Jonathan stares up at the ceiling, squinting at the lavish crown molding lining the room. To Diana, it looks as if he’s diving into his memories, holding each one up for a closer look.
“I don’t remember Tom acting secretive about his past or anything that happened in college,” he says slowly. “I never witnessed him doing anything illegal. He was never out of control. He was adamant about staying away from drugs, even pot. I have no idea what this letter means.”
Diana believes him. “I have more questions.”
“Go ahead.”
“You’re my lawyer? I probably should have asked you this first. We signed an agreement to that effect years ago. It’s current? I’m still protected by attorney-client privilege?”
“Yes, yes.” Jonathan responds to her question as if the answer is obvious. He leans down to pick up the plastic fork, throwing it in the trash. “Next?”
“Can my family be held responsible for this crime?”
“You can’t be held responsible for something your dead husband did more than thirty years ago.” Diana cringes at Jonathan’s bluntness. He winces and mumbles an apology. “No matter what the crime was, unless, of course, you were involved in it in some way. Which is not the case here. It’s possible Tom’s estate could be sued, but I’d need more information about the crime, including what it was and where it took place.”
“Do I have a responsibility to turn this letter over to the police?”
“Which police? Where?” Jonathan returns to his salad, taking a new fork from his desk. “Since you found the letter in your home, you can file a report with the Alcott police. Two possible outcomes could occur. First, your report would be relegated to the bottom of a very busy to-do pile, where it would remain indefinitely. How can they follow up on a crime that happened so long ago in an unknown place, even with Tom’s claim people might be coming for you? They don’t have the resources to investigate something so vague.”
Diana can almost hear the squeal of that car pulling away from her house in the middle of the night. She pushes away the sound and focuses on Jonathan. “What’s the other possibility?” she asks.
“Your report could end up in the police blotter inThe Alcott Chronicle. Other media, or even those true crime fans, could get interested, and you’d have to contend with people snooping around your life, Tom’s life. You don’t want that. Not for you, not for the kids.”
“I don’t want this to become public. I don’t even know whatthisis.” She gestures to the page. “Maybe he remembered wrong? Maybe he dreamed this? Maybe it didn’t happen?”
“Maybe.”
Another question comes to her, one she didn’t think of until now. “Is there anything about Tom’s work here at the firm that might be relevant? Anything that could somehow be connected to this letter?”
Jonathan spears a cherry tomato with his fork and brings it up to his mouth. He holds it there for a second or two before dropping it back into the salad. “Why are you asking that?” His voice is strained, and she’s immediately suspicious.
“It’s a reasonable question.”
“No, it’s not. All client matters are confidential. You asked me about attorney-client privilege, after all. Regardless, there’s nothing you need to know.”
“If there’s nothing I need to know, why are you upset?”
“I’m not upset,” Jonathan replies.
Diana crosses her legs at her ankles and waits.
After a few minutes of poking his fork through his lettuce, Jonathan says, “After we bought out Tom, I had the accountants examine the books. It’s a best practice when there’s an ownership change.” Abandoning his food, he peers out the window. “They came across a series of odd withdrawals Tom made over the years. I’m not sure why they weren’t caught at the time. Maybe because he oversaw the books while I hustled for new business? Some of it, maybe half, was returned to the firm’s account. There’s no explanation about where the rest of it went.”
“How much money are we talking about?” Most of their earnings went back into Tom’s law school debt and their mortgage. Diana often joked that the only excessive expense in their budget was basketball gear for Duncan.
“I shouldn’t have said anything about this. It’s in the past.”
“How much, Jonathan?”
He sighs. “A little over $60,000.”
“$60,000? Are you sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure,” Jonathan says grimly.
First the letter, now this missing money. She expected Jonathan to have answers, not more secrets. “I know nothing about that,” Diana says, gripping the arms of the chair. “I can look through our bank account when I get home. I would have noticed an unexplained $60,000, though.”
“This money could have been for the firm. It was withdrawn in varying amounts over several years, and like I said, some of it—about $30,000—was returned. The records are unclear, which is why I didn’t bring it up sooner.”
