The Sentence Larkin Chose Not to Fight
Chapter 12 - The Sentence Larkin Chose Not to Fight
Larkin’s case took eleven months.
Long enough for me to build a life that did not orbit him.
I learned forensic accounting at a level Steves Consolidated never required because criminal men often hate documentation but professional investigators love it.
Bank reconstruction.
Beneficial ownership.
Vendor network analysis.
Expert reports written so juries do not need accounting degrees.
I was good.
That mattered.
Not glamorous.
Good.
My mother’s pension restitution arrived.
She paid off the small mortgage on her Queens apartment.
Then tried to give me thirty thousand dollars.
I refused.
She threatened to leave it in my freezer.
We compromised.
Ten thousand toward my loans.
Her choice.
I accepted.
Important.
The civil settlement over the scholarship program came later.
Not because scholarships were illegal.
Because the foundation had concealed a restitution purpose while terminating support to avoid exposure.
Affected recipients received compensation.
My share paid another twenty-seven thousand of student debt.
I still owed more than fifty.
For some reason that felt healthier than a fairy tale.
I paid monthly.
I liked watching the number fall.
Thomas took a plea.
Three years.
Not for being cruel.
For fraud, identity theft conspiracy, obstruction, and helping create my fake account.
His cooperation against Warren reduced exposure.
He also forfeited assets into pension restitution.
He wrote me one formal apology through counsel.
I read it once.
Saved it.
Did not answer.
Warren Pike pleaded guilty to financial crimes and second-degree manslaughter conspiracy in Daniel’s death under a negotiated structure.
Victor Sloane faced more.
Evelyn attended sentencing.
Larkin did not.
She later told me:
“He asked whether I wanted him there.”
That mattered.
“I said no.”
Also mattered.
Dominic resigned from Steves security during the investigation.
Not because he was charged.
He was not.
Because he said he had spent enough years treating secrets like job qualifications.
He started a small risk-consulting company with strict reporting rules and no armed collection work.
I sent him one client.
No sentiment.
He was competent.
Then Larkin’s case.
Prosecutors could prove extortion conspiracy.
Cash concealment.
Bribery involving one city inspector.
They could not prove he ordered two assaults attributed to collection crews.
He refused to plead to those.
Good.
His attorney negotiated ten months federal custody.
Three years supervised release.
Forfeiture of illegal proceeds.
Permanent exit from private debt collection and protection operations.
Compliance monitor over remaining legitimate holdings.
The day of his plea, I went to court.
I told myself it was professional curiosity.
That was not entirely true.
He saw me in the gallery.
Did not smile.
Good.
The judge asked:
“Did you direct subordinates to pressure businesses into making payments they did not owe voluntarily?”
“Yes.”
“Did you understand pressure could include implied threats?”
“Yes.”
“Did you intentionally avoid defining limits?”
Silence.
Then:
“Yes.”
My chest tightened.
There it was.
The sentence beneath so many crimes.
Not ordering violence.
Creating room for it.
The judge continued.
“Why?”
Larkin looked toward the bench.
“Because ambiguity protected me.”
No lawyer liked that answer.
I did.
“From what?”
“Responsibility.”
Silence.
He did not mention Malcolm.
Thomas.
Warren.
Me.
Good.
The judge accepted the plea.
Sentencing six weeks later matched the agreement.
Ten months.
I did not attend surrender.
That mattered.
I had a client deposition in Boston.
Life did not become less real because a man I cared about entered prison.
Before he reported, he sent one letter.
Penelope—
You said after my case.
The case is resolved, but I suspect “resolved” was not the same as “call me tomorrow.”
I laughed.
Correct.
I will not ask you to wait.
I also will not pretend I stopped wanting to know you.
If, after I’m out, you still want coffee, I would like that.
No response needed.
—Larkin
I folded it.
Put it in a desk drawer.
Then went back to work.
No reply.
Not punishment.
No promise.
Ten months belonged to him.
Mine belonged to me.
I got promoted in month four.
Senior associate.
My first major case involved a nonprofit where the executive director stole from housing grants.
No mafia.
Just spreadsheets and selfishness.
Crime can be boring.
I liked that.
My mother’s health improved.
I dated one man for three weeks.
Dentist.
Kind.
We bored each other.
No tragedy.
Useful information.
I took a solo trip to Montreal.
Bought one dress.
Blue.
Two hundred dollars.
I wore it to dinner alone and realized I no longer needed clothing to prove I had a hidden self.
That felt expensive in a different way.
In month seven, Evelyn sent me a postcard from Maine.
The ocean looked gray.
On the back:
Invisible women hear things.
Visible women get to decide what they repeat.
—E.
I kept that too.
Larkin did not write again.
Good.
He had said no response needed and meant it.
Then, three days after his release, nothing happened.
No flowers.
No car.
No message.
A week.
Two.
I became irritated.
Then embarrassed by the irritation.
At week three, one envelope arrived at Kline & Mercer.
Plain.
Inside:
Coffee?
If no, I won’t ask again.
—L.
No restaurant reservation.
No date chosen for me.
No explanation.
I waited four days.
Then wrote:
Saturday. 10 a.m. Birch Coffee. West 27th.
Public.
No driver.
His reply came one minute later.
Yes.
I smiled despite myself.
Then added:
And do not dress like a funeral.
Three dots appeared.
Finally:
Cruel.
May you like
Saturday would be the first time Larkin Steves and I sat across from each other with no employment contract, no gala, no criminal case, and no reason to pretend the balance of power had disappeared simply because we liked each other.
That, I thought, was a much more interesting beginning than a black dress.
