Unrelenting

"He's some auditor from the State Comptroller's office," Willie replied, "probably armed with more statistical analyses."

"All he needs is a green eyeshade to complete his outfit," I replied.

After a few minutes of testimony, it appeared that Willie was right again. It turned out that the poor little bean-counter had been crisscrossing the state tirelessly to record every sign that we'd installed. Then he had painstakingly matched every installation he'd recorded against our billings. I couldn't help but be impressed at the effort he'd put into his quest. But as he was droning on and on about missing State Highway signs in the town of East Buttfuck, it was clear to me that the jury had lost all interest in his endless recitation. When the prosecutor finally said, "No further questions, your honor," I think everyone in the courtroom was relieved.

Willie rose to polish him off. "Mr. Jones, you've led us through an incredibly long list of signs installed all around the State, and you seem to believe that some of them are missing. Is that correct?"

"Yes sir," he replied.

"And out of that long list of installations, what percentage do you calculate were missing?" Willie continued.

"We calculate that approximately five percent of the reported installations were phantoms," the auditor replied.

A shiver ran down my spine. "Phantom" was a term that hadn't been used in the case up to now; in fact, I'd never heard it used outside our company.

Willie didn't pick up on it. "So out of all the thousands of signs installed to date, you found a discrepancy of only five percent. Isn't it possible that such a tiny percentage was a statistical error or a simple oversight?"

"Ordinarily, I would agree with you," he said calmly, "but not in this case."

There's an old saying in the legal profession that goes, "Never ask a question to which you don't already know the answer." I guess Willie didn't know that one, because he asked, "And why not, Mr. Jones?"

"Because," the accountant said quietly, "Mr. Morrison said so."

"That's a lie," I shouted, "I've never met this man in my life!"

The judged pounded his gavel and instructed me to sit down and keep quiet. "I will not have another outburst like that again in this courtroom, Mr. Morrison. Do you understand?"

"Yes sir," I said, pretending to be penitent.

Willie must have been flustered, because he turned back to the little accountant and gave him another opening. "Admit it, Mr. Jones, you never heard my client say any such thing."

"Oh, but I did," he responded. "I clearly heard Mr. Morrison discussing the phantom signs on the surveillance tape my detective made when Mr. Morrison and the Director of Civil Engineering had sex with my wife."

"Oh, shit," I thought, "Nathan Jones! He must be Lori's husband!"

The whole courtroom was in an uproar. Willie began objecting loudly, calling Jones' testimony irrelevant and prejudicial. The judge's gavel finally restored order, and he called Willie and the State Prosecutor to the bench. "Under other circumstances," the judge told them, "I'd order that last statement stricken from the record. But since counsel for the defense asked the witness the question directly, I'm going to let it stand."

Willie returned to the table where I sat and put his mouth to my ear. "Why didn't you tell me you were banging his wife?" he snarled.

"I didn't know it was his wife," I whispered back. "Hell, I didn't even know his name."

"This looks really bad," he said.

"It was a joke, Willy. 'Phantoms?' It's obvious we were just kidding around." Then I had a brainstorm. "Get Lori on the stand – she'll back me."

He glared at me, but I guess he decided that was the best tack to take. He turned back to the witness stand where Nathan Jones sat staring at me with what I now realized was pure hatred.

"You were not present when my client made his little comment about phantoms, is that correct?" Willie asked, hoping to put Jones on the defensive.

Jones started to explain, but Willie cut him off. "Just answer the question yes or no, Mr. Jones."

"The answer is no," the little accountant said with a scowl.

It was then that Willie made his final, fatal mistake. "So you'd have to agree that your wife would have a better interpretation of the conversation than yourself."

"She might," Nathan conceded, "if she were still alive, but after Mr. Morrison dumped her, she committed suicide."

The court again broke out in pandemonium. I stared in disbelief at the little man, and he looked at me as though I were some filth he'd scraped off my shoes. I couldn't bear his gaze any longer, so I glanced over at the jury box. All twelve jurors were glaring at me with unrelieved hostility. Worse, it appeared to me that it was the female members who were the angriest.

After that, the result was inevitable. Willie asked for a mistrial, and although one was granted, I was found guilty at the retrial. After the verdict was in, Willie filed appeals on a number of different grounds, but none of them worked. All his maneuvering accomplished was to drive my legal fees ever higher, and by the time all appeals were exhausted, so was my bank account. The State decided to make an example of me, and I was handed a sentence of fifteen to twenty years with the possibility of parole.

I always thought that losing my freedom was the worst fate a man could suffer. I was wrong -- what happened after they took away my freedom was even worse. I won't describe it because I can't stand to think about it. Suffice it to say you don't ever want to be in prison, especially if you're a "pretty boy."

There were many times when I contemplated suicide; only the hope of regaining my freedom kept me going. So I committed myself to being a model prisoner, always complying with the rules, never giving the guards any trouble. And though it was excruciating, I took the abuse from my tormenters behind bars without complaining. I didn't dare start a fight because I didn't want to jeopardize my chances for parole. For that matter, I didn't want to get a shiv stuck between my ribs either.

As you might expect, no one came to see me during my incarceration. No one from my old company wanted anything to do with me, and there certainly weren't any girlfriends waiting faithfully for me to be released. So you can imagine my surprise when one day in my sixth year behind bars the guard told me I had a visitor.

When I was led into the visitor's area, I was shocked to see Nathan Jones sitting there. At first, I wanted nothing to do with him, but then a combination of guilt and curiosity propelled me forward. Once I was seated, he just sat there staring at me, and I grew uneasy. "I'm really sorry about Lori," I finally said. "I never knew." He continued to stare at me, and I became more and more nervous.

"Can you tell me what happened to her?" I asked.

At first I thought he wasn't going to speak to me at all, but then he cleared his throat. "When I came home that night, I found her lying in the bathtub," he finally said. "She had slit her wrists."

The image made me impossibly sad. "I'm so sorry," I repeated. "She really did love you all along."

If possible, his eyes hardened even further. "Before she died, she wrote your name in blood on the tile wall," he said.

I dropped my head to the desk in pain.

Finally I looked up; he was still sitting there.

"Why did you come, especially after all these years?" I asked him.

"I just wanted you to know that when your parole hearing comes up this fall, I'll be there to testify against you," he said. Then he got up and walked away.

"Damn," I thought ruefully, "that little guy is fucking unrelenting."