by Claire Adams
“Your honor,” Chris’s lawyer says, “I move that the last portion of your remarks be removed from the record as I believe it to be prejudicial against my client.”
“The guy’s got some balls calling out a judge,” Mason whispers to me.
Even the judge looks stunned for a moment, but after considering the request, he states, “So ordered. My personal comments directed at Mr. Ellis are to be stricken from the record.”
“Holy shit,” I mutter, then cover my mouth.
I never swear, and I just did it in a courtroom. Not only that, I must have said it pretty loudly, because the people around Mason and I are stifling laughter and the judge is now staring me down. I’m almost expecting to be arrested for contempt or something.
Still, Chris’s lawyer just got the judge presiding over his case to strike his own remarks to the defendant. It’s entirely possible that Chris’s lawyer is, himself, a conman, and I don’t just mean in the same way that every lawyer is skilled at parsing the truth. The guy may very well be in the confidence game.
Chris doesn’t really react as they take him away. He just goes as he’s guided with those shuffled little steps.
With that, Mason and I get up and leave the courtroom.
It’s not until we get out of the courthouse that it feels okay to talk again.
“What do you think they were laughing about?” I ask.
“I really don’t know,” Mason says. “You’ve heard as much about what he’s actually being charged with as I have. He never really goes into specifics with that kind of stuff because he knows I’ll lecture him. It’s a strange world when I’m the responsible one in the family.”
“Seriously,” I tease.
“Chris has actually pulled some funny stuff over the years, if I’m honest,” Mason says, chuckling. “Like, when I was just about to turn eighteen, he decided I needed something to burn the day into my mind. So, he called up a local radio station and told them I had this rare genetic disease that made everything taste like a roast beef sandwich.”
“What?” I laugh.
“It was actually pretty great there for a little bit,” Mason says. “The radio station said something about it on the air, and before I knew it, people were sending me gift certificates to restaurants and coupons for free sauce and that kind of thing. I was a little pissed he’d given my address to the DJ, who apparently then blabbed it on the air, but I ate really well for a couple of months. So yeah, he made the call on my eighteenth birthday and just told me that my present was in the mail. I guess people thought if I just had the right kind of food, I’d be able to taste something else—I don’t know, it sounds pretty weird saying it out loud, but he’s always loved making a con look like a stupid prank.”
I try to imagine the way that conversation between Chris and the DJ must have gone down, but I can’t get past how bizarre the story was to begin with. People do get what’s called dysgeusia, which is where a person’s sense of taste is altered, but I’ve never heard of anyone only ever tasting roast beef sandwiches.
Mason’s laughter, once boisterous is now quiet, reserved. It’s possible I’m focusing on the wrong part of the story.
“That’s funny,” I cover. “Did you get any coupons for places that serve roast beef sandwiches?” I ask.
“Almost exclusively,” Mason chuckles. “How did you know?”
“It seems like the only kind of restaurant that wouldn’t be hurt by doing that sort of thing,” I answer. “The worst thing you could say about a roast beef sandwich with such a peculiar form of dysgeusia is that it tastes like a roast beef sandwich. But say you got a coupon to an Italian restaurant and ordered cavatappi with marinara sauce and a red wine reduction and you say that tastes like roast beef, people would probably stop eating there.”
He’s laughing as we get to the car. “You know,” he says, “sometimes I forget just how much smarter than me you are.”
“I’m happy to remind you,” I tell him and smile, putting the key in the ignition. “What do you want to do now?” I ask.
“I’m still pretty beat from the gym,” he says. “Would you mind if we just relaxed with a movie or something?”
“Okay,” I tell him. “If you want, we can go to my place. Jana’s at work for the next little bit and my only class for the day got out before I came and got you. It doesn’t really matter to me, but it’s an option.”
“That sounds good to me,” he says. “I’m kind of glad to get out of the house for a while.”
We chat a little bit and the tensions of the last while are finally starting to ease. It’s hard to say what caused the change, but we’re talking and laughing in a way we really haven’t since Chris’s arrest.
We continue to enjoy each other’s company right until the moment we’re at my apartment and I’m opening the door to find two people I didn’t expect to see sitting on the couch.
I immediately close the door, but the jig is up.
“Darling?” that grating, affected voice comes wafting through the air just like that expensive perfume she may as well bathe in, and Mason’s looking at me not having any idea what’s about to happen.
“There are some things I need to talk to you about,” I tell him quietly as I hold the door closed just a few more seconds. “First, I’ve got to deal with this.”
“Who is that?” Mason asks in a whisper.
“That’s my mom,” I answer. “Excuse me,” I correct, “that is my mother. I promise I will explain everything, but for right now, I just need you to go to my room and wait for me for a little bit. I know this is weird, but—”
“We should probably open the door now,” Mason interrupts as someone, undoubtedly Jana, tries the knob and then knocks on the other side of the door.
“I’ll explain everything, okay?” I ask, hoping for some sort of reassurance. Maybe I can use it as armor against whatever humiliating position my parents have gotten themselves into this time.
Probably not.
“Okay,” he says easily... too easily. I may have overstated my enthusiasm about explaining whatever’s about to be explained to me.
I let go of the doorknob and the door comes open with Jana holding the other side of the knob.
“What was that about?” Jana asks.
“Sorry,” I say, trying to avoid eye contact. “I just had to tell Mason something.”
“Your mom’s here,” Jana says, grinning at me.
I hate this moment so much. Jana loves my mom, but not for any good or even decent reason. Mom, love her as I’m genetically programmed to do, is basically a walking advertisement for old money, though that’s not actually anywhere in her background.
Her name’s not even May Weese.
Jana and I have known each other for a very long time, and in that time, my esteemed roommate and friend has also gotten to know my parents. She doesn’t like my dad. He’s too dry and whiny—Jana’s words, not mine—but mom, Jana loves mom.
There hasn’t been a conversation between the two of them that hasn’t yielded my friend some kind of ammunition to throw at me for her own twisted amusement. Judging by the fact I could count her teeth from the size of the smile on her face, I’d say she’s already achieved that goal.
“Mason?” I ask.
He stands there a second before saying, “Oh, right,” and walking past the three of us and going to my room, closing the door behind him.
Good boy.
“Jana, as always, I appreciate you getting my mother to tell you embarrassing stories about me, but you’re supposed to be at work right now, aren’t you?” I ask.
“Actually, the boss gave me the day off,” she says.
“Say, Jana, you’re supposed to be at work right now, aren’t you?” I repeat.
She finally takes the hint.
“Fine,” she says, “but you and I have a couple of things to talk—” she bursts into laughter. Over the next painfully long thirty seconds, she tries again and again to finish the sentence, but e
very time, she just starts laughing again.
“Just go,” I tell her.
As I hear her laughing even after she’s left the apartment and is walking down the hallway, I realize I haven’t done a very good job inspiring fear around this place. That’s something I’m now rather eager to change.
“Why are you here?” I ask.
“Oh, good heavens, darling,” mom says in her aristocratic tone. “The way you speak sometimes…”
“Mom, it’s just you and me. You can drop the stupid voice,” I tell her.
“It’s not stupid,” she says in her natural and refreshingly boring voice. “We haven’t spoken since you called me back, and I was concerned you might attempt to do something silly like make a statement against your father and I.”
“How can I make a statement about it before I know what you’ve actually done?” I ask.
“Sit down, dear,” she says. “There are a few things I think you should know.”
“I thought the best approach is plausible deniability,” I answer, but I do take her advice and sit down on the couch. “If you’re willingly telling me what’s going on, that must mean—”
“You act as if your father and I are so predictable,” she says, tinges of that almost raspy, almost British voice creeping in at odd intervals. “This is quite serious, I assure you.”
“Tell me you left me out of it,” I say. “Tell me you didn’t involve me in whatever scheme the two of you have been working. That’s my boyfriend in there. We just got back from court where his brother was remanded for more than a few dozen things, and I’ve just about had my fill. What’s worse, I’ve been so nervous to talk to him about this that I never got around to it, so he’s totally unprepared for any of this. Just tell me you left me out of it,” I repeat.
“Well, dear,” she says, her phony voice now dominant, “it should reassure you that your father and I never intended to involve you in our business ventures, as we know you don’t agree with some of our more unique practices.”
“Save it, mom,” I tell her. “If you didn’t drag me into this somehow, you’d be saying that you didn’t involve me, not that you ‘never intended to.’ Can we skip the PR and just get this over with? I'd rather be doing just about anything right now, and I even have plans for some of it.”
“I wish you would call me mother,” she says, seeming to ignore everything else altogether.
“Say what you have to say,” I tell her.
“Well dear,” she says, “over the last few years, we’ve been following what we thought was sound business advice, only to find out we’d been led into crime by the greed of others.”
“I’m trying to count how many times you deferred the blame in that one sentence,” I tell her.
Mom says, “We were approached by a man we thought was a friend, and we trusted him. We trusted that—”
“I’m going to kick you out of my apartment and tell the news that you’re guilty of whatever you’re about to be accused of if you don’t spare me the prepared material and get to the point,” I tell her.
She holds up her hand lazily, saying, “Oh, Ashley, you have so much fire in you. I don’t understand why you can’t make it work with a man.”
“Get out,” I tell her, standing and pointing toward the door.
“I’m telling you,” she says. “Calm yourself.” She takes a breath and starts again. “Your father and I are about to be accused of being involved in a real estate scandal,” she says.
“Specifics, mom,” I say. “What did you do, how much time are you looking at, and am I involved somehow? The answers to those questions are the only thing I care to—”
“I am your mother, and I will not be spoken to in this way!” mom says. Her protest probably wouldn’t seem so hollow if I haven’t had to say similar things so often in the past.
Still, she continues.
“We purchased a number of houses in decent areas throughout the state,” she says. “We didn’t know the realtors were accepting multiple offers and then absconding with their ill-gotten gains.”
Of course they knew, but I’m not going to interrupt when she’s giving me the closest thing to the truth I’m ever going to get out of her on the subject.
“What’s even more outrageous than that is that these horrible people are now saying that it was us who had instructed them to do these terrible, terrible things,” mom says. “When they gave us the money from the sale of the houses, we just assumed that everything was accurate, that the amount we were receiving was legitimate. How were we supposed to know this sort of thing was going on?”
“First off, nobody’s ever going to buy that. It’s just about the stupidest explanation I’ve ever heard,” I tell her. “How much money did you spend on the houses? All put together, what was the total?” I ask.
“Six or seven million,” she answers. “Your father has the exact figures.”
“And how much did you make from the sale of these homes?” I ask.
“The money isn’t what’s important,” she protests. “What’s important is that your father and I are being slandered by people trying to get out of taking responsibility for their own actions.”
“I’m sure they’ll say the same thing about the two of you and you’ll both be equally right,” I tell her. “How much did you make off of the sale of the houses?”
“Again, your father would have the exact figure with him,” she stalls. I don’t respond. I just glare at her until she finally answers the question, “I believe it was somewhere between forty and fifty million.”
I whistle when I hear the sum. “That sounds like a pretty glaring problem,” I tell her. “How are you going to convince people you didn’t know what they were doing? Even with your claims of innocence peppered throughout everything you just said, upon hearing it, I’m absolutely convinced that you not only knew what they were doing, but you put them up to it.”
“You always think we’re capable of the most horrible things,” mom says. “Your father and I truly believed that the amounts we were receiving were reasonable profits.”
“You’re still missing something,” I tell her. “You told me what you did and I can figure out what kind of time you’re going to get as a result of that. The internet’s great for that sort of thing. But you still haven’t told me why you’re here. I know I’m involved somehow, otherwise you wouldn’t be telling me any of this.”
“Dear, you know that your father and I have put a lot of our money into the charity,” mom says.
“What does that have to do with anything?” I ask.
“Well,” she starts, “I don’t know if you’re aware of this, but we’ve been experiencing a bit of a financial crisis over the past few years—what, with so much of our money going into the charity.”
“Oh, can we please stop referring to you and dad’s bank accounts in the Cayman Islands as ‘the charity’ and just tell me?” I ask.
“In order to purchase the last house, we needed a little extra money—you know how your father deplores bringing too much money back without some sort of respectable reason,” mom says. “Respectable-looking” probably would have been more accurate. “So, keeping in mind that we never intended for any of this to happen, we may have used your name and information to apply for a few loans from our bank which could help us pay off the last couple of houses.”
“How many houses were you trying to cover?” I ask. “You’re not agreeing with yourself. And what kind of loans can you apply for in someone else’s name?”
“Well, that part was an oversight on the part of your father and I,” she says. “I wanted to come here and warn you personally that you may be audited when you get your taxes back. You would have been unaware of a few of the student loans that are in your name, and so wouldn’t have mentioned any of them on your taxes. They check that sort of thing, you know.”
“Student loans?” I ask.
“Yes, dear,” mom answers as if it’s a perfectly rational thing.
Mom says, “Ashley, are you feeling quite—”
“How about you don’t call me Ashley and I don’t call you mom?” I interrupt. “Ash and mother, can you live with that?”
“Fine, dear,” she says. “I know you’re upset, but we only did this with your best interests in—”
“How is implicating me in your crimes by forging my signature and getting student loans I never applied for, much less saw any of, in my best interest?” I interrupt again.
She’s covering her mouth with her hand as if it’s my behavior that’s shocking. “We were going to surprise you by paying off your college with our profits off of the houses,” she tells me.
“I can’t believe this,” I tell her. “I really can’t believe this. I mean, I know you and dad have done some idiotic things in the past, but—”
“Now hold your tongue,” mom chastises. “I have told you before that I will not be spoken to in this manner, and I will have you know I am quite tempted to show myself out the door right this minute!”
“You’re going to make a public statement,” I tell her. “You’re going to tell everyone I wasn’t involved.”
“Of course, dear,” she says.
Thank goodness for that, at least.
“None of our family was involved in wrongdoing,” she says, looking past me with a glazed expression on her face. I think she actually believes her own lies.
“Even if you get away with the rest of it,” I tell her, “you’re still going down for the student loans. The only way out of that is throwing me under the bus.”
“There are other ways,” mom says. I get a chill that lasts until she follows the daunting statement with a more characteristic, almost naïve, though no less jarring one, “If you can produce the money that we took out in loans, less reasonable amounts to account for tuition, books, and housing, it won’t even be an issue at trial. As for the rest of it, John has assured us that all we’re looking at is the usual witch hunt—you know, for as much as the people of this country love the rich, they seem to enjoy our misery to a disproportionate degree.”
