Chapter 7: A Difficult Decision

KC keeps looking around her, almost more paranoid than you are, and you are speaking barely audibly (the last thing you need is nosy-Joe butting into this top-secret…secret). It was hard to wait an entire day to talk to her about it, but you wanted to hear Hobb out before you spilled the beans. Taking that small step forward was frightening, and became even more so when you heard the proposal in full. It was unbelievable, but despite its preposterous nature, complicated things rather than making them easier.
“Let me talk to my dad,” she says after a long silence, uncharacteristic of her. “He knows people in those circles. Maybe he’ll finally be good for something.”
“What would that accomplish?”
“Well, at least it would verify the story. I mean, really: you are having to take their word for it and you barely know these people.”
“Yeah, I thought I might try to find some stories in the newspaper or something to see if it all matches up.”
“Of course—at the very least. But I’m saying that Dad knows people in that community. He could ask around, or heck, he might even know off the top of his head. When I mentioned who was doing your art show, he was really familiar with Trent and Hal.”
“You told him about the art show?”
“Duh, Will. We don’t see eye to eye but that doesn’t mean we’re estranged.”
“I was getting a very different impression.” Pause. “I don’t know—I technically shouldn’t even have told you. The more people who know, the more…I don’t know…dangerous it seems.” Your conversation is interrupted by a regular patron, whom KC helps cheerfully: her preoccupation isn’t evident—well, to others, anyway. When she returns, she immediately steers the conversation from the subject of her father back to your current plight.
“Okay: list time.” She pulls out a napkin and a pen from her apron. “Pros and Cons. GO.” You were waiting for this signature move, but you don’t roll your eyes this time.
“Pros: money.”
“It makes the world go ‘round.”
“More importantly, it would help me go around the world.”
“Next?”
“Justice? Helping Hal? He’s terribly likable. I don’t trust Hobbs as much, but Hal does, so I guess by association…” An influx of costumers. The list stays shoved in KC’s apron pocket for the next hour, but that doesn’t stop it from continuing to develop in both of your minds.

On your break, you jot down a few more ideas, but find it only minimally helpful. None of the positives seem able to outweigh the negatives: the one in particular that is most terrifying. In fact, when Hobbs spoke it, you were certain he was either joking or was experiencing a mental lapse. You haven’t told KC yet— not quite prepared for the magnitude of that impending flip-out. You look up over a last bite of your cheeseburger and the few remaining fries getting colder by the minute. There she is: busy mixing drinks, and filling and passing out pints with expert ease. Ever so often, she touches the corner of her glasses. Your mind drifts to a memory that you have worked hard to suppress. It’s been so long that it’s only in moments of real vulnerability that you find yourself returning there, and, unsurprised, you realize that you can recall every single detail: the words that were spoken, the look on her face. That was the day you learned what kind of crier she was—silent, dry, barely noticeable to someone less observant. You are lost in this place for a few solid minutes before she looks up to see you watching her. You simply share a quick smile before she beckons you behind the counter: it’s her turn to break, now.

It’s a special occasion, so you and KC find yourselves repeating your old tradition of walking downtown in the early hours of morning, drinking coffee and slowly making your way through a dozen glazed (with one sprinkled each). You make your way to a familiar park bench at the center of the city and settle in, chewing quietly, fighting away the occasional wave of tiredness.
“I know we’re on an entirely different subject, Will, but I have to ask you something else.” KC says, using a tone that you think very few others have ever heard: soft, vulnerable.
“Yep.”
“ Why are you so bent on getting out of here? What do you imagine is out there for you?”
“Why sound so fatalistic, like this is all there is?” You are surprised at her. “You are always asking me to dream big, to care about the direction of my life rather than just let things happen.”
“Yes, but I think you could accomplish that in the environment you’re already in. Do you think it will be easier in a new place?”
You lick glaze from your thumb before taking a sip of coffee. “Yes. I guess I do.”
“What’s holding you back here? Besides yourself.” She is so earnest that you can’t look into her eyes. You don’t have an answer.
“Well, what about you?”
“What about me?”
“Are you going to be a bartender for the rest of your life?”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“It’s a pretty small dream, don’t you think?” When did this conversation turn so sharp? You think briefly, but too late to stop what you are both already immersed in.
“Only if you think ‘dream’ and how you make money are synonymous.” She is caught up in it, too. “Why does my dream have to be monetary? Why can’t it be relational?”
“It just feels like your dreams are for other people, not for yourself. What are you dreaming for yourself?”
“Good friendships are what I dream of for myself.” She is stalwart, unbending.
“So you don’t want to sing, eh? You can take that or leave it.” You get the feeling you have caught her, but having that power doesn’t feel as satisfying as you initially thought it would be. You struggle to free her. “Never mind; forget it, really.” She doesn’t move, but you sense a struggle between her vocal chords and the words forming in her mind. “I just want to try something new. I want to be somewhere fresh—maybe it would jump start my passion or something? Sometimes I feel trapped here. As long as my mom is here…”
“Yes, your mother.” She breathes out. “I can understand that. But what I can’t understand…” after an unbearable pause, she jumps up and walks the few steps to the trashcan where she throws out her coffee cup. Not turning to face you, she says, “let’s start back.”
“KC,” you are a few steps behind her and tug at the strings dangling unevenly from the folded apron on her arm. “What can’t you understand? Tell me.” Finally facing you, she says evenly, slowly.
“I won’t be there.” You feel flush. Your fingers start to tingle, your forehead feels damp. “And I don’t see why we can’t be in the same city and you can be satisfied at the same time.”
“That doesn’t seem fair.”
“I know…I know.”
“But KC—“
“I know. I know.” She starts to walk and you catch up, then shorten your strides to stay in step.
“No—you’re not getting away from it that easily.” She refuses to slow down, but you refuse to ease up, pursuing her down this suddenly opened avenue. “That means something to me—you know it does.”
“Yes.”
“But you realize that by holding me to that, you are becoming one of those ‘holding me back’ factors.”
“Yes.”
“KC—you asked me not to…do I have your permission to…”
“No.” Mounting frustration hits its peak.
“No! You and your double standards.” You catch her elbow, stopping her forward movement. She does not resist, but can’t meet your gaze. “Well, I’m going to say it anyway: I would take you with me. I would do it in a moment. But you won’t—“
“Won’t? Can’t.”
“You won’t be able to hide behind that forever, Kathryn Cadence Cleary. No, it’s ‘won’t’.” Although her face exudes disagreement, her voice doesn’t chime in.
“I’m sorry, Will. I really shouldn’t have said anything. I wish I hadn’t. We can’t talk about this—you know that it’s pointless! With J in the picture, it really is pointless.”
“Well—you think so.” Despite the heatedness of the conversation, she is looking at you tenderly. You have always loved that you get to see beyond that curtain she holds up for everyone else. The guys at work would never believe her eyes could look like that. This is the KC you prefer. She knows that you are done, and you know it as well, although with such a lack of resolve, you’re not sure why. She speaks up again before you have a chance. “Any closer to a decision?” You gladly take the bait, ready to let go of at least one burden tonight.
“Yes, I think I am. Good ol’ listing!”
“Speaking of which—let me see it.” She holds out her hand and with a bit of nervousness, you place it in her palm. She unfolds it, but it only takes her a second to find the word you expect her to be fixated on. “What the heck--” she pronounces forcefully—such a sudden turn that you aren’t entirely prepared for it when it hits “—is this doing on here?” Her finger points to the first word scratched under the ‘con’ column: ‘jail.’
“Alright: here’s the deal,” she is fuming, so you speak quickly. “I have to take responsibility for the theft. That’s the key, according to Hobbs. I have to fess up to conspiring to take that money and have my car taken so it couldn’t be traced to me. That’s why I’m so important. I have motive and—well, it was my car. That could mean jail.”

KC hasn’t spoken to you in days. You’ve never gotten the silent treatment like this before—not from her. She is usually above such behavior but you can’t really blame her for resorting to it in this case. You know it’s because she’s afraid, anyway, because she can’t tell what you’re thinking. You know her enough to understand that she sees the great battle between your common sense and your dreams for the future. Neither of you could find anything to either contradict or confirm the finer points of Hal’s story—but you expected as much. So in the end, common sense and dreaming are what it boils down to. As you sit stiffly in the back of Hal’s car behind a silent chauffeur, watching tree by tree quickly left in your wake, you wish you weren’t doing this alone. And she’s the only one you have.

What happens next?

A. You agree to help Hal, despite the risks and the consequences.
B. You decide that you are not the only one in danger here: you have to decline.

Chapter 6: The Twist

You are nervous about talking to the detective, though you’re not sure why. Maybe it’s that generally heightened sense citizen-abiding people get when interacting with cops: this irrational fear that they’re going to find out that bad thing you did as a kid and finally get you for it. Anyway, you decide it’s better to rip the Band-Aid off, so you dial his number and sit at your desk, drumming your fingers against the cheap particle board, idly looking at the small hand ticking on your wall clock. He answers almost immediately, catching you off guard for the first time today. (Yes, you are being sarcastic).
“Mr. Walker.”
“Detective Hobb, I got your message…”
“Yes. I need to speak to you in person as soon as possible. I can pick you up--just say the word.”
“Well…I have to work at 9. Can we do that tomorrow?”
“Mr. Walker, let me be frank with you. We have a situation developing around your missing car that cannot be put off. I do believe we have time to conduct our meeting before 9pm if we meet in the next hour.” You are intrigued by his urgency but increasingly made nervous by the curt tone he is using to address you. You do not, however, feel the freedom to turn him down. With one more glance at your clock—6:13—you make arrangements to meet him outside your door at 6:45. Then, you wait.

He is early; he waits about 10 minutes before you realize he’s there and hurry yourself out the door. You are in your work clothes, toting a similarly wrinkled apron and dinner jacket from last night. Who knows if you’ll be coming home before needing to get to Joe’s. You were able to get a hold of a miffed KC, who is “on call” if you end up needing a ride. She disapproved of your conceding to the time schedule of the detective, but is eager to know what he wants, as are you. The moment you settle into the passenger’s seat, you can tell by his brief greeting and set jaw that he is all-business today. Act un-guilty, you tell yourself, and try to look innocently and unconcernedly out the front windshield. You don’t ask any questions, because Hobb certainly isn’t offering any answers by the look of him, even when you realize that you are not headed downtown to the police station, but traveling in the opposite direction, towards the outskirts of town. After getting off of the highway, you take several turns on various deserted, nearly-country roads. This is the part where he shoots me in the head and dumps me in a ditch is the last thought you have before a mansion-like home looms in the distance just over a hill lined by trees that still wear the bare branches of winter. Although personally unaware of the change, you cast off “innocent college student” for “baffled citizen” as you pull onto the driveway between two huge, wrought-iron gates guarded on either side by naked Greek-looking statues.

Hal meets you at the foot of stone steps leading down from the front door. His expression is a mix of fondness, pity and shame. He ushers you to open your door even before the car stops, and peeks into the car to tell Hobb to, “just leave the car there.”
“Hal—“ you want to say something that shows you are calm and collected, but you are simply too bewildered to formulate a socially-acceptable greeting.
“Will, let me just say that I am so sorry. So, so sorry.”
“Hal,” Hobb interjects, “I haven’t said anything to him yet.”
“Oh,” Hal does his signature fatherly-gesture, putting his hand on the top of your shoulder, near your neck. “Well, I am sorry for the secrecy and for dragging you out here. We just wanted to be as conspicuous as possible. I promise, we will not let you be late for work.” How does he know…you begin to think; then, pondering the events of the day, you decide once and for all to abandon logical thought and reasonable questions, which seem to have no place here. Instead, you think and say nothing but: “Nice house.”

Soon, the three of you are settled in a comfortable, dimly-lit room lined by solid, cherry bookshelves that leave no wall space empty. It smells pleasantly of leather with just a hint of tobacco. Hal looks at you sympathetically across the space between your seats. Jeremy Hobb is pacing before the fireplace off to your right, Hal’s left. He has become increasingly agitated. You can’t help but notice the Persian rug (which you estimate to have cost at least $5,000—you used to work at an antique rug retailer) beneath your beat-up, second hand Converses.
“Jeremy brought you here for my benefit. I wanted to speak to you personally and privately. This is a delicate situation.”
“This? Really, my car isn’t worth much. I mean, is this because it happened during—“
“My friend,” Hal holds up his hand, graciously but with purpose, “let me stop you there. You cannot possibly understand, though I appreciate your attempt. For the sake of time, let me explain.” He settles deeper into his chair, like a grandfather preparing to tell a story about his past. Indeed, he is doing just that. You can only give him your attention and wait to comprehend, so you fold your hands in your lap. And wait.

“I don’t know how much you have heard about Trenton and I, and the development of our business. It was all in the papers, of course, but I know how little your generation tends to read news. We grew quickly, as we were selling something even more valuable to industry than a physical product: information. Innovation. We were on the cutting edge of technology and offering expertise that few had. We were young—met in college and started the business before we even graduated. Trenton majored in international business, so he handled all of the marketing and finances for our company. I never paid attention to those pieces of the business, since my skills were more mechanical. I should have—I know I should have—involved myself.” Hal pauses in his reminiscence, breaking eye contact to stare at the flames in the fireplace beside Hobb, who has finally settled in a seat, and is listening absently. Hal seems sincerely regretful. “I just met Trenton by chance. He wasn’t even really a friend at that time, just an acquaintance who had something I needed, and vice versa. He came from old money so I really couldn’t have done it without him, even though his devil-may-care modus operandi made me nervous from the get-go.” He sighs, “Once we started making money, I allowed myself to ignore those unsettled feelings. Trent did become a friend eventually. He went through a painful divorce with his first wife, whom he adored, that made him more vulnerable and human; he started relying on me more, valuing my input more instead of just brushing me off. That’s when I started truly caring for him. If that hadn’t happened, it probably would have been easier—no, it would have been easier, I must say—to turn him in when I first found out.” You start to make the connection between what he is saying now and those brief pieces of conversation you caught behind the house the night of the art show…you are completely drawn in now, and find yourself urging him past another pause,
“Found out what?”
“Well, I’ve already said that I didn’t know much about the financial aspect of our business. I handled all clientele and eventually managed employees who took over much of that work. I had no idea that we had started losing money at an alarming rate. Trenton had made business investments, not to mention personal monetary commitments, that he was unable to make payments on. Although we had gotten closer, and perhaps because we had gotten closer, he could not bring himself to admit these problems to me, so he handled them on his own.” Hal stands up suddenly and walks towards the fire. His hand on the mantelpiece, he turns towards you and, seemingly with gathered courage, resolutely admits: “He stole. Not just from investors, but from other people too…cooked up these schemes for us to ‘help charity to increase the benevolent image of our business’ then siphoning money from those events. Meanwhile, helping community organizations and individuals became a true passion of mine, so I began to take over those endeavors. Not knowing that Trent, who continued to insist on managing the money, was using them to add to our revenue.”
“But you didn’t know about it—it’s not your fault!”
“No, but when I finally discovered the truth, my image and my assets were twisted tightly in his cord of deception and manipulation. They still are. Now I have organizations and family that all stand to lose greatly if I reveal the truth. Ah, the lawsuits, the losses.” He looks at Hobb. “Unless--”
“Unless we can prove that it was all Trenton.” Hobb finishes.
“That shouldn’t be hard, right?” You offer encouragingly. They both look at you wearily, and you know your question has been answered.
“He is getting sloppy. We know that.” Hobb stands and carefully removes a pipe from a collection on the mantle. He walks to a shelf nearby, opens a small wooden box filled with sweet-smelling tobacco and starts methodically packing the pipe. He seems oddly familiar with this home, oddly comfortable with this room and with Hal’s things. Hal doesn’t seem to notice. “He never does his own dirty work. The other night was the first time he ever involved his own two hands.” You think about that conversation again—the artwork, the cars…Trenton’s tone— “We know you heard us,” Hal looks directly at you, “You caught us in the act. He was doing it again.”
“The art show—“ you say tentatively.
“Yes—easy money.” Hal confirms. “He doesn’t need it. The business is fine. We’ve branched out enough to compensate for the growing amount of competition on the market now. But it’s become an obsession: gathering money. Having more. Why not do it the easy way? Why not always be adding to your wealth? He doesn’t understand why I don’t feel the same. I can’t tell if his lack of understanding is because he really believes that contentedness is impossible, or if he is in denial to make himself feel justified. Really, what it comes down to,” he fingers the mantle before slowly making his way back to his original seat. Hobb is puffing thoughtfully in the corner, “is that I don’t know him at all anymore.”
“Is that why I’m here—because I heard something I shouldn’t have?” Am I secretly being filmed for some new cop show? You wonder. This can’t be for real.
“Yes. In part.” This from Hobb, who finally comes over to join the conversation, as if he was giving Hal some space for his personal confession and is now ready to get down to business. “Trenton isn’t about to let his carelessness bring him down so easily. That brings us to your car.”
“Wait—“ incredulous tone. “Trenton stole my car?”
“He didn’t know it was your car. But yes.” You look from Hobb to Hal, not really understanding.
“Well,” Hobb corrects, “he had someone steal your car.” The two men look at each other when Hobb speaks again, “And now he knows it’s your car.” You can sense the heaviness, the urgency, but you still don’t fully understand. You start to feel very light-headed and ask if you can move towards the window. Hal suggests that you all go outside because it’s almost time for the two of you to go, anyway. Hobb says he will drive you to work, that he knows where Joe’s Tavern is. As the detective empties the pipe and the three of you prepare to walk out, you try to process in the air left open by silence. The conclusion you are able to reach by the time you are on the front steps, breathing refreshingly cool air into your lungs, is that they need you. They need me.
“We need you, Will. That’s that.” Hal says sadly. I’m a genius. “Trenton has all the resources he needs to fight back if we use this slip-up to expose him now. We don’t have enough hard evidence to convict him of anything, but—“ the sound of small stones crunching beneath shoes follows in the wake of your movement across the driveway, interrupted only by a slight hesitation on Hal’s part. “But he has everything he needs to take me and my family down with him.” You arrive at the car. Despite not being able to see the details of his face in the darkness of the evening, you suddenly sense the affliction in this man as he turns to speak to you. Hobb has seemingly heard it all before—he goes around to the driver’s side and gets in. “I know what it will look like to a judge and jury. How could I not have known? I ask myself the same question every day. How could I have been that naive? Even when I chalk it up to misplaced loyalty, betrayal, my youthful ignorance, I still feel the burden of guilt. The storm is finally coming and I can’t help but feel relieved to a point.” He looks off in the distance over your shoulder, at the branches reaching above the dark tree line, outlined and moving eerily against the star-brightened sky. His gaze intensifies suddenly, as if he can actually see the tempest’s clouds gathering. “I just want to go down fighting, protecting my family and—yes, myself—as much as possible before the hammer falls. You are in no way obligated to help me. Perhaps you don’t even believe me. But I am going to ask you to consider my request because Will…I don’t like this, not one bit, but the next steps I take are determined by your decision.” You are moved by the fierce passion of his speech. There is a tenderness there, beneath the resolve, and real grief. You open your mouth to speak, but his hand finds your shoulder before sounds emerge. “Don’t say a word. Jeremy will talk to you on the way back. We have a few days of lee-way. Don’t you dare make a decision before Tuesday: that gives you four days. I’d like to have you out here for dinner on Tuesday, if you’re free, and we can talk about it then.” You nod, dazed, then, feeling suddenly released, turn to open your car door and join Hobb in the quietly humming vehicle. Hal leans in slightly before shutting the door for you: “William Walker, I barely know you and yet our lives are suddenly intertwined. Know this: you are not responsible for what happens to me. We can only do what seems right to us.” Without another word, the door closes and you and Hobb are off.

There is silence in the car as you make it down the windy back roads onto the highway again. You sense Hobb giving you space, and take it to call KC—she hates texts. “Well?” is her greeting.
“Hey KC. I’m just calling to say I don’t need a ride.”
“OK—what happened?” Her voice carries over her irritation, but you remain cryptic, finally feeling the gravity of the situation.
“I’ll see you in a bit.” Thank goodness she’s working tonight.
“Gotcha. Bye.” After hanging up, you settle back into more waiting and try to think. You are impatient to hear the proposal, but you are unsure that you want to be more involved. This certainly will shake up your cruise-control existence, and Hal is right: it has nothing to do with you. Except for the car thing. Despite your curiosity, you find yourself wishing that you didn’t know what you’ve found out tonight. You are so close to graduation—just a few more months! And then the dream: get out of Dodge. Travel. There is no telling where this might end up taking you, or worse, where it might end up holding you. You stick out a toe and test the waters. “What exactly are you supposed to tell me?” Hobb takes the entry he’s been patiently waiting for, but walks into it steadily, not rushing you.
“We have a plan we think will get Trenton out in the open, but that plan hinges on you. He unwittingly opened a door when he nabbed your car—that’s our leverage. If you don’t want to be involved, that’s your prerogative. You’ll get your car back, end of story.” At the risk of sounding self-focused, you ask,
“What do I get out of it?” Hobb is unfazed; he has clearly anticipated the question.
“I don’t know you, so I don’t know what is important to you. I’m going to say ‘money.’”
“Is that why you are helping Hal?” Hobb hesitates, an internal struggle only apparent across his features to a keen observer—of which you are one. “I’m not a great person to ask about motivations. But I will answer your question by saying that I feel strongly about putting an end to—hopefully correcting—the manipulation of Trenton on others. I would prefer to do this without taking innocent people down with him.”
“And you think Hal is innocent?” He flinches.
“Yes. I know he is.” Well, that’s clearly the end of that rabbit trail. “And if I choose just to take my car and live my life?”
“It will be like this never happened.”
“You’re not going to put me in a witness protection program or cut my tongue out or something?”
“We won’t have to—it will be over soon enough,” Hobb says grimly. He suddenly looks over at you for a brief moment. “I don’t think you would say anything, though.” How he has come to this value judgment of you, you are unsure. But he is right. Again, there is a long silence. When you are about ten minutes from work, Hobb speaks up. “I just want to put our expectation out there: if you want to be involved, I’ll tell you what we’d like you to do and you can have until Tuesday to decide—we can’t really give you more time than that. If you do not want to do this, we won’t say anything else about it. Just let us know and we’ll make arrangements to close up the case on your car.”

Eventually, you arrive. The alternately blue and white flashing sign that hangs over the redbrick storefront of Joe's scatters color over your lap, reminding you of police lights. The car idles on the curb.

What happens next?
A. You are just a few steps away from being completely done with this nightmare. Tell him no, you’d rather not. He’ll understand.
B. Something inside is urging you to be a part of this. Take the plunge: tell him you’ll do it.

Apology

Readers!!!!! I am SO SORRY for the delay in the next chapter. I have been away for the past three Saturdays. I actually have chapter 6 almost fully written so look for it this Saturday. Thanks for being faithful readers and please forgive the delay! -Laura