The conversation around the table mostly consisted of Donner and Scott talking about their golf game, the shape of the greens at East Ridge, and the price of gasoline. I said very little, answering any question directed toward me in a basic way. Beneath my calm exterior, my gut churned and my heart pumped hard, as if I were about to run a race.
Finally, coffee was poured, and dessert, a lovely chocolate chiffon, was served. Then the ceremony began. Same ol’ ceremony as the year before, but this time Scott gave the acceptance speech, which was a very nice speech, mostly because I had helped him with much of it months ago, when I was still in the dark and still in love with my husband. Now those words about family and community clinked like a rusted can on a deserted street. When Scott thanked me for my love and support, people clapped and looked my way. I tried to smile. I truly did. But it was like smiling through a Pap smear. I just kept my feet in those metaphorical stirrups and plastered on my game face, sagging in relief once the attention shifted away from me.
At the end of the speech, Ed stood up and gave Scott a cheap plaque. Ruby leaned over. “How much longer do you think we’ll have to suffer through this?”
And she got her answer before I could say, I don’t know.
In the back of the room, there was a fluttering. I saw the head of the club, a jackass who always gave me trouble when I was planning something at the University Club, hurry toward the door, where two men stood in dark suits. Behind them were uniforms. Not quite a SWAT team, but they had guns and were dressed in black. A low murmur began in the room as people craned their heads to see what the fuss was about. Beneath the table, Ruby grabbed my hand.
I was shaking.
Not sure why. Excitement? Dread? Relief? Shame?
No clue. But I trembled like Pippa in a thunderstorm.
“Hey, wait—you can’t do this right now! We’re in the middle of something!” the club manager shouted as the two men proceeded into the room, followed by a small contingency of law enforcement. I kept my eyes away from Donner’s gaze. Scott still stood at the podium holding his plaque and looking concerned. He glanced over at Donner, who had his phone out and was rapidly tapping.
Jim Arnold didn’t slow down on his sojourn toward our table. He called behind him to the distraught manager, “We have a warrant. And we don’t care that you’re in the middle of something.”
“What’s going on?” Ty asked his father while watching the parade of black heading our way. He seemed to understand that it revolved around his dad.
“Marjorie, dear, Ty will see you home. I fear this is about me. Unmerited, of course, but I’ve always had a target on my back. Everything will be okay,” Donner said, patting his wife’s hand. Marjorie looked like a little lost sheep, and I felt really awful that he’d brought her to this event. Talk about bad timing.
“What do you mean, Don?” Marjorie asked, looking at Ty. “What is happening?”
Donner stood and buttoned his suit jacket just as Jim arrived with the warrant. “Mr. Arnold, I see we were destined to meet again. Could you have not picked a better time?”
Jim raised his eyebrows. “We waited until you had coffee.”
The officers were moving toward Scott, who looked panicked. He had tucked his award under his arm and had started moving away from the advance. He threw out a hand and said, “I have nothing to do with this. This is all on Donner. He’s the guy you want.”
Donner’s eyes flashed with hard anger as he glanced at Scott. I could almost see his thoughts. Never should have trusted this fool.
Honestly, it looked like something out of a comedy—my husband squealing like a pig and Donner turning and presenting his hands to be cuffed as calmly as I had ever seen him. Marjorie had started crying, and Ty was already on the phone, likely calling another attorney. Ruby and I sat there sipping our wine, our version of eating popcorn as the arrest went down.
“Scott Crosby,” the man with Jim Arnold said, “you’re under arrest for conspiracy to commit fraud, aiding and abetting, and wire and mail fraud. You have the right to remain silent. You have the right—”
“I didn’t do anything wrong!” Scott shouted, still backing away. “All I did was introduce him to some of my friends. That’s it. This is on him. He’s the one—”
“Shut up, Scott,” Ty called, pressing his hand against the microphone of his phone. “Don’t say another word.”
The organizers of the luncheon were wide eyed, whipping their heads back and forth, mouths open. Everyone else in the room was absolutely aghast and titillated at the scene unfolding. Ed stood nearby, his hand still outstretched as if to shake Scott’s.