The Consequences Series Box Set

by Aleatha Romig

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  2012 Edition License

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  Prologue

  It has been said that something as small as the flutter of a butterfly’s wing can ultimately cause a typhoon halfway around the world.

  —Chaos Theory

  The tires of their Chevy Equinox bounced along the worn pavement and dilapidated surface of Bristol Road. Peering through the windshield at the signs of a dying city, Rich Bosley wondered if this was how the old west had felt when the gold rush ended. Acres and acres of fenced concrete occupied each side of the decrepit street. At one time during Flint, Michigan’s prime, cars filled these parking lots twenty-four hours a day. Three shifts of workers came and went from these factories. Today, it represented urban decay at its utmost.

  In 1908, General Motors opened their newly founded headquarters in Flint. Generations of workers walked through the doors; each generation believed theirs would do better than the previous one. The tides turned with the oil crisis of the seventies and the nationwide plant closings of the eighties.

  But, like rain to the parched ground, optimism returned to Flint at the turn of the century. GM had invested 60 million dollars to upgrade the plant. Over 2,000 hourly workers and 180 salaried workers frequented the building they passed. It was honest work for honest pay. This blue-collar haven once again bustled with activity.

  During the latter part of the first decade, the auto industry suffered collapse. Some plants scheduled for closing were saved by private investors. Businessmen and women gave hope where hope was lost; however, these saviors required assistance. Workers agreed to lesser wages, and the dream for better became a need for anything. Michigan’s government granted tax breaks in the supreme effort to keep the factories open and give people purpose.

  When the tax breaks expired, the workers were asked to accept even lower wages. It was inconsequential; the economy couldn’t support the product. Only the bottom line mattered. With no incentive to keep the doors open, men and women in insulated executive offices, miles away, made lofty decisions. The result filled Rich’s view: building upon empty building, decaying skeletons of what once was.

  Rich thought about his father’s recent proposal. The prospect of moving back to Iowa felt like defeat. After all, was the banking business better in Iowa than in Michigan? The economy was a national issue. Rich and his wife, Sarah, had faith in this city. They were willing to work to make it better for their son and children to come.

  Rich peered to his right and smiled at his lovely wife engrossed in her magazine. “How can you read with all of these bumps?” Her normally styled hair hung from the opening in her baseball cap, and her business attire was replaced with jeans and a Tiger’s t-shirt. It was their son’s first year of baseball, rookie league. It was more about learning teamwork than learning baseball; however, if you ask the players, it was more about the sugary snacks that came as a bonus. Sarah provided homemade cupcakes—a home run!

  “I’m just so amazed by this article.”

  “What are you reading?”

  “Vanity Fair. It’s the cover story from a couple of months ago. I forgot I’d left the magazine in here. I just found it.”

  Rich nodded; he wasn’t interested.

  Sarah continued, “It’s about Anthony Rawlings and his wife. Didn’t your dad go to their wedding?”

  “Yes, I think so. It’s one of the perks of being Richard Bosley, the great governor of Iowa. You get to schmooze with big donors.”

  “I remember him mentioning it. It sounds amazing.” Sarah rambled, “The wedding was at their estate, so that means your dad went to their estate?”

  “I guess. I’m honestly not impressed.”

  “Why not? It sounds like they’re both involved in charity work. Did you know his wife was a bartender when he met her?”

  “The man makes his money by harming other people.”

  “It doesn’t sound like that. It sounds like an amazing love story. Can you imagine being an out of work meteorologist, working as a bartender, and falling in love with one of the country’s billionaires?”

  “Again, where did those billions come from?”

  “It says something about the internet.”

  “Yes. According to my father, that’s where it started. Anthony Rawlings has managed to take that start and feed off of the unfortunate circumstances of others. He’s personally unemployed enough people to fill these factories.”

  “He also employs enough people to fill these factories.” Sarah peered at the barren landscape. “I think people are just jealous. I mean, I could be. What woman wouldn’t love to suddenly have Claire Rawlings’ life?”

  The sound of their son’s voice refocused the couple’s thoughts. Instead of dwelling on urban decay and the nation’s economy, Rich saw the blond hair of hope in the backseat. “Dad, I need to pee.” Ryan pleaded wide-eyed at his dad in the rearview mirror.

  “Ryan, we’ll be home in a few minutes. You can wait.”

  “No, Dad, I can’t. I gots to pee now!”

  Rich’s eyes met his wife’s. Her expression said everything he already knew; this wasn’t the neighborhood to make a pit stop. If they could just drive a little further, then they’d be much safer; however, Ryan’s voice whined, and his little legs fidgeted with need. “I see a gas station. Stop, pl-ea-se!” The last word elongated into three extended syllables.

  Against his better judgment, Richard Bosley II turned the Equinox into a parking space outside of a Speedway and turned to his wife. “I’ll go in with him. Besides, it’s the middle of the day, and it doesn’t look busy.”

  Sarah smiled and unbuckled her seat belt. “Okay, guys, let’s get this over with and back on the road. We have a baseball game to watch. I recorded the whole thing. Ryan, wait until you see yourself get that great hit!”

  A film of smudge and fingerprints plastered the heavy glass doors. Rich scanned the interior, looking for the sign indicating a restroom. The odor of hot dogs cooked to the firmness of rubber permeated their senses. Merchandise sat sparsely upon shelves that packed the room, leaving no discernible path. The dirt and scuffs upon the cracked linoleum were the true indicators of foot traffic. Looking to the cashier, Rich noticed the small, unsecured cubical. He scanned the glass square for help, but saw only empty chairs; then he noticed the open drawer of the cash register.

  “Dad, I see the sign.” Ryan’s voice cut the thick, silent air.

  Suddenly, a commotion of racket resonated from the hallway, containing the bathrooms. Some moments hang suspended in time as if the electrons slow, protons release their pull, and atoms no longer cement into matter; for example, the second a newborn baby releases its first cry. Some instants occur in a flash; like lightening refusing capture upon film. Others are an amalgamation.

  A thick man moved toward them, his face concealed behind a black ski mask. Rich’s first thought, it’s July; why would you wear a ski mask? was only a blimp before the realization of their situation struck. “Run! Back to the car!” The words cascaded from his lips with alarm and authority.

  Preoccupied with the search of her purse, Sarah’s husband’s tone propelled her to flight. She seized her son’s small hand and spun toward the smudged glass door. The echoing pop of gunfire erupted so abruptly that she never saw her husband fall, and thankfully, neither did Ryan. The last thing either of them saw was the shower of red as their blood added another dimension to the filth on the floor and windows.

  Months earlier and miles away, a business executive chose to close a stamping p
lant that was no longer showing profits. That one decision resulted in thousands of unemployed workers. One of which was a father with a sick child and no wife. In a moment of desperation, the out of work father decided his only option to pay the mounting medical bills and save his son was to commit crime. A few robberies later, with money too attractive and too easy to obtain, he had a new profession…

  Chapter One

  There is no limit to what a man can do, or where he can go, if he does not mind who gets the credit.

  —Charles Edward Montague

  Looking around his office, Richard Bosley contemplated his place in history. The stately office reeked of prestige. Impressive bookshelves covered the walls, and his mahogany desk created a platform of regality. The flags of both the United States and Iowa hung conspicuously behind his leather chair. Only fifteen months into his second term as governor, he had so many goals to accomplish. The voters rallied around him after the tragic death of his only son and his family. They put their trust in him, in his ideas, and in his values. Staring at the family photo of him with his son, daughter-in-law, and grandson, he questioned his own values. Perhaps they’d been too lofty. Perhaps if he had stayed out of public office, things would have been different.

  The cold March Iowa wind blew outside the window and created a low howl through the insulated panes. Seeing his reflection against the black night sky, Richard Bosley knew the truth: “what ifs” meant nothing! His family was gone, and his third round of chemo would begin tomorrow. The second round took his hair and energy, and the third may very well take his life. If it didn’t, the cancer surely would. Seeing his gaunt reflection and viewing his hands, he saw the gray pallor. His skin was merely an oversized casing, loosely hanging over his bones. It reminded him how life wasn’t fair; still, he prayed death would be.

  Richard Bosley would officially resign as governor of Iowa at a press conference scheduled for tomorrow at noon. The lieutenant governor, Sheldon Preston, would immediately be sworn in office for the remaining term. Tonight, alone in the executive office, Governor Bosley chose to make decisions that mattered. He had nothing left to lose. To hell with the executive board; tonight, the only opinion that mattered was his.

  Who can truly say whether a good deed that’s done for the wrong reason wasn’t still good? Right now, his soul told him to take another look. Don’t leave this place of power without knowing you’ve done all that you can do. Easing himself into the splendid leather chair, he decided to do just that. History would write itself.

  The stack of petitions requesting pardons were discussed, debated, and decreased. The news of his impending resignation spurred many requests. The executive board reviewed the multiple petitions for pardon and decided upon ten. Ten applicants now serving time in one of Iowa’s penitentiaries who would soon be free. Tomorrow, these ten people would be informed their verdict was overturned and that their sentence was over.

  Governor Bosley eyed the stack of pages to his left. Within that stack were eleven other people. According to the board of review, these inmates would remain in prison. They would serve out their sentences as handed down by the mighty and lofty judges of this great state. With trembling hands, more from the chemicals within his veins than emotion, Governor Bosley reviewed the stack of prisoners destined to remain behind bars for the eternity of their sentence.

  The lists of offenses varied: rapists, burglars, prostitutes, and others. Somehow through the diseased cells infiltrating his brain, Richard remembered his quest. One more time, he leafed through the stack. Finally, he found the name he sought. Yes, she’d been married to Anthony Rawlings. Hell, he’d attended their wedding. Suddenly, Richard Bosley’s mouth formed a grin. There had been very few reasons to smile lately. The facial muscles would soon tire, but he enjoyed the brief euphoria.

  He reread the file: Claire Nichols: no contest plea to the charge of attempted murder, thus not officially found guilty, good behavior since incarceration, no marks of disobedience, no prior offenses, sentenced to seven years, served fourteen months. With the multitude of sins represented by the prisoners already scheduled for pardon, Governor Bosley could question why the executive board allowed this woman to remain in prison; however, he already knew the reason. The board consisted of five individuals of political power—or at least political promise in Iowa—and each served a four year term. Everyone knew success in Iowa wasn’t found by crossing Anthony Rawlings.

  Richard Bosley found himself with the rare opportunity to avenge his son’s death. Dealing with politicians and individuals like Anthony Rawlings taught him many things. Closing his eyes, he saw the esteemed businessman smiling, shaking hands, and making promises; however, Governor Bosley knew Rawlings’ decision to close that stamping plant in Flint, Michigan cost dearly. It may not be Christian to seek revenge, but looking at the page before him, he pondered how anyone but God could present him this opportunity.

  Without a second thought, Governor Richard Bosley signed his name onto the bottom of the petition. He took the official Iowa stamp and made the document legal. Yes, the original ten names of prisoners receiving pardons were already released to the press. It would be all right; the newspapers would momentarily miss this great human interest story: State Official Rights a Wrong and Releases Ex-wife of Top Executive from Prison. Richard Bosley was confident the world wouldn’t miss the aftermath, and yet, somehow, Mr. Rawlings’s publicist would spin this story in his direction. However, just maybe, by avoiding the first published list of pardons, Ms. Nichols would have the opportunity to write her own story.

  The following day, in front of local and national press, Governor Bosley signed ten petitions. Under the Iowa State Constitution, a pardoned person was entitled to an expunction of all arrest records relating to the conviction. A full pardon restored all citizenship rights forfeited by law as the result of a criminal conviction and officially nullifies the punishment or other legal consequences of the crime. The person will forever be regarded as innocent and regain the status as if he or she had never committed the offense for which he or she was convicted.

  Most importantly, a pardon granted by a state executive was final and irrevocable. Governor Bosley placed the ten documents into the manila folder already containing one. Smiling weakly at the cameras, he stood and walked to the podium. “Ladies and gentlemen, you witnessed my final act as governor of this great state. It’s with a solemn heart today that I resign from this prestigious office…”

  The clerk took the manila folder and placed each document inside its appropriate envelope. Counsel representing each individual would be contacted, prisoners would be informed, and if accepted by each prisoner, the pardon could not be overturned. Finally, the courts would be notified of each pardon. With so much activity and emotion, even the clerk didn’t realize she had filed eleven pardons instead of ten.

  Down the street from the State House, in another office building, Jane Allyson Attorney at Law, paced nervously around her small office, willing her telephone to ring. This was her first petition for pardon. She’d waited anxiously for verdicts from juries: verdicts that determined the freedom and future of her clients. Somehow this seemed different—surreal. Her client had already lost her freedom and future by willingly pleading no contest to the charge of attempted murder.

  Jane remembered standing next to Ms. Nichols with an overwhelming sense of helplessness—complete impotence—as they listened to the judge discuss the consequences of Claire’s plea. Early in law school, Jane learned to remain emotionally detached from her clients. She usually succeeded. It was a matter of survival. She wouldn’t be able to help the next client if her thoughts lingered on the one she failed; however, that day, a year ago, Jane wanted to sit and cry with Claire Nichols. It was all so wrong.

  Time passes and seasons change. New clients come and go. Opportunities arise. Esquire Allyson now practiced with a firm in the heart of Iowa’s capital. Life was busy. Jane moved on, until three days earlier, when a courier delivered a certified l
etter labeled: Confidential: Esquire Jane Allyson. Within the envelope, she found the completed Petition for Pardon for Claire Nichols. No work on Jane’s part was required, except to sign as representing counsel. The attached typed note was short:

  Ms. Allyson,

  Perhaps you remember a client from about a year ago, Claire Nichols. Enclosed please find a petition for pardon to Governor Bosley. As you are probably aware, his time in office is short. This MUST reach his office today. All that is required of you is your signature. Enclosed please find a certified check to reimburse you for your undertaking.

  Thank you.

  Perhaps it was the check, $100 thousand dollars made payable to Cash, or the unsigned note, but accepting this assignment screamed wrong. What attorney in her right mind would accept a task and payment from an unknown source? Her future as well and law license may hinge on this decision. Jane knew she should consult the partners of her firm. That was her intent until the small digital readout at the bottom of her computer screen caught her attention: 4:32 PM. The governor’s office was a ten minute walk.

  Jane delivered the signed petition.

  Now, she nervously awaited the future. The governor’s decision was made. Jane had watched his press conference on the web. Pacing her office, she continued to question the ethics and legality of her decision. If her telephone never rang, and if the pardon wasn’t granted, then no one would ever know she filed the petition. The check would remain in her file cabinet. No matter the governor’s decision, cashing the check seemed immoral and unethical.

  On the wall, displayed in an impressive oak frame and matted against distinguished slate backing was her diploma from the University of Iowa, College of Law. The official seal reflected light even through the glass. Could her decision to help this woman and accept this assignment void those years of education?