Let him, I thought. Let him spin whatever story makes him feel better. The truth is in the public record now. It’s in court documents that anyone can access. It’s in police reports that will be filed. It’s in news articles that will be written when the DA decides whether to prosecute.
A text message came through on my phone. I glanced at it, expecting another angry message from my siblings. But it was from Maya, my paralegal friend who’d helped me navigate the legal system, who’d met me at the law library dozens of times to show me how to file motions and format documents.
“Tell me you destroyed him,” it said.
I smiled and typed back: “Handcuffs. Holding cell. Criminal investigation pending. Total restitution ordered.”
Three seconds later: “OH MY GOD. I’m buying champagne. Come over tonight. We’re celebrating.”
I thought about it. Maya lived in a tiny apartment in Rogers Park with two roommates and a cat named Judge Judy. Her idea of champagne was probably a twelve-dollar bottle of André from the corner store. Her idea of celebration probably involved ordering too much Thai food and watching trashy reality TV.
It sounded perfect.
“I’ll be there at seven,” I typed back.
The bus lurched to a stop at my corner, the one near my studio apartment building with the flickering neon sign that advertised both “Apartments for Rent” and “Check Cashing” in the same window. I got off, waved my thanks to the driver, and started walking the two blocks to my building.
My apartment was on the third floor of a walk-up that had been built sometime in the 1920s and hadn’t been significantly updated since. The hallway always smelled like someone’s cooking—usually cabbage or fish or something equally pungent. The radiator clanked and hissed. The neighbors upstairs fought loudly every Thursday. The lock on my door stuck and required a specific jiggle to open.
But it was mine. Or at least, it had been mine. With the restitution money, I could move somewhere better. I could pay off my student loans. I could buy a car that didn’t sound like it was dying every time I started it.
Or I could keep living here, save the money, maybe go back to school. Maybe take the CPA exam I’d always meant to take but couldn’t afford. Maybe start the life I’d always imagined before everything fell apart.
I unlocked my apartment door and stepped inside. It was cold—the heat wasn’t supposed to come on until six PM, part of the building’s cost-saving measures. My furniture was mostly secondhand—a futon that doubled as my couch and bed, a desk I’d found on the curb, two folding chairs, a bookshelf made of milk crates and plywood.
It wasn’t much. By anyone’s standards, it wasn’t much. My father’s walk-in closet was probably bigger than my entire apartment. The wine cellar in his penthouse definitely was.
Maar terwijl ik daar in mijn armoedige kleine studio stond, nog steeds met die manilla-envelop in mijn hand, realiseerde ik me iets waardoor ik moest glimlachen.
Hij had me uitgelachen omdat ik arm was. Hij had mijn colbert van de kringloopwinkel, mijn baantje in de koffiebar en mijn elf dollar per uur belachelijk gemaakt. Hij had geprobeerd me te vernederen voor een rechtszaal vol vreemden, had geprobeerd me te reduceren tot niets meer dan een mislukkeling, een parasiet, een ondankbaar kind dat zijn tijd en aandacht niet verdiende.
Maar terwijl ik in die bus zat, met de gerechtelijke uitspraak in mijn hand die alles bevestigde wat ik had gezegd, realiseerde ik me iets heel ingrijpends.
