca picks up the box.

“I need one more thing. I need you on camera. Telling your story. Showing the directive. Explaining what you did and why.”

Morrison’s face goes white.

“If I go on camera…”

“There’s no ambiguity. No deniability. They know it was you. They prosecute immediately.”

“Yes.”

Morrison sits down heavily.

Rebecca waits.

Finally: “When?”

“Tonight. I have a crew standing by. We can do it here or in a neutral location…”

“Here. In this office. Where I made the decision to participate. Where I kept these documents. Where I finally decided to tell the truth.”

“Are you sure?”

Morrison looks at her daughter’s backpack one more time.

“I’m sure.”

VI.

The camera crew arrives at 8:47 PM through the back alley. Three people. Camera operator. Sound tech. Lighting.

They set up in Morrison’s office. Morrison changes into a navy blazer. White blouse. Minimal makeup.

She sits in front of the camera.

Rebecca sits across from her.

“Whenever you’re ready.”

Elena Morrison sits in front of the camera and thinks about her daughter’s algebra textbook. Pre-Algebra. Eighth grade next year. Visiting your mother in prison instead of studying. She thinks: This is the choice. Lie and stay free, or tell the truth and teach her what integrity costs.

She takes a breath.

“I’m ready.”

“State your name and position for the record.”

“Elena Morrison. Assistant Attorney General for National Security. I resigned effective November 20th, 2028.”

“Why did you resign?”

“Because I was ordered to participate in fabricating evidence to arrest President-elect Sarah Mitchell, and I couldn’t be part of it anymore.”

Rebecca leans forward.

“Tell me everything.”

Morrison does.

She talks for ninety minutes.

She describes receiving the directive from Attorney General Williams on September 28th. The meeting with Meridian Strategic Intelligence on September 30th. The fabrication of emails starting October 3rd. The creation of fake financial records on October 15th. The falsification of witness statements throughout October and November.

She shows documents. Meeting notes. Email chains. The directive itself.

She plays recordings.

Williams’s voice fills the room:

“We need communications that show direct coordination between Mitchell and Sullivan. Emails. Text messages. Phone logs. Whatever Meridian needs to create them, give them access.”

Morrison’s voice: “You’re asking me to fabricate evidence.”

Williams: “I’m asking you to build a case using all available tools. If those tools include synthetic evidence generation, that’s within our authority during a national security investigation.”

Morrison’s voice: “This isn’t a national security investigation. This is a political hit job.”

Williams: “Call it whatever you want. The President wants Mitchell stopped. We’re stopping her. Are you on board or not?”

The recording ends.

Morrison looks at the camera.

“That conversation happened on October 8th. I should have resigned then. I didn’t. I told myself maybe there was real evidence I wasn’t seeing. Maybe they had intelligence justifying this. But there wasn’t. There never was. This was always about preventing Mitchell’s inauguration.”

“When did you realize you had to come forward?”

“November 15th. I reviewed the final witness statements. People who had said things like ‘Yes, Governor Sullivan spoke with other governors during the crisis’ were now quoted saying ‘Governor Sullivan was clearly taking direction from Mitchell as part of a coordinated plan with Chinese intelligence.’ Complete fabrications. And I knew these people would testify under oath that they never said these things.”

“What did you do?”

“I called Williams. I told him we couldn’t proceed. That the evidence wouldn’t hold up. That witnesses would recant. He said it didn’t matter. That by the time witnesses recanted, Mitchell would be in custody and Trump would be arguing he should remain president. That the legal battle would take months. That we’d win on procedure even if we lost on facts.”

Morrison’s voice breaks.

“That’s when I knew this wasn’t a mistake. This wasn’t overzealousness. This was a deliberate coup.”

“So you resigned.”

“November 20th. Immediate resignation. No explanation. I just walked out.”

“Why are you coming forward now?”

Morrison looks directly at the camera.

“Because last night, FBI agents came to my house. They asked about my daughter. They mentioned her school by name,National Cathedral. They asked if I wanted her to have a mother in prison. And I realized: I can either stay silent and teach my daughter that safety matters more than truth, or I can speak up and teach her that some things are worth fighting for, even when you know you’ll lose.”

“You know what will happen to you.”

“Yes. I’ll be charged. Unauthorized disclosure. Theft of classified documents. I’ll lose my career. I’ll probably go to prison. But at least my daughter will know I tried to do the right thing.”

When it’s over, Morrison sits in her office. Surrounded by evidence. Surrounded by the documentation of her own participation in a coup.

“What happens now?” she asks.

“I publish tomorrow morning. 6:00 AM.”

“And then?”

“And then we find out if Americans still care about democracy.”

Rebecca takes the box of documents. Takes the recordings. Takes the footage.

She leaves through the back alley.

Outside, the black SUV is still parked three houses down.

The men inside are watching.

They don’t know what just happened.

They will by morning.

VII.

Rebecca writes through the night in the bunker. Marcus sits beside her. Editing. Checking facts. Making calls to verify every detail.

At 2:47 AM, Rebecca finishes.

EXCLUSIVE: JUSTICE DEPARTMENT FABRICATED EVIDENCE TO ARREST PRESIDENT-ELECT
Internal Documents and Recordings Show Attorney General Ordered Creation of False Records
“This Investigation Has the Full Support of the President”

By Rebecca Winters

WASHINGTON - The Department of Justice coordinated with private military contractors to fabricate evidence that would have been used to arrest President-elect Sarah Mitchell before her January inauguration, according to internal documents, audio recordings, and interviews with current and former Justice Department officials.

The fabricated evidence included emails, financial records, and witness statements designed to falsely link Mitchell to Chinese intelligence operations. The arrest was scheduled for Friday evening, with a public announcement planned for Saturday morning,just six weeks before Inauguration Day.

The plot fell apart when Elena Morrison, the Assistant Attorney General for National Security who participated in the scheme, resigned in November and agreed to cooperate with investigators. In a lengthy interview with ProPublica, Morrison described in detail how Attorney General Jonathan Williams ordered her to work with Meridian Strategic Intelligence,a private contractor with ties to NSA—to create evidence that would “withstand judicial scrutiny.”

“This wasn’t a legitimate investigation that got overzealous,” Morrison said. “This was a deliberate conspiracy to fabricate evidence to prevent Mitchell’s inauguration. I participated. I’m guilty. But I can’t stay silent while democracy ends.”

According to a September 28th directive obtained by ProPublica, Williams wrote: “This investigation has the full support of the President. The timing is critical given the electoral calendar. Mitchell’s inauguration must be prevented to preserve national security.”

Marcus reads it three times.

“It’s perfect.”

“Is it true?”

“Every word we can verify is true. The rest is properly sourced and attributed. Morrison on camera helps. The recordings are devastating. The directive is a smoking gun. We’re on solid ground.”

“They’re going to destroy us.”

“Yes. But we’re publishing anyway.”

“Why?”

Marcus takes off his glasses. Cleans them. Puts them back on.

“Because forty years ago I edited the Pentagon Papers. Because I watched the government lie to the American people about Vietnam. Because I made a choice then about what kind of journalist I wanted to be. Because this is the most important story since Watergate. Because if we don’t publish, democracy ends. Because this is what we do.”

He looks at Rebecca.

“You ready?”

Rebecca thinks about Patricia Vance in prison. About CARDINAL waiting to be caught. About Morrison’s daughter’s backpack.

She thinks about democracy.

She clicks ‘Publish.’

The story goes live at 6:00 AM on December 6th, 2028.

Within minutes, it’s everywhere.

VIII.

By 6:15 AM, CNN breaks into regular programming. “BREAKING: ProPublica Reports DOJ Fabricated Evidence Against President-Elect Mitchell.”

By 7:30 AM, two Republican senators call for Williams to resign.

By 9:00 AM, CDC Director Dr. Martinez issues a statement: “The American people deserve leadership that prioritizes public health over political expedience. Democracy depends on truth.”

By 11:30 AM, Williams resigns.

By noon, Trump is on Fox News. He looks panicked. Sweating. The makeup can’t hide it.

“I had no knowledge,absolutely no knowledge,of any investigation. Jonathan Williams,I barely knew the guy. Maybe met him twice. People are saying he went rogue. That’s what I’m hearing. Very rogue. Very bad. And if he did something illegal, very illegal, then he should face,you know,the consequences. Because I’m the law and order president.”

The hosts try to redirect. Trump keeps spiraling.

By 2:00 PM, five Republican senators call for an independent investigation.

By 4:00 PM, ProPublica’s servers crash from traffic.

By 5:00 PM, Rebecca’s burner phone rings.

“This is Sarah Mitchell.”

Rebecca’s hand shakes.

“Governor Mitchell. President-elect.”

“Ms. Winters, you just saved democracy. I wanted to call personally to thank you.”

“I just reported facts…”

“You risked everything. You’re under investigation. You could face charges. But you published anyway. Why?”

Rebecca thinks about the question.

“Because someone had to.”

Mitchell is quiet for a moment.

“When I’m inaugurated,if I’m inaugurated,I want you there. Front row. You and Governor Sullivan and Ms. Morrison. Because the three of you are the reason there’s going to be an inauguration.”

After she hangs up, Rebecca sits in the bunker.

Her burner phone buzzes. Text from unknown number.

CARDINAL?

She opens it.

They know. Security interview turned into detention. Escorted from building. Badge confiscated. Lawyer says charges coming. Espionage Act. Thank you for publishing. Tell my daughter I tried to do the right thing.

Rebecca stares at the message.

She types: I’m sorry.

The response comes immediately: Don’t be. I knew what I was doing. Someone had to stop them. Worth it.

Rebecca thinks about Patricia Vance. Three years in prison. One letter: “You said you’d protect me.”

She thinks: I did it again.

She thinks: I’ll do it again next time too.

Outside the bunker, Washington is exploding. Protests. Counter-protests. Calls for investigations. Calls for prosecutions. Democracy tearing itself apart to survive.

Inside the bunker, Rebecca makes coffee and waits for the next bomb to drop.

It drops at 7:47 PM.

IX.

The loading dock door explodes inward.

Breaching charge. Military-grade. The steel door flies off its hinges, crashes into the basement hallway.

Rebecca is in the bunker when it happens. She hears the explosion. Feels the shockwave through the walls.

Then: footsteps. Heavy boots. Multiple people. Running.

Marcus grabs her arm. “They’re coming. Meridian…”

“The tunnel. Now.”

He pulls a filing cabinet away from the wall. Behind it: a panel. He hits a switch. The panel slides open.

Behind it: darkness. A tunnel.

“Metro tunnel. Construction access. Connects to the Red Line maintenance corridor. I mapped it in 2011.”

“Of course you did.”

Behind them, the bunker door shudders. Someone’s hitting it with something heavy.

They run through the escape route Marcus mapped thirteen years ago,through maintenance corridors, into Metro tunnels, emerging at Judicial Square station. David Rosen is waitingat street level in a black sedan.

“Get in!”

They dive into the car.

Rosen accelerates before the doors close.

Behind them: men in tactical gear burst from the Metro station.

Rosen takes a hard right. Then left. Then right on Constitution. The men are running back to their vehicles but they’re already three blocks behind.

Rebecca gasps for breath. “How did you…”

“I’ve been tracking you since this morning. GPS in your phone. Figured you might need extraction.”

“That was FBI back there…”

“No. That was Meridian. Contractors. FBI doesn’t use breaching charges on journalists. Not yet anyway. These guys are playing by different rules.”

Marcus is checking his phone. “The story is everywhere. Every network. Every paper. DOJ is imploding. Three more officials resigned in the last hour.”

Rosen drives east. Toward Capitol Hill.

“Where are you taking us?” Rebecca asks.

“Safe house. Alexandria. You’re disappearing for a few days. Until this calms down.”

“It’s not going to calm down.”

“I know. But we need you alive for it not to calm down. If Meridian catches you, you disappear. No charges. No trial. Just gone.”

He takes another turn. Checking mirrors.

“What about CARDINAL?” Rebecca asks suddenly. “They were detained this afternoon. If Meridian is moving against witnesses…”

Rosen’s face goes grim. “I’m handling it. I have people watching.”

They drive in silence.

Finally: “Safe house is in Alexandria. Apartment building. You’ll be Unit 3B. Marcus, you’re 3D. Stay inside. Order delivery. Don’t use your real names.”

“For how long?”

“Until Mitchell’s inauguration. Six more weeks. If she makes it to January 20th and takes the oath, the coup fails. Trump loses leverage. The constitutional crisis ends. Then you come out of hiding and testify to Congress.”

Rebecca looks at Marcus.

Six weeks in hiding. Six weeks while democracy hangs in the balance.

“Okay.”

X.

Unit 3B is small. One bedroom. Kitchenette. Living room with TV. Window overlooking the parking lot.

Rebecca moves in with a backpack containing: two changes of clothes, three burner phones, her laptop (encrypted), and CARDINAL’s thumb drive.

Marcus is next door in 3D.

They communicate through the wall. Morse code. Tapping. Like prisoners.

The first three days are quiet.

Rebecca watches the news. The story metastasizes. More DOJ officials resign. FBI investigations expand. Congressional hearings scheduled. Mitchell gives a press conference calling for calm and accountability.

Trump gives increasingly unhinged interviews. His defense shifts daily. The panic is constant.

Day four: CARDINAL’s lawyer calls. Rosen patches it through.

“They’re charging him. Espionage Act. Unauthorized disclosure. Theft of classified documents. Conspiracy.”

“Him?” Rebecca’s voice catches. CARDINAL had a daughter. Eight years old. “CARDINAL is male?”

“Does it matter?”

It doesn’t. But now CARDINAL has a gender and somehow that makes it more real.

“When’s the arraignment?”

“Tomorrow. Federal court. I’m representing him. Pro bono. But Rebecca,they’re asking for no bail. They’re claiming flight risk. They want him in custody pending trial.”

“How long until trial?”

“Could be a year. Could be eighteen months.”

“And he sits in prison the whole time?”

“Unless we can convince a judge he’s not a threat. But given what he leaked...”

Rebecca closes her eyes.

She thinks: I did this. I asked for the documents. CARDINAL gave them to me. Now he goes to prison.

Just like Patricia Vance.

“Keep me updated,” she says.

That night she lies awake in Unit 3B.

She thinks about CARDINAL’s eight-year-old daughter. What do you tell a child when their father goes to prison for trying to save democracy?

She thinks about Morrison. Probably facing charges soon. Same crimes. Same prison time.

She thinks about herself. Hiding in a safe house. Pulitzer incoming. Awards and accolades while her sources burn.

At 3:17 AM she makes coffee. The kitchenette has a Keurig. Dark Magic pods. Rosen thought of everything.

Her burner phone buzzes.

Text from unknown number: They’re coming for Morrison. Arrest warrant signed. Execution scheduled for tomorrow morning.

She calls Rosen immediately.

“Morrison’s about to be arrested.”

“I know. I’m her attorney too. We’re filing a motion to quash but it’s going to fail. She’ll be in custody by noon tomorrow.”

“Can we move her?”

“Where? Canada? She has a daughter. Twelve years old. School. Friends. Life. You want her to become a fugitive?”

“I want her to not go to prison for exposing a coup.”

“Sometimes those are the same thing.”

Rebecca stands at the window. Watching the parking lot. Watching for black SUVs that never come.

“How long will she get?”

“If convicted? Ten years. Maybe more. They’re making an example.”

“Of someone who exposed a criminal conspiracy.”

“Of someone who leaked classified documents. That’s how they’ll frame it. Not as whistleblowing. As espionage.”

Rebecca thinks about Patricia Vance. Three years. Works at Target now. $15.50 per hour.

She thinks: This is what I do. This is who I am. I destroy people who trust me and I call it journalism.

“Keep fighting for them,” she says.

“I will. But Rebecca,you need to prepare yourself. CARDINAL and Morrison are probably going to prison. The question is for how long and under what conditions.”

Day seven: Morrison is arrested.

Rebecca watches on TV. The perp walk. Morrison in handcuffs. Navy blazer. Composed. Her lawyer beside her. Cameras everywhere.

A reporter shouts: “Ms. Morrison, do you regret coming forward?”

Morrison stops. Looks at the camera.

“No. I regret participating in the conspiracy. But exposing it? No. That was the only choice I could live with.”

“You’re facing ten years in prison!”

“I’d rather face ten years in prison for telling the truth than spend the rest of my life knowing I helped end democracy and said nothing.”

They lead her away.

Rebecca watches through tears.

Marcus taps on the wall. Morse code. U OK?

She taps back: NO.

WANT COMPANY?

YES.

He comes through the connecting door and sits beside her.

They watch Morrison’s arraignment on TV. Judge denies bail. “Flight risk and danger to national security.”

Morrison is remanded to custody pending trial.

Her daughter is in the courtroom. Twelve years old. Crying. Morrison looks at her one last time before they take her away.

“This is my fault,” Rebecca says.

“No. This is Meridian’s fault. And DOJ’s fault. And Trump’s fault. You just reported what they did.”

“And Morrison and CARDINAL are in prison because of it.”

“They’re in prison because they chose to expose a coup. They knew the risks. They did it anyway.”

“Does that make it okay?”

Marcus is quiet.

“No. It doesn’t make it okay. But it makes it necessary. Democracy has a price. Sometimes the price is people like Morrison and CARDINAL. We don’t get to choose. We just get to decide whether we pay it.”

Rebecca leans against him.

On TV: coverage continues. More resignations. More investigations. More calls for accountability.

Trump’s numbers are collapsing. The coup failed. Democracy survived.

But Morrison is in prison. CARDINAL is in prison. And Rebecca is hiding in a safe house wondering if it was worth it.

XI.

Day twelve: Meridian files a lawsuit.

$100 million. Defamation. Against ProPublica. Against Rebecca. Against Morrison.

Marcus calls. “They’re trying to bankrupt us.”

“Will it work?”

“Depends how long we fight. If this drags on for years...”

“Then we’re vulnerable.”

“Yes.”

Rebecca thinks. “We need more evidence. We need their internal files. Their communications with DOJ. We need to prove they knew they were fabricating evidence.”

“How do we get that?”

“The same way I got everything else. I find someone inside who’s willing to talk.”

She starts researching.

Meridian Strategic Intelligence has 47 employees. Most are former intelligence community.

Rebecca finds her target on day fourteen.

Jennifer Kwan
Age 32
Former NSA analyst
Joined Meridian 2026
Title: Senior Intelligence Analyst
Role: Digital forensics and evidence development

The woman who actually created the fake emails.

Rebecca finds her address through public records. Apartment in Reston. Two blocks from Meridian’s office.

She finds her social media. Instagram. Private but Rebecca gets in through a mutual contact. Photos of hiking. Coffee shops. A cat named Pixel.

And one photo from November: Pixel with a caption that says “At least you still love me even when work is hell.”

November. When Morrison resigned. When the Mitchell investigation was falling apart.

Rebecca texts Rosen: Need an introduction. Jennifer Kwan. Works at Meridian. I think she might flip.

Rosen responds: Too dangerous. You’re in hiding for a reason.

I’m not asking permission. I’m asking for help.

Twenty minutes later, Rosen texts an address. Coffee shop in Reston. Time: 3:00 PM tomorrow. She’ll be there. Whether she talks is up to you. But Rebecca,if this goes wrong, Meridian will know you’re active.

They’re already hunting me.

Fair point.

XII.

The coffee shop is called Brew Haven. Corporate. Generic. The kind of place where spies meet because nobody pays attention.

Rebecca arrives at 2:47 PM. Early. She orders coffee. Dark roast. Sits in the corner. Laptop open. Looks like every other remote worker.

At 2:58 PM, Jennifer Kwan walks in.

She looks tired. Dark circles under her eyes. Hair pulled back. Hoodie and jeans.

She orders herbal tea. Sits at a table near the window.

Rebecca waits three minutes. Then walks over.

“Jennifer Kwan?”

Jennifer looks up. Startled. “Do I know you?”

“No. But I know you. I’m Rebecca Winters. I’m the journalist who exposed the Mitchell fabrication.”

Jennifer’s face goes white. She stands. “I can’t talk to you. I’ll be fired. I’ll be prosecuted…”

“You’ll be prosecuted anyway. Meridian is imploding. FBI is investigating. When they start making arrests, you think they’ll stop at Williams? You think they’ll protect you? You’re the person who actually created the evidence. You’re the most prosecutable person at Meridian.”

Jennifer sits back down slowly.

“What do you want?”

“Your testimony. Your files. Proof that Meridian knew they were fabricating evidence. Proof that Williams ordered it. Proof that this was a deliberate conspiracy.”

“I’ll go to prison.”

“Maybe. Or maybe you flip first. Cooperate with FBI. Get immunity. Help take down the people who used you.”

Jennifer stares at her tea.

“You don’t understand what these people are capable of. Meridian isn’t a normal contractor. They do renditions. Interrogations. Black sites. If I cooperate with you, I don’t just lose my job. I disappear.”

“Then disappear with protection. Witness security. New identity. New life.”

“Is that what you’re offering?”

“I can’t offer that. But the FBI can. If you have evidence they want badly enough.”

Jennifer is quiet for a long moment.

Then: “What kind of evidence?”

“Everything. Emails. Meeting notes. The instructions you received. The tools you used. The fake accounts you created. The databases you accessed. Everything that proves Meridian deliberately fabricated evidence.”

“I’d need immunity.”

“I can help arrange that. I have a lawyer who specializes in whistleblowers. He’s good.”

“And if I say no?”

“Then in six months, FBI arrests you. Charges you with conspiracy. Fabrication of evidence. Computer fraud. You go to prison for ten years. And the people who ordered you to do it walk away clean because nobody can prove they knew.”

Jennifer looks out the window.

“I have a cat,” she says quietly. “Pixel. She’s eight years old. If I go to prison, what happens to her?”

Rebecca thinks about CARDINAL’s eight-year-old daughter. About Morrison’s twelve-year-old. About all the casualties of telling the truth.

“If you cooperate, you don’t go to prison. You get immunity. You testify. You help take down the people who corrupted you. And you keep your cat.”

Jennifer laughs. Bitter. “That’s your pitch? ‘Betray your employer but keep your cat’?”

“That’s my pitch. Plus: you sleep at night knowing you did the right thing.”

“Does Morrison sleep at night? Does CARDINAL? They’re both in prison waiting for trial.”

“No. They don’t sleep well. But they made their choices with eyes open. They knew the price. They paid it anyway.”

Jennifer is quiet.

Then: “I need to think.”

“You have twenty-four hours. After that, I’m publishing what I have and you lose your chance to flip first.”

“You’re bluffing.”

“Am I? I published the first story knowing I’d be investigated. Knowing my sources would burn. You think I won’t publish a second story?”

Jennifer stands. “I’ll call you.”

“You don’t have my number.”

“Rosen will give it to me. He’s the one who told me to come.”

She leaves.

Outside, a black SUV is parked across the street.

Same make and model as the ones that chased her.

Rebecca walks the other direction. Casual.

The SUV doesn’t move.

She turns a corner. The SUV doesn’t follow.

She texts Rosen: Meridian might have eyes on Brew Haven.

He responds immediately: Get back to the safe house. NOW.

Rebecca runs.

XIII.

Jennifer Kwan calls at 11:47 PM that night.

Rebecca is lying awake in Unit 3B. Can’t sleep. Thinking about the SUV. Thinking about Jennifer.

The phone rings. Burner number three.

“This is Rebecca.”

“It’s Jennifer. I’m in.”

Rebecca sits up. “You’ll testify?”

“Yes. But I need immunity first. Full immunity. And I need protection. Witness security. If Meridian finds out I’m talking, I’m dead.”

“Not dead. Disappeared…”

“Same thing. You don’t understand these people. I’ve seen what they do. Black sites. Enhanced interrogation. People who talk to reporters don’t just get fired. They get vanished.”

“Okay. I’ll set up a meeting with FBI. You bring your evidence. They evaluate it. If it’s good enough, they give you immunity.”

“How do I know I can trust them?”

“You can’t. But you can’t trust Meridian either. And right now, FBI is your best option.”

Jennifer is quiet.

Then: “Okay. But we do this fast. I have maybe forty-eight hours before someone notices I’m acting strange. Meridian monitors everything. They’ll know I met with you. They probably already know.”

“Then we move now. Tomorrow morning. 9:00 AM. Federal Building. FBI headquarters. I’ll have my lawyer there. You bring everything.”

“Everything is on Meridian’s servers. I can’t just walk out with files.”

“Then download them tonight. USB drive. Encrypted. Take it home. Mix in legitimate work files. Nobody will know until tomorrow.”

“And tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow you don’t go back. You go to FBI. You give them everything. You get immunity. You help them take down Meridian.”

Jennifer breathes hard. Scared. Committed.

“Okay. 9:00 AM. Federal Building.”

“One more thing. Do you have somewhere to stay tonight? Not your apartment. Somewhere Meridian doesn’t know about.”

“My sister’s place. Alexandria.”

“Go there. Now. Pack a bag. Take your cat. Don’t tell anyone where you’re going. Just show up.”

“Okay.”

“Jennifer,thank you.”

“Don’t. Don’t thank me. I’m not a hero. I’m the person who created fake evidence to frame the President-elect. I’m guilty. This is just damage control.”

She hangs up.

At 6:00 AM, Rebecca gets a text from Rosen.

Jennifer never showed up. Not at her apartment. Not at her sister’s place. Not answering phone. I’m worried.

Rebecca calls him immediately.

“What do you mean she didn’t show up?”

“I sent someone to check her apartment at 5:00 AM. Car is in the parking lot. Apartment lights off. No answer at the door. I checked with her sister,Jennifer never arrived.”

“Maybe she changed her mind…”

“Rebecca, her car is there. If she changed her mind, she’d drive away. She wouldn’t just vanish leaving her car.”

Rebecca feels something cold.

“Meridian took her.”

“We don’t know that…”

“Her car is in the parking lot. She’s not in her apartment. She didn’t make it to her sister’s place. She disappeared sometime between 11:47 PM when she called me and 5:00 AM. What else could it be?”

Rosen is quiet.

“I’ll make some calls. FBI. Local police.”

“And if they don’t?”

“Then we assume the worst. And we prepare for Meridian to come after you next.”

Rebecca looks out the window of Unit 3B.

She thinks: I did this. I contacted Jennifer. I asked her to flip. Now she’s gone.

XIV.

FBI finds Jennifer’s apartment unlocked.

No signs of struggle. No blood. No evidence of forced entry.

But also: no Jennifer. No overnight bag. No laptop. No cat.

Just an empty apartment with lights off and a car in the parking lot.

FBI opens an investigation. Missing person. Possible abduction. But they’re moving slowly. This is a federal contractor. This requires approvals.

Meanwhile: Jennifer is gone.

Rebecca sits in Unit 3B and thinks about all the ways someone disappears.

Black sites. Rendition. Enhanced interrogation.

She thinks: Everyone who helps me ends up destroyed.

Marcus taps on the wall. U OK?

She doesn’t answer.

He comes through anyway.

“This isn’t your fault.”

“Jennifer is missing because I contacted her.”

“Jennifer is missing because Meridian is a criminal organization that disappears witnesses. You didn’t make them criminals. You just exposed them.”

“And now they’re eliminating anyone who helped me.”

Marcus sits beside her.

“Rebecca, you can’t save everyone. You can’t protect every source. You can only tell the truth and hope enough people survive to make it matter.”

“That’s a terrible philosophy.”

“It’s the only philosophy that works. If you stop because sources burn, you never publish anything. And then democracy dies quietly instead of loudly.”

Rebecca wants to argue. Wants to believe she’s not responsible.

She can’t.

So she makes coffee instead.

On TV: Congressional hearings starting tomorrow. The biggest investigation since Watergate.

And somewhere, maybe, Jennifer Kwan. Alive. Dead. In custody. Beyond reach.

Gone.

XV.

The Congressional hearings start on December 18th.

Senate Judiciary Committee. Demanding answers.

Marcus testifies on day one.

He describes receiving the documents. Verifying them. Publishing despite threats. He shows the directive. Plays Morrison’s interview.

The Republicans attack. “You published without full verification!” “You put national security at risk!”

Marcus demolishes them.

“I published documented proof of a coup attempt by the Attorney General. If that’s a political agenda, then journalism is political. If verifying those documents wasn’t enough, then no verification is ever enough. And if national security requires accepting fabricated evidence and the arrest of the President-elect, then national security has become tyranny.”

The room erupts.

Day two: Elena Morrison testifies.

She’s brought from detention. Handcuffs removed. Navy blazer. Composed.

She tells everything. The directive. The meetings. The fabrication process. Meridian’s role. Williams’s orders.

She shows documents. Plays recordings.

When she’s done, even the Republicans are quiet.

One senator asks: “Ms. Morrison, why should we believe you? You admit you participated. You admit you’re guilty. Why should we trust anything you say?”

Morrison looks at him steadily.

“Because I’m going to prison for this. I’m facing ten years. Maybe more. I have nothing to gain by lying. But I have everything to gain by telling the truth. If I help Congress understand what happened, maybe we can prevent it from happening again. That’s worth my freedom.”

The hearing room is silent.

Day three: Jonathan Williams testifies.

Former Attorney General. Architect of the coup.

He pleads the Fifth on every question.

Seventy-three questions. Seventy-three refusals.

The chairman holds him in contempt. Refers him to DOJ for criminal prosecution.

Williams doesn’t care. He sits stone-faced. He knows Trump will pardon him.

Day five: The surprise witness.

Rebecca is watching TV in Unit 3B when her burner phone rings.

Rosen: “Turn on C-SPAN. Right now.”

“I’m already watching…”

“Just watch.”

On screen: The chairman announces a last-minute witness. Someone who came forward overnight. Someone with direct knowledge.

The doors open.

Jennifer Kwan walks in.

Rebecca almost drops her phone.

Jennifer is alive. Not disappeared. Not vanished. Not dead.

She’s testifying.

She sits at the witness table. Raises her right hand. Swears to tell the truth.

Then she destroys Meridian.

She describes the fabrication process in detail. The tools they used. The databases they accessed. The fake accounts they created. The emails they forged.

She shows evidence. Screenshots. Code. Documentation.

“Did you know this evidence was false?” a senator asks.

“Yes. We all knew. That was the assignment. Williams told us: ‘Create evidence that proves Mitchell coordinated with China. Make it forensically sound.’ We weren’t investigating whether she did it. We were creating proof that she did.”

“And you did this why?”

“Because Meridian pays well. Because I told myself it was just analysis. Because I didn’t think about what it meant. But then I saw the consequences. Morrison in prison. CARDINAL in prison. A reporter in hiding. Democracy almost ended. And I realized: I’m not an analyst. I’m an accomplice.”

“When did you decide to come forward?”

Jennifer looks at the camera. Directly into it.

“Two nights ago. A journalist contacted me. Rebecca Winters. She asked me to flip. I said yes. Then Meridian came for me. Three men. Contractors. They broke into my apartment at 1:00 AM. They were going to take me to a black site. Rendition. But FBI was watching my apartment. Ms. Winters’s lawyer tipped them off. They arrested the contractors before they could take me. Saved my life. And that’s when I knew: Meridian isn’t a defense contractor. It’s a criminal organization. And I needed to tell the truth.”

Rebecca stares at the TV.

She texts Rosen: You were watching Jennifer. You put FBI on her apartment. You saved her.

He responds: You would have worried. Better to let you think the worst, then deliver good news.

Thank you.

Thank Jennifer. She’s the one testifying.

On TV: Jennifer continues. She names names. Shows documents. Proves conspiracy.

By the end of day five, Meridian is finished. Contracts canceled. Investigation opened.

By end of day six, Williams is indicted. Conspiracy to fabricate evidence. Obstruction of justice. Sedition.

Trump issues the pardon immediately.

But the pardon only covers federal crimes. States can still prosecute. New York announces charges. Michigan follows. Washington. Pennsylvania.

Williams will spend the rest of his life fighting prosecution.

XVI.

Christmas Eve, 2028.

Rebecca is still in Unit 3B. Still hiding. Still waiting.

Marcus brings dinner. Chinese takeout. They eat in silence watching the news.

Trump’s numbers have collapsed. Republican senators are quietly discussing the Twenty-fifth Amendment. Removing him before inauguration.

It won’t happen. Not enough votes. But the fact they’re discussing it shows how far Trump has fallen.

“You should come out of hiding,” Marcus says.

“Not until Mitchell is inaugurated.”

“Meridian is destroyed. Williams is indicted. The coup failed. What are you afraid of?”

“That there’s another Meridian. Another contractor. Another plot. Democracy is still fragile for 27 more days.”

Marcus nods. “Then we wait.”

Rebecca’s burner phone rings.

Unknown number.

“Ms. Winters, this is Elena Morrison. I’m calling from detention.”

Rebecca sits up. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. Well, not fine. I’m in prison. But I’m calling because my lawyer just got an offer from DOJ.”

“What kind of offer?”

“Immunity. Full immunity. All charges dropped. In exchange for my testimony against Williams and Meridian executives.”

Rebecca feels something unlock in her chest. “That’s incredible…”

“There’s a condition.”

“What condition?”

“I have to testify that you coerced me. That you threatened to publish unless I cooperated. That the interview was manipulated. That you pressured me into making false statements. They want me to say you fabricated parts of the story. It destroys your credibility.”

“Are you calling to tell me you’re taking the deal?”

Morrison is quiet for a moment.

“No. I’m calling to tell you I turned it down. I told them I’d rather spend ten years in prison than lie about the person who saved democracy. I’m calling to tell you: thank you. For publishing. For risking everything. For not backing down.”

Rebecca can’t speak.

“Ms. Morrison…”

“Elena. Please.”

“Elena. You’re facing ten years. You have a daughter. If you take the deal…”

“Then I teach my daughter that survival is more important than truth. That comfort is more important than integrity. That you should lie if the price is right. I can’t do that. I won’t.”

“Your daughter needs her mother.”

“My daughter needs a mother who did the right thing. Even when it cost everything. That’s the only legacy worth leaving.”

After she hangs up, Rebecca sits in the darkness of Unit 3B.

She thinks: Morrison turned down immunity to protect me.

She thinks: How many people have to sacrifice everything before democracy is safe?

Marcus taps on the wall. WHAT HAPPENED?

She taps back: MORRISON TURNED DOWN IMMUNITY TO PROTECT ME.

Long pause. Then: SHE’S A HERO.

THEY’RE ALL HEROES.

XVII.

January 20th, 2029. 11:47 AM.

Rebecca Winters sits in the front row wearing the Zara blazer. Coffee stain still on the right cuff.

Governor Rachel Sullivan sits beside her. Hands shaking slightly. The tremor started after the fabricated evidence story broke.

Elena Morrison sits on Rebecca’s other side. Released from detention two days ago. Charges pending. Trial scheduled for April. But she’s here. Navy blazer. Composed.

Jennifer Kwan sits behind them. Witness protection. New identity. But she got special permission to attend under her real name. Last time she’ll use it publicly.

CARDINAL couldn’t come. Still in prison. Trial in March. But he sent a letter. Rebecca has it in her pocket.

Dear Ms. Winters, I’m writing from FCI Sheridan. Not where I expected to spend January 2029. But I have no regrets. My daughter visited yesterday. She’s eight. She asked me why I’m in prison. I told her: “Because I tried to do the right thing.” She said: “Did it work?” I said: “Yes. Democracy survived.” She said: “Then it was worth it.” Out of the mouths of children. Thank you for publishing. Tell my story someday. Tell them it was worth it. ,CARDINAL

Chief Justice Roberts administers the oath.

“I do solemnly swear that I will faithfully execute the Office of President of the United States, and will to the best of my ability, preserve, protect and defend the Constitution of the United States.”

Sarah Mitchell’s hand is steady on the Bible.

Rebecca watches.

She thinks: We did it. Democracy survived.

She thinks: Morrison is facing trial. CARDINAL is in prison. Jennifer is in witness protection. Patricia Vance works at Target.

She thinks: Is this what victory looks like?

Mitchell finishes the oath. Becomes President. The crowd erupts.

Trump is not here. Left Washington last night. First president in modern history to skip his successor’s inauguration. He’s in Mar-a-Lago raging on social media. His base believes him. 30% of Americans think the coup should have succeeded.

Democracy survived. But it’s wounded. Scarred. Fragile.

After the ceremony, Mitchell approaches Rebecca.

“Ms. Winters. Thank you for being here.”

“Congratulations, Madam President.”

“You saved my presidency. You saved democracy. How do I thank you for that?”

Rebecca thinks about Morrison. About CARDINAL. About Jennifer.

“You can start by pardoning my sources.”

Mitchell’s face goes serious. “CARDINAL and Morrison are facing federal charges. If I pardon them immediately, it looks political. The optics…”

“The optics are: you’re protecting whistleblowers who exposed a coup. That’s not political. That’s justice.”

“I’ll consider it. But I need to establish my presidency first. Show I’m independent. Give it six months.”

“In six months, CARDINAL and Morrison will have been in prison for seven months. Every day they spend locked up is a day democracy failed them.”

Mitchell nods slowly. “You’re right. I’ll do it.”

After Mitchell leaves, Morrison approaches.

“She’s going to pardon us?”

“She said six months. I’m holding her to it.”

“Six months in prison. I can do six months. Especially knowing it ends.”

“You shouldn’t have to do any months. You exposed a coup. You should get a medal, not a prison sentence.”

“In a perfect world, yes. But we don’t live in a perfect world. We live in this one. And in this one, sometimes heroes go to prison before they get recognized.”

Rebecca hugs her. Hard.

“Thank you. For everything. For coming forward. For turning down the immunity deal. For protecting me.”

“Thank you for publishing. For not backing down. For remembering us.”

XVIII.

February 1st, 2029.

Rebecca Winters returns to ProPublica’s office at 1100 13th Street NW.

She walks in through the front door this time. Not the loading dock. Not the escape tunnel. The front door like a normal person.

The staff is there. Twenty-three journalists. They don’t applaud,that would be too much. But Marcus hugs her.

“Welcome home.”

“Thanks. What do we have?”

He laughs. “You’ve been gone six weeks and you want to jump right back in?”

“I’ve been hiding for six weeks. I’m bored. What’s the next story?”

Marcus hands her a file.

“Supreme Court. Undisclosed gifts. Luxury travel. Private jets. Hundred-thousand-dollar vacations paid for by billionaires with cases before the Court.”

Rebecca opens the file. Starts reading.

“How solid is this?”

“Very. Financial records. Flight logs. Hotel receipts. Three justices taking gifts they never disclosed.”

“Sources?”

“Anonymous. Scared. One is inside the Court itself. They’re worried about retaliation.”

Rebecca thinks about CARDINAL. About Morrison. About Jennifer. About all the sources who burned.

“We protect them. No matter what. We verify everything. We publish with attribution. We don’t burn sources unless they give us permission.”

“You never did that before.”

“I know. Patricia Vance went to prison because I didn’t protect her. CARDINAL is in prison because I asked him to take risks. Morrison faced charges because she trusted me. I’m done sacrificing sources for stories.”

“Even if it means not publishing?”

“Even if it means not publishing. But we can protect sources and publish. We just have to work harder.”

Marcus smiles. “Then let’s get to work.”

XIX.

July 20th, 2029.

President Mitchell pardons Elena Morrison and CARDINAL.

Full pardon. All charges dropped. Records expunged.

Morrison walks out of FCI Alderson at 9:47 AM. Her daughter is waiting. Thirteen now. She’s grown. Changed. Spent six months visiting her mother in prison.

They hug. Morrison cries.

“You did the right thing, Mom.”

“I hope so.”

CARDINAL walks out of FCI Sheridan at 11:47 AM. His daughter is waiting. Nine years old now. She’s wearing a shirt that says: “My dad is a hero.”

He picks her up.

“Did democracy survive?”

“Yes. It survived.”

“Then it was worth it.”

The pardons are controversial. Republicans claim Mitchell is protecting political allies. Fox News runs segments calling it corruption. Trump posts 47 tweets calling the pardons “DISGRACEFUL!”

Mitchell doesn’t care. She gives a speech from the Oval Office:

“Elena Morrison and CARDINAL exposed a conspiracy to overthrow an election. They risked everything to protect democracy. They went to prison for telling the truth. Today I’m correcting an injustice. These are not criminals. These are patriots. And they deserve our gratitude, not our prosecution.”

August 15th, 2029.

Rebecca publishes the Supreme Court story.

SUPREME COURT JUSTICES FAILED TO DISCLOSE LUXURY GIFTS FROM BILLIONAIRES

Three justices. Millions in undisclosed gifts. Private jets. Luxury vacations.

The story is devastating. Thoroughly sourced. Carefully verified. Every fact triple-checked.

And this time: all sources protected. Anonymous but secure.

The story wins awards. Prompts investigations. Two justices resign.

Democracy is wounded but healing. Slowly. Painfully. But healing.

September 2029: Rebecca receives the Pulitzer Prize for National Reporting.

She accepts the award wearing the Zara blazer. Coffee stain still on the cuff.

In her acceptance speech:

“This award isn’t mine. It belongs to Elena Morrison, who risked prison to tell the truth. It belongs to CARDINAL, who spent six months in prison to protect democracy. It belongs to Jennifer Kwan, who testified despite threats. It belongs to every whistleblower who came forward knowing they’d burn. I’m just the journalist who told their stories. They’re the heroes. Remember them.”

The room applauds.

But Rebecca thinks: I destroyed Patricia Vance. I asked CARDINAL to take risks. I pushed Morrison into the spotlight.

I save democracy by destroying everyone who trusts me.

Is that heroism? Or is that just journalism?

After the ceremony, Morrison approaches.

“Congratulations.”

“Thank you. How are you?”

“Adjusting. I can’t practice law anymore. Disbarred. No law firm will touch me. But I’m consulting. Ethics. Compliance. Companies pay well for someone who knows how to blow the whistle.”

“And your daughter?”

“She’s proud. She tells everyone her mom helped save democracy. She’s writing college essays about it. She’s going to be okay.”

“And you?”

Morrison smiles. Sad. Tired. But real.

“Ask me in ten years. If democracy is still here, then yes. I’ll be okay. If not, then nothing we did mattered.”

CARDINAL approaches.

“Ms. Winters. Congratulations.”

“Thank you. How’s your daughter?”

“She’s good. She tells everyone her dad is a hero. She wrote a school report about whistleblowers. Got an A.”

“And you?”

“Blacklisted. Can’t work in government anymore. Can’t get security clearance. But I’m consulting. Pharma companies. Research firms. It pays enough. We’re surviving.”

“I’m sorry. For everything you lost.”

“Don’t be. I made the choice. I knew the risks. And I’d do it again. Democracy survived. That’s worth six months in prison. That’s worth a career. That’s worth everything.”

After they leave, Rebecca stands alone.

She thinks about all the casualties. Patricia Vance. CARDINAL. Morrison. Jennifer in witness protection.

She thinks about democracy. Wounded but alive. Scarred but healing. Fragile but surviving.

She thinks: Is it worth it? All the destroyed lives? All the burned sources?

She doesn’t know.

But she knows she’ll do it again.

XX.

October 2029.

Rebecca is sitting at her desk in ProPublica’s office when she decides to call.

She gets Patricia’s number. It takes seventeen minutes and three different databases but she finds it.

She calls.

Patricia answers on the fourth ring.

“Hello?”

“Patricia Vance? This is Rebecca Winters.”

Silence.

Then: “I wasn’t expecting you to call.”

“I got your letter. You’re right. I destroyed your life. I moved on. I never checked if you were okay. I’m sorry.”

“Sorry doesn’t give me back three years.”

“No. It doesn’t. Nothing does. But I wanted you to know: I think about you. Every time I publish. Every time a source takes a risk. I think: am I doing to them what I did to Patricia?”

“And?”

“And sometimes the answer is yes. I’m doing it again. I’m asking people to burn so democracy survives. And I hate myself for it. But I do it anyway.”

“Why?”

“Because someone has to. Because democracy is fragile. Because silence means autocracy wins. Because the casualties of truth are real but the casualties of lies are worse.”

Patricia is quiet for a long time.

Finally: “You know what the worst part was? Not the prison. Not losing my job. Not losing my marriage. The worst part was thinking I did it for nothing. That my sacrifice didn’t matter.”

“The company was fined. Executives were prosecuted. Contamination was cleaned up. You changed things.”

“Did I? Or did I just become a cautionary tale? ‘Don’t talk to reporters. Look what happened to Patricia Vance.’”

“Both. You became a cautionary tale and you changed things. That’s how whistleblowing works. You pay the price so others don’t have to. It’s not fair. But it’s necessary.”

“Easy for you to say. You got the Pulitzer. I got prison.”

“You’re right. It’s not fair. Nothing about this is fair. But Patricia,you’re a hero. You sacrificed everything for truth. That matters.”

“Should it? Should I feel good about destroying my life?”

“No. But you should feel good about saving other lives. The contamination would have continued. More people would have gotten sick. More children would have been exposed. You stopped that.”

Silence.

Then: “I work at Target now. $15.50 an hour. Stocking shelves. I have a degree in chemical engineering. I have fifteen years of experience. I have three years in prison for doing the right thing. And I stock shelves at Target.”

“I know. And that’s a crime. Not against you. Against justice. You should be celebrated, not blacklisted.”

“So why do you keep asking people to blow whistles?”

“Because the alternative is worse. Silence means autocracy. Silence means corruption. At least when people like you speak up, we have a chance.”

Patricia laughs. Bitter. “That’s your philosophy? ‘Speak up and get destroyed’?”

“No. My philosophy is: tell the truth even when it costs everything. Because truth is the only thing that outlasts us.”

“Easy to say when you’re not in prison.”

“You’re right. It is easy for me. I’m the journalist. I win awards. You pay the price. That’s not fair. But it’s how the system works. And until we change the system, people like you will keep paying the price.”

Long silence.

Finally: “I don’t forgive you.”

“I don’t expect you to.”

“But I understand why you did it. And I understand why you’ll do it again.”

“Does that make it okay?”

“No. But it makes it necessary.”

They sit in silence. Phone line connecting Washington and Connecticut. Journalist and source. Weapon and casualty.

“Patricia, I’m going to publish a follow-up story. About what happened to you after the chemical company story. About the prison time. About the blacklisting. About the injustice of punishing whistleblowers. Would you be willing to talk on the record?”

“Why would I do that?”

“Because your story isn’t over. Right now you’re just a cautionary tale. But if I publish what happened to you,the full cost of whistleblowing,maybe we can change the system. Maybe we can protect future sources.”

“And if I say no?”

“Then I respect that. You’ve paid enough.”

Silence.

Then: “Okay. I’ll talk. But on one condition.”

“What?”

“You tell the truth. Not just the heroic version. Tell the whole truth. The prison. The divorce. The blacklisting. Target at $15.50 an hour. Show people what it really costs to do the right thing.”

“I will. I promise.”

“Okay. Then I’ll talk.”

XXI.

November 2029.

Rebecca publishes the Patricia Vance follow-up story.

THE PRICE OF TRUTH: WHAT HAPPENS TO WHISTLEBLOWERS AFTER THE HEADLINES FADE

She tells everything. The prison time. The divorce. The blacklisting. Target at $15.50 an hour. The full cost of doing the right thing.

The story goes viral.

Millions of views. Calls for reform. Calls for whistleblower protection.

Patricia becomes famous again. But different this time. She’s not just the source. She’s the symbol. The proof that whistleblowing destroys lives.

And also: The proof that some things are worth the cost.

She gets job offers. Consulting firms. NGOs. Advocacy groups.

She takes one. Whistleblower Protection Fund. Director of Advocacy. Salary: $95,000 a year.

She calls Rebecca to say thank you.

“You gave my sacrifice meaning. You showed that it mattered.”

“You gave your sacrifice meaning. I just told your story.”

“Same thing.”

“Maybe.”

XXII.

December 2029, 11:47 PM.

Rebecca’s burner phone rings. New number. Always new numbers.

“Rebecca Winters.”

“Ms. Winters, you don’t know me. But I work in the administration. Department of Defense. And I have information about something terrible that’s about to happen. Something that will kill people. Thousands of people. Maybe more.”

Rebecca checks her watch.

Here we go again.

“Tell me everything.”

The source talks for seventeen minutes. Rebecca takes notes. Checks facts. Asks questions.

When the source is done, Rebecca says: “You know what happens if I publish this.”

“Yes.”

“You’ll lose your job. Probably face charges. Espionage Act. Unauthorized disclosure. You could go to prison.”

“I know.”

“Then why are you calling me?”

“Because I have a daughter. She’s six. She asked me yesterday what I do at work. I told her I help keep people safe. She said, ‘That’s a good job, Daddy.’ I want that to be true.”

Rebecca closes her eyes.

Always daughters. Always children. Always people who want to believe their parents do good work.

“I need to verify everything. That will take time. Maybe days. Maybe weeks. Can you send me documents?”

“Yes. But we have to move fast. The operation is scheduled for January 15th. Seven weeks. If we don’t stop it before then, people die.”

“Send me everything. Encrypted. I’ll verify and publish.”

“Ms. Winters,thank you. For doing this.”

“I’m not risking everything. You are. I’m just publishing. You’re the one who’ll burn.”

“I know. But at least when my daughter is grown, I can tell her I tried to do the right thing. Even if it cost everything.”

After the source hangs up, Rebecca sits in her apartment.

2121 Crystal Drive, Unit 847. She’s lived here seven years.

She looks at her wall. Empty now. Clean. But she knows in three days it’ll be covered with documents and photos and red string connecting everything.

Another conspiracy. Another source. Another destroyed life. Another award.

This is the cycle.

Sources burn so truth comes out. Democracy survives on their ashes. Rebecca wins awards and hates herself and does it again.

She thinks: Patricia survived. CARDINAL survived. Morrison survived. They’re damaged but alive. They’re sacrifices but they’re also symbols. Proof that some things are worth fighting for even when you lose.

She thinks: The next source will burn too. And the one after that. Until either democracy is secure or we run out of people willing to sacrifice.

She thinks: I’ll keep publishing until one of those things happens.

Outside her window, Washington. Inside her apartment, darkness. On her desk, a new story waiting to be told. In her memory, every source who ever trusted her. In her future, every source who’ll trust her next.

Rebecca makes coffee. Dark Magic. Sixth cup today.

She opens her laptop.

She starts writing.

This is who she is. This is what she does.

She saves democracy and destroys everyone who helps her and calls it journalism.

And she’ll do it again tomorrow.

And the day after that.

Until democracy is secure or she runs out of people to burn.

Whichever comes first.

THE END

Everything I write here is free, and I intend to keep it that way. But if this work matters to you,if it makes you stop, or feel a little less alone, I hope you’ll consider becoming a paid subscriber. These pieces aren’t dashed off between errands; they take months of reading, thinking, writing,and sitting with uncomfortable truths. I’m trying to write toward something steady and human, toward the quiet strength of ordinary people living inside difficult systems. Paid subscriptions don’t buy access so much as they buy time,the time to keep doing this work carefully, honestly, and without compromise.