putting his hand on mine and giving it a little squeeze. “We’re
gonna get through this.”
“How, Quinton? That bastard’s got me trapped!”
“It only seems that way. But we can still come up with something the District Attorney can
take before a judge, some way to turn this guy’s scheme on its ear, turn it against him. If we can
do that, you’re off the hook.”
Much as I don’t want to, I can’t resist asking, “What if we can’t?”
“You won’t be alone and it may not even happen! Let’s stay positive, constructive. To put
Randolph into a position where the investigation turns to him, we need to establish three things.
We’ve got opportunity, we’ve got a method. We just don’t have a motive.”
“You just said he’s got money troubles.”
“No, I said he’s not doing as well as he might have seemed to be doing. That’s a far cry from
enough motivation to risk his entire life, even if he’s got a pigeon like you to take the fall.”
I decide not to be offended by his use of the term pigeon. That’s what I allowed myself to
become, after all. But something else he says gnaws at me.
Thinking out loud, I say, “He seemed like such a tender, caring person. But of course he’s a
pure BS artist, so he was lying about that too!”
“Stands to reason.”
“So probably, this guy doesn’t really care about anything at all. Maybe after losing his
family, he just decided, y’know, Screw it! Right or wrong, legal or illegal; what’s the
difference? He might have been a decent person before that, but then he just sort of ... fell off the
moral grid.”
“And when you don’t believe in anything,” Quinton suggests, “when everything you’ve ever
loved has been taken away from you ... ”
“When nothing means anything, money’s as good a thing to have, to love, as anything else.”
“Better, if that’s the way you see the world.”
We look at each other, each asking ourselves what kind of person we truly are inside, how
guilty we might not be of the same transgressions.
Well, I quickly decide, I’m not as guilty of anything as this dirtbag con artist is! None of us
is perfect, but some of us are a damn-sight closer to it than others!
Moving away from the question for a moment, Quinton asks me, “You’re sure you never
knew this man before moving here?”
“I’m sure of it, absolutely.”
“Your father’s never heard the name, doesn’t have any longstanding feuds or -”
“We’re from Colorado, Quinton, not the Ozark Mountains or the Okefenokee Swamps.”
“Revenge is a primary motivator of almost every type of crime there is, Addie.” He looks at
me with stern coolness, his line of sight holding my own in its icy beam. “Now isn’t the time to
be careless. We can’t afford to overlook a single possibility. I’ll ask him. Or ... you could.”
“I called him, told him how grateful I was about what he’d done, putting his house up and
everything.” I’m chilled just to recall the clumsy phone conversation. “He just grunted once or
twice, hardly said a thing.”
“Really.” Quinton gives it a little thought, mouth in a considered frown. “I don’t think he’ll
ever be published in The New Yorker, but I found your father to be quite ... not erudite, but
articulate at least.”
I can hardly believe what I’m hearing. My father and I barely shared more than twenty
words my whole life, of which fifteen passed between us while my mother was still alive. And
while I always did attribute it to her death, I look back and realize that even in the years before, I
was lucky to get more than a grunt out of him.
“Y’know, Addie, a lot of men ... they just can’t relate to women well. It’s not that they don’t
like them, or love them, or entertain the full spectrum of feelings for them. But they just have a
block of some kind, keeps them from reaching out, making contact.”
I sit in the silent wake of his summary, reflecting on sad scenes and long nights of isolation
gonna get through this.”
“How, Quinton? That bastard’s got me trapped!”
“It only seems that way. But we can still come up with something the District Attorney can
take before a judge, some way to turn this guy’s scheme on its ear, turn it against him. If we can
do that, you’re off the hook.”
Much as I don’t want to, I can’t resist asking, “What if we can’t?”
“You won’t be alone and it may not even happen! Let’s stay positive, constructive. To put
Randolph into a position where the investigation turns to him, we need to establish three things.
We’ve got opportunity, we’ve got a method. We just don’t have a motive.”
“You just said he’s got money troubles.”
“No, I said he’s not doing as well as he might have seemed to be doing. That’s a far cry from
enough motivation to risk his entire life, even if he’s got a pigeon like you to take the fall.”
I decide not to be offended by his use of the term pigeon. That’s what I allowed myself to
become, after all. But something else he says gnaws at me.
Thinking out loud, I say, “He seemed like such a tender, caring person. But of course he’s a
pure BS artist, so he was lying about that too!”
“Stands to reason.”
“So probably, this guy doesn’t really care about anything at all. Maybe after losing his
family, he just decided, y’know, Screw it! Right or wrong, legal or illegal; what’s the
difference? He might have been a decent person before that, but then he just sort of ... fell off the
moral grid.”
“And when you don’t believe in anything,” Quinton suggests, “when everything you’ve ever
loved has been taken away from you ... ”
“When nothing means anything, money’s as good a thing to have, to love, as anything else.”
“Better, if that’s the way you see the world.”
We look at each other, each asking ourselves what kind of person we truly are inside, how
guilty we might not be of the same transgressions.
Well, I quickly decide, I’m not as guilty of anything as this dirtbag con artist is! None of us
is perfect, but some of us are a damn-sight closer to it than others!
Moving away from the question for a moment, Quinton asks me, “You’re sure you never
knew this man before moving here?”
“I’m sure of it, absolutely.”
“Your father’s never heard the name, doesn’t have any longstanding feuds or -”
“We’re from Colorado, Quinton, not the Ozark Mountains or the Okefenokee Swamps.”
“Revenge is a primary motivator of almost every type of crime there is, Addie.” He looks at
me with stern coolness, his line of sight holding my own in its icy beam. “Now isn’t the time to
be careless. We can’t afford to overlook a single possibility. I’ll ask him. Or ... you could.”
“I called him, told him how grateful I was about what he’d done, putting his house up and
everything.” I’m chilled just to recall the clumsy phone conversation. “He just grunted once or
twice, hardly said a thing.”
“Really.” Quinton gives it a little thought, mouth in a considered frown. “I don’t think he’ll
ever be published in The New Yorker, but I found your father to be quite ... not erudite, but
articulate at least.”
I can hardly believe what I’m hearing. My father and I barely shared more than twenty
words my whole life, of which fifteen passed between us while my mother was still alive. And
while I always did attribute it to her death, I look back and realize that even in the years before, I
was lucky to get more than a grunt out of him.
“Y’know, Addie, a lot of men ... they just can’t relate to women well. It’s not that they don’t
like them, or love them, or entertain the full spectrum of feelings for them. But they just have a
block of some kind, keeps them from reaching out, making contact.”
I sit in the silent wake of his summary, reflecting on sad scenes and long nights of isolation
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