Table for Two Ch. 03: Opening Salvo

Alice called me later that afternoon to let me know that Judge Banks not only rescinded the restraining order, he also released the freeze on my accounts and ordered Samantha to return 30 percent of all the money she had taken.

"He's also referring Cartwright to the Bar and the State Attorney's office for her unethical actions," Alice said.

"You have been busy," I told her.

"I'm just getting warmed up, cowboy," Alice responded with a slight chuckle. "I plan to file your response and divorce papers tomorrow. The shit is about to hit the fan."

"So, what now?" I asked.

"I'll take care of getting the funds from Samantha. You work on that checklist I gave you," Alice said. "That should take you the rest of the afternoon. Plan on moving back into your house tomorrow morning."

"Actually, I'd like to move back in today," I said. "I need to change the locks and exorcise Samantha from my house. I've been 'invited' by the DA to Samantha's arraignment tomorrow morning. Are you going to be there?"

"Not unless you need me there," Alice replied.

"If they release any of them on bail, I'll need a restraining order," I told her.

"From what I've heard, the DA is going to recommend they be held until their trial," Alice said. "But there's no telling what the judge will do. Alright, I'll be there, just in case."

"Thanks," I said. After ending the call to Alice, I called Pop.

"Hey, boy, how are things in your world?" the older man asked in his usual salty manner.

"Doing better, Pop. Thanks for asking. Listen, the restraining order has been lifted, and I intend to be back at the house tonight. You think you can get some of your people over there to get Samantha's stuff out?"

"Yeah, I can do that, Son," he said. "You think she's gonna be out on bail soon?"

"Not from what I've heard, Pop, but you never know with some of these judges."

"Ain't that a fact," Pop hissed. "What time you want the truck there?"

"I'd say about 4:30. Shouldn't take too long to toss her crap into some garbage bags." Pop chuckled at that.

"You're a real class act, you know that, Mike?" he jokingly asked.

"I learned from the best, Pop," I joked back.

"Yeah, you did. And don't forget that." We both laughed at that. "Alright, I'll have some people over about 4:00. Let me know how the arraignment goes."

"I will," I promised. We ended the call, and I headed to the bank to make the necessary changes to my accounts there. Then I went to the office and took care of things with HR. While there, I checked in with my boss, Jack Iverson.

"How are things going?" he asked.

"Progressing," I said. "Got the restraining order lifted and the bank account unfrozen. Samantha and her conspirators were arrested last night."

"Arrested?" Jack asked, shocked.

"Yeah. Conspiracy to commit murder, extortion. I hear there may be other charges pending. The arraignment is tomorrow morning."

"And the DA wants you there?"

"Yes. He may call on me. I don't know yet."

"I hope it works out," Jack said. "You moving back home today?"

"That's my plan."

"Let me know how everything goes," Jack said.

"I will," I told him before taking my leave. I went back to the hotel and checked out, then drove home.

Home. My castle - my refuge from the shitshow known as life. I pulled into the garage, closed the garage door and headed for the door that led to my kitchen. Before going inside, though, I drew my pistol. I didn't think there would be any nasty surprises waiting for me, but I wasn't about to take any chances.

I carefully went inside and turned off the security alarm. The place seemed dark and quiet. Too dark and a bit too quiet, to be honest. The only sounds in the place came from the tall antique grandfather clock in the living room. I carefully examined the place to make sure no one was waiting for me.

Finally convinced the place was secure, I holstered my weapon and carefully took my things upstairs, and put them away before taking a shower and changing into something a bit more casual. Right at 4:00 pm, I heard a large truck pull into my driveway. Looking out the window, I saw three men climb out and come to the door.

I let them inside and handed them a box of large 30-gallon plastic trash bags and showed them the way to Samantha's closet. One of the men began put her clothes into bags, while another emptied her drawers and her toiletries in another. I showed the third man around the place and pointed out the sticks of furniture, pots, pans, dishes, CDs and various trinkets Samantha brought from her condo.

Once they were busy exorcising Samantha's crap from the place, I unlocked my office door, and inspected everything inside. All looked to be in good order, so I fired up my whole house stereo. Soon, the unique sounds of classic Tull filled the house. Yeah, I was home. Deal with it, bitches, I thought.

I pulled out my phone and called a locksmith ISS recommended. I realized the late hour and offered to pay extra for the man's services. He reluctantly agreed and said he would be right over. The last thing I wanted - or needed - was Samantha or her conspirators having access to my house in the event they were released on bail. The locksmith arrived a half-hour later and went to work.

A couple hours later, the three men reported that they were finished. By then, the locksmith had changed all the locks on the doors and was happily on his merry way with a small wad of cash. I went through the place with the three men Pop sent over to make sure they got everything.

"What about the pictures on the wall?" the man I presumed was the lead, asked, pointing at the various photos of Samantha and I that dotted the place.

"Nah," I told him. "I need kindling to start my fireplace tonight." They all laughed at that. "By the way, could you do me a favor, please?"

"What's that, Mr. Jacobs?"

"First off, call me Mike. I was wondering if you wouldn't mind taking the mattress off the bed in the master bedroom."

"What do you want us to do with it?" the lead asked.

"Maybe toss it in the dump, burn it, whatever. I don't care. I don't want it." I figured I would sleep in the guest bedroom and order a new mattress tomorrow. There was no way I was going to sleep on the mattress Samantha soiled with her infidelity.

"Sure. I understand, Mike," the lead said. "C'mon, give me a hand," he said to the other two men.

"Thanks, I appreciate it," I told him. They maneuvered the old mattress down the staircase and tossed it unceremoniously in the back of the truck. I thanked them for their work and gave them each a $100 bill. What the hell, I thought. They worked hard, and deserved a little extra. We said our goodbyes and I watched as they left with Samantha's crap.

Turning back to the interior of the house, I took in the empty spots that had once been occupied by Samantha's things. Oh well, I thought. This, too, shall pass. Tired and a bit hungry, I ordered some lasagna from Luigi's. The lady who took my order said it would take about an hour for delivery. That was fine with me, as I could use the time to decompress.

Armed with a cup of steaming coffee fresh from my Keurig, I sat in my recliner and turned on the television to catch up on the news. A few minutes later, my phone buzzed, and I saw it was a call from Ron Wiseman. Curious, I took the call.

"Mike Jacobs, you old dog. How's it hanging?" he asked.

"I just got back into the house. Exorcised the bitch from it, and just kicking back. What do you have for me?"

"Well, you'll be happy to hear I found no links between your wife and the old MMAS, despite her being Pat Witherspoon's daughter. I did, however, find links between the old organization and the lawyer, Allison Cartwright."

"Oh?" I asked, my interest piqued.

"Yes. It was about eight or nine years ago. She went by a different name at the time - Ellen Griswold. Worked in upstate New York. According to Witherspoon's notes, she had an issue with some of the more extreme measures the group took against cheaters.

"She had no problem with punishing the men they targeted, but she apparently felt some of the other actions were too extreme. When the group started going political, she decided to leave. Mona Larsen let her go, strangely enough. She left New York, changed her name and had some cosmetic surgery done.

"But there's more. I found a memo by Larsen in which she considered a hit on Griswold. It never got carried out, since the memo was written just a few days before Larsen was taken out, and the contract was never finalized."

"Very interesting," I said.

"I thought so as well," Ron said. "She may have quit the organization, but she never gave up on the idea of punishing cheating husbands, though. For the last eight years, she's been with Hempstead, handling divorce cases. So far, she's only represented women. I'm doing a deep dive into those cases, but it seems that nearly 90 percent of them involve infidelity."

"How many cases has she handled so far?" I asked.

"On average, she's taken on about 80 cases a year. Do the math. Eighty cases a year for eight years - that's 640 cases," Ron said. "Give or take. There's more. I've found her name connected to about 500 bank accounts across the country. I'm still looking into all those, but it seems she can lay her hands on about $25 million, total."

"Damn," I said.

"Yeah. And guess what? Those accounts happen to have been set up by her for the women she's represented. Samantha has such an account, set up when she divorced her first husband."

"Have you given this information to the District Attorney?" I asked.

"Yes, I just got off the phone with him. Our own DIU will be looking into it as well."

"DIU?"

"Oh that's right. That was set up after you left. Divorce Investigation Unit. Your old buddy, Ray Ochoa, runs it. I expect you might be getting a visit from one of his people in a day or two."

"Thanks for the heads-up," I said. This actually explained quite a bit. I couldn't help but wonder what the DA would do with this information. "Is there anything else?"

"Not at this time," Ron replied. "I'm still gathering and collating data. It could take a while for all of this to get pieced together. She's had eight years to set this up."

"There's something I don't understand, though," I told Ron. "Why didn't Larsen use the old poison capsule on her? Isn't that how she always handled loose ends?"

"Yes, it was, at least toward the end. However, Griswold left the organization before Larsen began implementing that on a wide scale. So she never got implanted. Or at least, that's what I gathered from Witherspoon's notes."

"Do you think Samantha knew about Cartwright's history?" I asked.

"I doubt it, Mike. But I'm pretty certain she knew what Cartwright is currently doing. She had to."

"You're probably right. Anything else?"

"I have a feeling I'm just scraping the tip of the Cartwright iceberg here, Mike. I'll know a lot more over the next 24 to 48 hours."

"Okay. Well, thanks, Ron. I appreciate it. How's everything with you and Amy, by the way?" I asked.

"We're doing great, thanks for asking. Her knife-throwing skills are improving with every executive her company hires in," Ron joked. I laughed at that.

"I'll bet they are," I quipped.

"But on the upside, the number of sexual harassment complaints have tapered off to nearly nothing," Ron said, half-joking. We ended the call and I turned back to the television. Before long, my dinner arrived, and I enjoyed my lasagna as I watched an old John Wayne movie. I followed that up with a drink and a cigar.

I suppose this is where guys in my situation wax philosophic about life, love, and the meaning of the universe, which, as I recall from the old movie, is 42. Or something like that. Yes, I'm sad, and deeply hurt. But I'm not made like that. I'm pretty much a "just the facts, ma'am" kind of person.

So here are the facts. The bottom line is that Samantha cheated on me, then tried to set me up as the bad guy, going so far as to hook up with a lawyer with no ethics. Then she tried to steal my house and most of my assets on the basis of fabricated evidence. And to make matters worse, she went along with Allison's idea of having me killed if I didn't go along with their plot.

On top of that, I learned that she had done this to another man. She was successful in that case, and I suppose she thought she would succeed with me. But she screwed up big time. You see, I don't like to lose an argument.

I suppose I could've done a background check before we got married. But when you're in love with a woman, you don't think of such things. And yes, I was in love with Samantha at one time. I trusted her, perhaps too much. But that's neither here nor there anymore. Samantha fucked up, big time. And now, she needs to pay the piper. Perhaps, I thought, there really was something of her birth mother in her after all.

I remember telling Allison they had declared war. The first part of my counteroffensive was complete. The restraining order has been lifted, the freeze on my accounts have been released, and I'm back where I belong, in my own home. Samantha has been exorcised from my personal "kingdom," and now sits in jail. I intended to do whatever I could to keep her there as long as humanly possible. Along with her two co-conspirators.

Tomorrow morning, I thought, was phase two of the counteroffensive. I would be at her arraignment. And if the District Attorney calls on me to answer questions, I'll be more than happy to tell the court what I knew.

Having finished my cigar, I headed upstairs, undressed and crawled under the covers of the bed in my guest room. It felt good to be home again, and in my own bed, even if it is in the guest bedroom. But the place sure seemed empty without Samantha. I put that thought aside and decided to approach this like I would an intervention, which meant setting aside my emotions.

Tomorrow is another day, but from this point on, I would be in control. And I don't like to lose an argument.

...

To be continued...

Notes: The "DIU," which doesn't really exist, was first introduced in "Breaking Point 01."