On November 14, 2012, I read the DOJ release with my finger resting beneath the word guilty. Until then I had been careful with alleged, sometimes so careful that people mistook the qualification for reluctance. Now Gordon Pell had pleaded guilty in Rockford to one count of wire fraud. I could change the word without guessing, and still I sat for a while before telling anyone what I had read.
The release described the scheme extending from 1990 through 2012. It also said he had admitted money laundering as part of the plea agreement. I read that portion again, separating what he had admitted from the count to which he had pleaded guilty. After months of answering questions by drawing boundaries, I found that a public admission did not relieve me of the need to read closely.
I printed the release and put the date at the top of my notes. The ordinary work around me continued: a telephone rang, someone needed an envelope, and I had a column that would not agree with the page beneath it. I finished that comparison before leaving. It was something I could finish, and that made it more attractive than the paper waiting beside my coat.
Otis was in the garage when I arrived the following evening. He had cleared a place on the bench for two mugs, though the rest of the surface remained occupied by tools he already owned. Since he had frozen purchases, I had noticed the empty places more than the full ones. I laid the release between the mugs and asked whether he wanted to read it.
"Tell me what it says first," he said. "Not what people are saying it says."
I told him about the single wire-fraud count and the admitted money laundering. Then I pointed to the amount: $53,740,394 in restitution, subject to credits, and a forfeiture judgment for the same amount. He bent over the page, keeping his sleeve away from the mug. "So is that twice?" he asked. "Or are they describing the same money two ways?"
"The same loss," I said. "Not two thefts of that amount. Restitution and forfeiture aren't figures we should add together." I had brought a pencil, and on the back of an envelope I wrote the amount once. Beneath it I wrote the two terms. Otis watched me do it, then turned the envelope so the writing faced him. "Once is plenty," he said.
We sat without talking for a little while. I could hear a loose piece of metal shift as he rested his foot against the bench. I had imagined that explaining the release would make this a better visit than some of our recent ones. I would bring something definite, he would understand it, and we could sit together without the unfinished business between us. But he folded the envelope and asked whether I had decided anything about leaving.
"There will still be sentencing," I said.
"I asked about you."
I picked up my mug. The handle was warm, and I used both hands as though that required my attention. "I haven't chosen a date." He nodded once, not in agreement but in recognition. I could have told him how much work remained, how the guide was only a beginning, how people still came to my desk first. Each statement would have been true. None answered his question.
"I thought when there was an admission, things would settle enough for me to see ahead," I said. "But I've been using that. First there was something I couldn't talk about. Then there was something nobody knew. There can always be another thing." Otis pushed the release away from the edge of the bench. He did not offer to finish the thought for me.
"I've used your patience to keep from choosing," I said. "That wasn't something Gordon did to you. That part was mine."
Otis looked down at the folded envelope. "I don't need you to apologize for finding something wrong. I need to know whether I'm making plans with you." His voice was level, which made it harder to shelter inside an argument. I said I understood, though understanding was still the cheapest thing I could offer. Before I left, I asked him to keep the bench space clear a little longer. He agreed to keep the space. He did not agree to buy anything.