You're late, Martha, my husband Julian said, dabbing his mouth with a linen napkin without even looking up from his lobster shell. "Pay the bill, would you? We're done."
The taxi ride home to our modest, drafty apartment on 14th Street was quiet. Thomas leaned his head against my shoulder, a silent presence. The chill of the November night seemed to seep into the taxi’s worn upholstery.
When we arrived, the street was deserted. But as we approached our building, I saw a familiar dark sedan parked outside. Two men in plain clothes stood by the front door.
Federal agents.
Inside, our apartment was a hive of activity. My small, tidy living room was dimly lit by a single floor lamp, casting long shadows. Federal agents moved through Julian’s study, methodically searching, impounding files, and tagging legal papers.
They spoke in low, efficient tones. One agent was carefully removing books from Julian’s shelves, revealing a series of hollowed-out covers that contained more hidden documents. Another was going through his desk drawers, pulling out ledgers and bank statements.
“Mrs. Albright,” one of the agents acknowledged me, a brief, respectful nod. “We’ll be here for a few hours. We’ve impounded Mr. Albright’s automobile as well.”
Julian’s shiny Packard, his pride and joy, was now an evidence locker.
Thomas and I retreated to the living room, settling onto the worn sofa. The air was cold, despite the heating. We sat in silence, listening to the rustling of papers and the occasional click of a camera shutter from the study.
Hours passed. The agents finally left around 10 PM, their boxes of evidence stacked neatly by the door. The apartment felt strangely hollow, emptied not just of Julian’s things, but of his oppressive presence.
It was nearly 11 o’clock when I heard the familiar sound of a key in the lock. Julian returned, not in his Packard, but in a taxi.
He shuffled into the apartment, his shoulders slumped, his suit rumpled. His eyes were red-rimmed, his face etched with exhaustion and despair.
He looked at the empty spaces in his study, the disarray, the missing car keys. He had clearly been interrogated, but he wasn’t in handcuffs. No arrest warrant had been issued. Not yet.
He moved into the living room, his gaze falling on Thomas and me. His eyes held none of the fury from the restaurant, only a profound, broken weariness.
He sat heavily in his armchair, a defeated figure. The federal investigation, the public disgrace, the impounding of his assets – it had all happened. But the final hammer blow, the arrest, seemed to be suspended, hanging precariously above him.
I understood then: someone powerful was intervening. Someone was giving Julian a lifeline, a chance, for reasons that could only be political.
The immediate storm had passed, but a deeper, more insidious threat loomed.
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