No Good Solutions

There’s got to be something else I can do. After speaking with Mendoza, Ranell headed back to work where he now sat alone in his office. With meetings cancelled and the door locked, he moved toward the cabinet where he kept his bottle of Talisker.

Foregoing his usual single ice cube, he poured a finger of the amber fluid into a crystal tumbler. He stopped for a moment, considering the bottle he held in his hand, and poured some more scotch, nearly filling his glass.

He stared out at the East Basin docks and cursed his fate.

Cooperate with the authorities and die in prison? He let the thought roll around in his mind. Or don’t cooperate, probably get caught, and die in prison anyway?

He turned away from the window and sat heavily behind his mahogany desk. He scanned his office, computers, awards, photographs, and memorabilia. This place had always been his control center. Now a lifetime of work was being flushed down the toilet. I wonder what my cell will look like. Will I have some tattooed thug as a cellmate? He dropped his head into his hands. How can I bear this?