self interrupts. I’ve learned my lesson about
striking a balance between personal and business, and this is my life on the line! Nothing so
personal has ever been such important business.
But I have to admit, in the silence of my own soul, I hope there is a life before this one ends,
when we’re united with those we love. I wrestle with it, more and more.
The knowing.
But I mustn’t follow my heart, in my business or my personal life.
So Quinton and I begin strategizing my defense and, if possible, figuring out a way to put
Randolph MacLeish behind bars for the rest of his life. It doesn’t seem likely that one is going to
be possible without the other.
♡
Quinton and I spend some time talking it out, trying to find the missing piece that will solve
the puzzle and set me free. Not that Quinton and I aren’t certain who’s behind all this; Randolph
MacLeish. But proving it is another matter. And according to Quinton we not only have to
prove that there is insufficient evidence to warrant my trial, we also had better suggest a more
plausible scenario. Unbelievably, we’ve got to give them something better, or I’m toast. The
burden of proof, it seems, lies with the accused.
So we pace and snack and think and go around and around, scarcely seeming to get any
closer to our goal. Sometimes it seems that we’re getting further away with every step.
“Why would he want to go through all this remains a question,” Quinton says, pacing around
the living room. “From what I can gather, he may not be Donald Trump, but he really doesn’t do
that badly. He does well enough so that he doesn’t have to try anything drastically risky like
become an international drug kingpin.”
“Unless he gets somebody else to take all the risk for him,” I say, adding, “namely me,”
without really needing to.
“Still, it’s a big operation and a tremendous risk. And it’s not like his expenses are that
immense, the house is paid for.”
“Taxes?” I ask. “With all his wheeling and dealing, there could be something there, some
need for extra cash flow.”
“That’s good thinking, but I checked back at the office.” Quinton scratches his chin, shaking
his head. “Though again, it’s not like he’s Andrew Carnegie.”
“No, but ... all those investment deals, his clients, there must be a lot of money floating
around in his circle. Maybe he’s embezzling it, or -”
Quinton shakes his head, his smile reflecting the futility of my train of thought. “That’s what
I’m telling you, he really didn’t make that many investments; one or two, but not for a while.
Truth is, one could say his business has sort of petered out.”
“That’s not true, I’ve been following him around for a year, watching him buy properties for
... ” My words trail off; my suddenly useless, childish, naive words. “Oh, that was all a show,
wasn’t it? Of course, not just the Florida thing, but all of it.”
“A lot of it,” Quinton answers, “at least as far as you were concerned.”
“But, that house, the two cars, how did he afford them?”
“Inherited from his wife. She died a few years before -”
“Of cancer,” I say, my voice low and grainy as I recall him telling me the awful story. “Their
baby died too.”
A solemn silence settles around us before Quinton says, “Yes.”
I have to clear my throat. “At least he wasn’t lying about that.”
“No,” Quinton has to admit. His voice takes an upward turn as he says, “The house and cars
and things, a lot of that came as her ... contribution to the household; from a trust fund left by her
parents after their own deaths years before.”
“So much tragedy in a single family.”
“Everybody dies, Addie.”
I look at him, feeling the sorrow in my own eyes as it builds up, about to break the damn of
my iron will. And Quinton senses it; as if he feels my sadness as his own, sharing the burden of
my fear, my numbing hopelessness.
“It’s okay,” Quinton says,
striking a balance between personal and business, and this is my life on the line! Nothing so
personal has ever been such important business.
But I have to admit, in the silence of my own soul, I hope there is a life before this one ends,
when we’re united with those we love. I wrestle with it, more and more.
The knowing.
But I mustn’t follow my heart, in my business or my personal life.
So Quinton and I begin strategizing my defense and, if possible, figuring out a way to put
Randolph MacLeish behind bars for the rest of his life. It doesn’t seem likely that one is going to
be possible without the other.
♡
Quinton and I spend some time talking it out, trying to find the missing piece that will solve
the puzzle and set me free. Not that Quinton and I aren’t certain who’s behind all this; Randolph
MacLeish. But proving it is another matter. And according to Quinton we not only have to
prove that there is insufficient evidence to warrant my trial, we also had better suggest a more
plausible scenario. Unbelievably, we’ve got to give them something better, or I’m toast. The
burden of proof, it seems, lies with the accused.
So we pace and snack and think and go around and around, scarcely seeming to get any
closer to our goal. Sometimes it seems that we’re getting further away with every step.
“Why would he want to go through all this remains a question,” Quinton says, pacing around
the living room. “From what I can gather, he may not be Donald Trump, but he really doesn’t do
that badly. He does well enough so that he doesn’t have to try anything drastically risky like
become an international drug kingpin.”
“Unless he gets somebody else to take all the risk for him,” I say, adding, “namely me,”
without really needing to.
“Still, it’s a big operation and a tremendous risk. And it’s not like his expenses are that
immense, the house is paid for.”
“Taxes?” I ask. “With all his wheeling and dealing, there could be something there, some
need for extra cash flow.”
“That’s good thinking, but I checked back at the office.” Quinton scratches his chin, shaking
his head. “Though again, it’s not like he’s Andrew Carnegie.”
“No, but ... all those investment deals, his clients, there must be a lot of money floating
around in his circle. Maybe he’s embezzling it, or -”
Quinton shakes his head, his smile reflecting the futility of my train of thought. “That’s what
I’m telling you, he really didn’t make that many investments; one or two, but not for a while.
Truth is, one could say his business has sort of petered out.”
“That’s not true, I’ve been following him around for a year, watching him buy properties for
... ” My words trail off; my suddenly useless, childish, naive words. “Oh, that was all a show,
wasn’t it? Of course, not just the Florida thing, but all of it.”
“A lot of it,” Quinton answers, “at least as far as you were concerned.”
“But, that house, the two cars, how did he afford them?”
“Inherited from his wife. She died a few years before -”
“Of cancer,” I say, my voice low and grainy as I recall him telling me the awful story. “Their
baby died too.”
A solemn silence settles around us before Quinton says, “Yes.”
I have to clear my throat. “At least he wasn’t lying about that.”
“No,” Quinton has to admit. His voice takes an upward turn as he says, “The house and cars
and things, a lot of that came as her ... contribution to the household; from a trust fund left by her
parents after their own deaths years before.”
“So much tragedy in a single family.”
“Everybody dies, Addie.”
I look at him, feeling the sorrow in my own eyes as it builds up, about to break the damn of
my iron will. And Quinton senses it; as if he feels my sadness as his own, sharing the burden of
my fear, my numbing hopelessness.
“It’s okay,” Quinton says,
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