Allison loved to go to courtroom trials. Especially murder trials. Instead of Netflix or Showtime, live courtroom trials were her personal entertainment.
“Then marry me,” Jordan said.
“I can’t do that,” I said.
She stared at me, then threw her kale smoothie in my face, and stormed out of the house. I don’t know why I have such trouble with woman.
What surprised me, after Carla’s death, was the battle over the money. The kids were upset that their mother had died, but they seemed more concerned with the will. How much was there, and where was it going? They immediately started fighting.
On the first day of hearings, my attorney’s partner, who was a woman, instructed me to stand courteously when the jury pool and others entered the courtroom, and not to sit with my back to people entering the courtroom.
Jail is nasty. They throw you in with drunks and drug addicts and all sorts of low-lifes. My lawyer had warned me it’s better not to sleep. When you sleep, he said, bad things can happen.
Who expects to get arrested for murder, even if I did bash my wife’s head with a rock, and push her into a gully to die, where she lay several days before they found her body.
But the cops were a little rough about it, and rather impolite.
As I read the “I Ching,” it told me that I was a man without a country, and in my future I would spend my life wandering….
My personal trainer, Jordan, with whom I’d been having an affair, was happy that my wife had died.
“Marcel,” he said, “You have a sociopathic personality. You can charm people in the short-term. But when they get to know you, they realize you have zero empathy. You don’t care about anyone but yourself.”
“My wife was a modern woman,” I said. “She felt that if men philandered, there was no reason she couldn’t do it.”