Hemmed in on all fronts, Old Stu grudgingly caved in. “Okay, okay,” he said, raising both hands as if in surrender. “Count me in.”
“Attaboy, Stu. Good move.”
“I can’t believe I’m knifing Bolton in the back. I can never face him again.”
“Maybe you won’t have to. Maybe he’ll serve his time, take his money, what’s left of it, and ride off into the sunset. He has no friends to speak of around here, Stu. You know that.”
“But he thought I was his friend.”
“He used you, Stu, same way he used everyone else in his life. Don’t shed any tears over Bolton Malloy. He’ll be fine. And so will we.”
“I guess we will.”
（29）
Over the next week or so, Stu met separately with each of his three co-conspirators and explained the impenetrable web of offshore bank accounts and shell companies he had established on behalf of Bolton and his tobacco money. They were duly impressed and even flabbergasted at the intricate maze designed to hide it and keep it away from American tax collectors, or those from anywhere else. As if they had rehearsed, all three were adamant in their desire to move “their” money yet again to foreign banks they could deal with privately and directly. Stu felt a bit slighted, as if they couldn’t wait to get the money away from him.
Rusty bolted first. To impress a new girlfriend, he chartered a jet and away they went to the British Virgin Islands where they spent a week in an oceanside villa and lounged by the pool. When she needed time in the spa, he met with his new bankers and verified that the money was in hand. More was on the way, he assured them, and they spent a few pleasant hours devising an investment strategy. With a million in hand and at least half that much due every year, investing was much less complicated.
Late one afternoon, sitting on a shaded terrace with the shimmering indigo ocean around him, and drinking a rum punch, Rusty began to have serious thoughts about quitting the law. He was tired of the pressure, the grind, the hours, the unpleasantness of dealing with his brother, and he was especially tired of getting his ass kicked in the courtroom. He was forty-six years old and wondering if he had peaked at such a young age as a trial lawyer. He had certainly lost his touch with juries. Insurance companies no longer feared him.
Why not take his new money and live a simpler life on a beach?
Diantha and her husband, Jonathan, were not currently living together, but the idea of a trip to Europe sounded good as a way to maybe re-ignite the romance. When the first three days went well and they promised to renew their vows, she finally told him about the new fee-splitting arrangement at Malloy & Malloy. Jonathan was impressed and seemed even more determined to make the marriage work. They met with bankers and planned ways to manage the cash. After a few days in Zurich, they flew to Paris and roamed the streets arm in arm.
Kirk was unable to dash off and check on his new fortune because his wife’s divorce lawyers would soon be picking through his pocket change. Every movement and every expenditure would be subject to their scrutiny. Terrified of leaving a phone, text, or email trail, he finally managed to contact a London banker through an encrypted email account. Once their communications were secure, Kirk moved his money to a British bank domiciled in the Cayman Islands. It would be safe there, regardless of how many lawyers Chrissy hired.
The secret infusion of funds actually emboldened Kirk to attempt to settle the divorce and offer her almost everything they owned, plus reasonable alimony. The child support alone would be brutal, but, after all, they were his kids too and he wanted to provide. However, it became apparent that her lead lawyer, the infamous ball-squeezer Scarlett Ambrose, was out for blood and wanted another trophy victim. She wanted a nasty trial with perhaps some press coverage to further boost her oversized ego. Chrissy seemed to have been thoroughly brainwashed by her manipulative lawyer and would not negotiate. The breakup was caused by the mutual hatred of the parties, not bad behavior by either one. Scarlett, though, needed dirt, and she was unleashing her bloodhounds on Kirk’s finances.
Let them sniff, he said to himself. I have a fresh pile of new money buried under the sandy beaches of the Cayman Islands.
（30）
It was Rusty’s turn for the monthly visit to Saliba Correctional Center. He had made the awful trip at least thirty times in the past five years and dreaded every mile of the journey. He remembered those earlier trips and how his resentment grew the closer he got to the prison. He remembered the struggle to have pity on his father for being imprisoned and wearing fatigues like the common criminals and working for fifty cents an hour in the library and eating wretched food. At the same time he loathed the man for manipulating the lives of so many, especially his two sons. He still chafed at the brutal partnership agreement Bolton had forced Rusty and Kirk to sign, one that bound them together at the hip and forced them to stay together. Most of all, he despised the old man for his greed, his determination to keep all of the tobacco money for his own glorious retirement.