The Consequences Series Box Set

by Aleatha Romig

  “What about SiJo?”

  “I feel bad about leaving Amber, but I suspect she’d understand. I started a new position at SiJo and got it up and running. She could definitely get someone else with more experience in gaming. Really, since everything went down here, my heart hasn’t been in it.”

  Emily laid her head back and grinned. “Oh, did you feel that kick?”

  John chuckled. “I’m thinking soccer or football player.”

  “I’m thinking no,” she giggled. “What about Nichol?”

  “What about Nichol? Are you kidding? She’s got the world on a string.”

  “You know what I want for both of the children?” Emily asked.

  “What?”

  “I want them to be happy and normal. None of this vendetta crap. None of the hatred that’s consumed too many lives. I just want them to be kids.”

  John sighed. “Maybe working for Rawlings is the first step.”

  “It sounds like you’ve already made up your mind.”

  “I really haven’t. I’m going to meet with Tim and discuss it further.”

  “When?”

  “We’re going to meet for lunch tomorrow. I fly back to Palo Alto on Sunday,” John added wearily.

  “I’m taking Nichol to Everwood tomorrow,” Emily said. “Doctor Brown believes that if we have Claire in a more home-like environment with Nichol, it could help to trigger some memories.”

  John nodded. “That makes sense.”

  “Yes, they’re trying other things. Mostly, I like how they’re getting her up, out of bed, and out of a chair. I hated that other place. They just put her in a wheelchair and moved her around. She’s capable of walking. I remembered her stories about hiking and gardening here at his estate.”

  “It’s hers, too.” He reminded her.

  “I told them she liked the outside,” Emily continued. “So they’ve added that to her schedule.”

  John yawned. “I’ll get over there before I head back to California. I already like the way they take care of her better at Everwood.”

  Emily cuddled against his side. “I think you should be open-minded about the job offer. Make sure it’s sincere and not just a ploy to keep us from telling the world the truth.”

  “The court’s limited us on what we can say about the legal proceedings, but I get what you’re saying.”

  “I think it could be good too. I liked all of those people when we first met them.”

  “At Claire’s first wedding,” John said.

  “I know I shouldn’t blame them for not knowing what was happening any more than I can blame us.”

  John hugged Emily again as she closed her eyes and her breathing became steady. They weren’t dressed for bed, but he couldn’t bring himself to nudge her awake. He wanted this. He wanted to be able to cuddle and talk—not on the phone and from across the country. Could he look past the name on the letterhead? Could he work for Rawlings Industries—at corporate? Obviously, the company was successful and substantial, but was it legitimate? All the things Anthony has done personally: what if John got into the legalities of Rawlings Industries and found skeletons? Then again, what if he didn’t?

  What if he could come home every night to Emily and the kids? What if he could help assure Claire and Nichol’s financial future? So many questions swirled as his eyes closed.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Summer 2014

  Tony

  It is not the strongest of the species that survives, nor the most intelligent that survives. It is the one that is most adaptable to change.

  —Charles Darwin

  NOTHING COULD HAVE prepared Tony for incarceration in the federal prison camp in Yankton, South Dakota. Perhaps, to the experienced prisoner, or even from the outside, it was lovely, better than most. After all, it had only been a federal prison since 1988. From the outside, it still looked like the small, private, liberal arts college that it had once been. Most buildings were on the historical register and bore the names of alumni and benefactors. The grounds were beautiful with flowers, trees, and well-manicured grass. There wasn’t even a fence around the perimeter. Nevertheless, it was a prison.

  Tony’s legal department had done their research: not only was Yankton relatively close to Iowa City, it was said to be one of the best all-male, minimum-security prisons in the United States. As most of the prisoners there were convicted of nonviolent crimes, it took some negotiation from the Rawlings’ legal team to secure Tony a spot in the highly sought-after facility. A large subsection of inmates were middle-aged men who’d been convicted of white-collar crimes. Anthony Rawlings wasn’t the only successful entrepreneur on the grounds. Brent and Tom had hoped that would help Tony’s transition. It didn’t.

  Undergraduate school at NYU was the last time Tony had shared a room with another man apart from his travels through Europe while on the run from the FBI. During that time, he’d stayed in a few hostels with large shared-sleeping areas, but this was different. At Yankton, the inmates didn’t have private or even semi-private rooms. Prisoners slept in dormitories that in some ways reminded him of Blair Academy, only a million times worse. These rooms had beds, lockers, and desks. All the beds were bunked with an unspoken understanding that the eldest bunkmate received the prized lower bunk. Some of the dormitories held sixty men. Thankfully, Tony’s only held twenty, which was still nineteen more than he wanted.

  Over the years he’d heard how these minimum-security prisons were just country clubs for the wealthy criminals. Anyone who said that had never been behind the walls. Though he’d researched the prison camp before he arrived, he wasn’t prepared. He remembered that most testimonials stated that the first few days were the most difficult. He hoped that was true. His first day was filled with interviews and screenings, but as Tony received his khaki shirt, khaki pants, cumbersome shoes, underwear, and bedding, the reality was overwhelming. There was no doubt that the next four years of his life would be drastically different from any of the first forty-nine. Not only did he yearn for the life he’d left behind, but his heart also ached for the time Claire had lost behind similar walls.

  During the mental-health screening, Tony agreed to anger-management counseling. Before he was transported to Yankton, Brent told him that Judge Jefferies’ recommendation had truly been a gift. Since it wasn’t court-mandated, Tony’s willingness to undergo therapy would look good on his record and help when his case came up for review. Though parole wasn’t offered in federal penitentiaries, there was always hope of early release. After only hours as a number, not a full name, Tony knew he’d do whatever it took to make an early release a reality.

  As if sleeping in a room with nineteen other men wasn’t difficult enough, he soon learned about counts. Counts happened every day at 12:01 AM, 3:00 AM, 5:00 AM, 10:00 AM, 4:00 PM, and 10:00 PM. The last two were standing counts. During a standing count each man was required to stand unmoving by his bunk while the correctional officer counted inmates. With wake-up being every day at 5:50 AM, Tony wondered why they couldn’t wait until then to do the count. Heaven knows that lights coming on and a correctional officer walking bunk to bunk three times in the middle of the night was not conducive to a good night’s sleep.

  The other men in his unit didn’t care who he was outside any more than he cared who they were. Each man was cordial and respectful, yet not overly communicative. That was until evenings: most of the men thrived on television time. From 4:30 PM until midnight, the television was on. Never being much of a television watcher, the incessant noise—every night—wore on him as much as the stupid counts.

  Sleeping wasn’t the only activity that was communal. Showering, too, was done by unit. As the first week progressed, it seemed that each hour was worse than the one before. As his old life slipped further and further away, the therapy seemed like a good idea.

  Besides his thrice a week counseling sessions, Tony, like every other inmate, was required to hold a job. Not only was he responsible for cleaning his part of the
dormitory, he had an actual job. Every day after breakfast, Anthony Rawlings, Number 01657-3452, reported to the warehouse, where he unpacked supplies from delivery trucks. That bit of manual labor earned him $0.17 an hour. Hadn’t this place heard of minimum wage?

  The money he earned, plus money he had sent to him, allowed him to purchase non-issued supplies. That was everything from headphones and an MP3 player to drown out the incessant television, to shampoo and additional clothing. Though Tony could have unlimited money sent to his account, there was a $320.00 per month spending limit. He almost choked when he read that. Hell, he’d spent more than that on a haircut.

  In an effort to avoid the dormitory, Tony signed up for educational services. He’d always appreciated education, but as a man with an MBA, he wasn’t interested in a GED. The subject he chose to study was horticulture. It reminded him of Claire. As he learned to care for the plants on Yankton’s grounds, he’d remember her chatter about the flowers and plants on the estate. Just being outdoors, with his hands in the soil, made him feel closer to her. While learning about or tending to some plant, Tony would think about Claire and hope that she was doing well enough to be doing the same. He knew how much she loved the outdoors and believed that if she were outside, it would give her strength.

  The schedule included time to exercise, and, during the allotted time, a quarter-mile track was frequented by the inmates. While many used the track as a time to talk with a little more privacy, Tony’s playlist kept him occupied. Purchasing music was one of his bigger expenses. To occupy his mind, he had the Wall Street Journal, as well as other business publications delivered, and he was allowed a minimum amount of Internet time. The Internet as well as phone calls were monitored, but they were a connection to the outside world. As days turned to weeks and weeks to months, the routine became easier to handle.

  Tony recalled Claire’s description of prison, saying that it was very routine. He could add lonely, boring, and other adjectives, but routine was accurate. In the first few months of incarceration, Tony learned that not only could he make rules, he could follow them. He didn’t like it, but each message from Courtney about Nichol, from Roach about Claire, from Patricia about Rawlings Industries, or Brent about his sentence gave him the substance and stamina to continue.

  The best and worst days of the week were weekends and holidays. Those were the days when visitors could visit Yankton. Upon his arrival to the prison camp, Tony was required to compile a list of friends and family who could visit. The list was then verified and approved by the prison. Tony knew that there were people on his list who would probably never visit, but he added them anyway. His list included Brent (although as his attorney he had additional license to visit), Courtney, Tim, Patricia, Roach, Claire, Nichol, John, and Emily.

  He doubted that John and Emily would ever bring Nichol to see him, but he wanted the option available to them if they decided to come. Tony wasn’t sure about Claire, but believed that she would get better. When she did, he prayed she’d come to see him. He even fantasized about her visiting, especially on days he had no visitors. When the weather was warm, there was outside seating for visits. Seeing the other inmates with their spouses and children was probably the worse punishment Tony endured.

  Utilizing the Rawlings’ jets, people could get to Tony in less than an hour. There was a small municipal airport not far from the prison. Driving would have been over five hours, and flying commercially meant another hour’s drive from Sioux City, the closest international airport.

  By law, inmates were allowed four hours a month of visitation. However, it was the belief of the prison that visitors were good for the inmates’ morale. Therefore, contingent upon available space—every visitor and inmate were required to have a chair—visits were granted. They had to be planned ahead and approved. Brent and Courtney visited every three weeks, like clockwork. Roach came at least once a month, and Tim or Patricia alternated their visits. It was without a doubt the highlight to Tony’s week.

  Besides visiting, Courtney was the best about sending letters. They were usually just little notes about nothing. When one would arrive it was impossible to keep the smile from Tony’s face.

  Occasionally, something would occur that the visits didn’t happen. Those were dark, colorless days.

  Autumn came a little earlier in South Dakota than it did in Iowa. By early September the days as well as the nights had begun to chill. In Tony’s horticulture class he learned about hardy, weather-resistant flowers. After Labor Day, they removed the summer’s flowers and planted mums. He’d seen them before but never paid them any attention. Throughout the prison’s campus yellow, orange, and deep red mums added color.

  Tony’s counseling had progressed beyond insignificant discussions about Tony’s adaptation to Yankton. His therapist wasn’t a doctor but a counselor named Jim. At first, Tony wasn’t sure what to think about Jim other than he wasn’t very talkative for a therapist. Tony had always imagined that therapy was where the therapist told the patient what his or her problems were and what to do about them. He knew his problems: he was stuck in a prison while his wife was in a mental facility and their daughter was living with his brother- and sister-in-law whom he hated. Of course, it took Tony weeks to divulge even that much. He had a personal rule about sharing private information. Speaking to Jim about Tony’s private life, outside of Yankton, seemed like a violation of his own rule.

  Speaking about prison life, however, was acceptable. That was how they started each session. But they’d been at this now for months and the mundane was getting to be that and more.

  “Anthony, how are things going?” Jim asked. Tony liked that Jim referred to him solely by his name. The correctional officers as well as any announcements or call outs always included the inmate’s name and number. It didn’t take long for Tony to tire of hearing Rawlings, Number 01657-3452.

  He shrugged. “As well as can be expected, I suppose.”

  Jim waited. When Tony didn’t offer any more he went on, “Why? What did you expect?”

  “I don’t know. I thought I could handle it better.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I hate it—every minute.” He stood and paced to the window and back. It was the only place where he could freely get up and move while with a member of the prison staff. That realization struck him. “Like this! I can’t even fuck’n do this.”

  “What?” Jim asked. “What are you doing that you can’t do?”

  “Just move, walk, pace, whatever. I’ve been trying these last few months, but I don’t think I can make it another forty-four months. Damn, that sounds like forever.” He collapsed into the chair before Jim’s desk.

  “Why?”

  Color came to Tony’s cheeks as red threatened his vision. “You know, that drives me crazy.”

  “What?”

  “That! If you’re going to ask me questions for three hours a week, be more specific.”

  “Give me an example,” Jim said.

  Did he need to tell the therapist how to do his own job? “Instead of why or what, ask why I don’t think I can make it or what drives me crazy—use complete sentences.”

  “Is that something you always do?”

  Tony thought for a minute. “I think I do. I know I used to. Hell, I don’t even know what I do anymore.”

  “How does that make you feel?”

  “I feel like after only three months, I’m losing who I am. Just Saturday, my assistant was here to fill me in on things happening back at my work. I am totally out of the loop.”

  “Have you always been in the loop?”

  “Up until a year ago, yes.”

  Jim put down his pencil. “What happened a year ago?”

  “Surely you have my records, Jim. Surely you know my history. I mean, haven’t you done your homework?”

  “If I did, what would I know?”

  Tony stood again and walked toward the window. “I hate this. I’m not the person I’m forced to be in here. I ca
n’t stand it.”

  “You weren’t saying this Friday. What changed?”

  Tony remembered Patricia’s visit. She wasn’t allowed to bring papers or her phone or anything back for the visit, so everything she said, she had to remember. She was telling him about some recent fluctuations in the stocks, and about a few changes on the administrative level of a recently acquired subsidiary, but instead of listening and following what she was saying, as he would have in the past, he was watching the inmate at the table next to them with his wife and two kids.

  “Do you think kids should be allowed to visit here?” Tony asked.

  Jim leaned back and took a deep breath. “I think that children can be a motivating factor for people to want to better themselves. Therefore, seeing that child is a reminder of why a person is trying to follow the rules and be a better person.”

  Tony contemplated his answer. “But for the kids,” he asked, “won’t it mess them up to be visiting their father in a prison?”

  “What do you think?”

  “I’m asking you.”

  “Anthony, are you used to getting your questions answered when you ask them?”

  “Yes. I accept no less.”

  “Does the Anthony who lives outside of this prison get what he expects?”

  “I-I…” he was about to say I do, but the reality of his life since he returned from paradise came crashing down. “I used to.”

  “How does it make you feel to not get what you expect?”

  “It disappoints me. I don’t like to be disappointed.”

  “We always talk about Yankton. You brought up a year ago… were you disappointed a year ago?”