I never thought much about life after the office . . . after loyalty and denial . . . after years of deception. We didn’t ruin any lives, but we sure did wreak havoc for quite a few. I wasn’t aware of it from the start. It was good money and decent hours. Rena seemed harmless enough when I met her at Fred’s dinner party. An ambitious, educated woman who started a legitimate business. That’s all I thought I needed to know. It doesn’t matter because it’s over now, Rena’s headed for prison and I’m on my way to Costa Rica to start a new life.

I worked for Rena for thirty years. She was a bulldozer with little patience for cowards and naysayers. An icon in the real estate industry and I had an interest in dabbling. I’m not sure why she chose me. I guess she figured I’d stay out of her way and out of the limelight. Who knew one day my photo would be all over social media.

The night of that fateful dinner party was like many others at my friend Christie’s apartment. She was known for bringing like-minded people together. I had mentioned my interest in real estate to her at some point, so seating me next to the famous Rena Borne was not a big surprise. I had heard of Rena, but I was at a low point in my life, therefore, zero interest in talking to anyone about anything. Looking back, I’m pretty sure Rena would have talked the ear off of a carcass.

I remember Rena asking me what I do. I thought about making something up, but I thought I might get found out, so I told her the truth.

“I work in the city morgue.”

“Doing what?”

“I prepare bodies for the refrigerated units, where they stay until they’re either claimed or taken to the city’s cemetery.”

“And I thought real estate was depressing.”

It went on like this for a bit and then she asked me if I liked my job. It’s a question I was quite use to being asked, but for some reason I said the following:

“If I tell you that I hate it will you offer me a job?”

And she did. She said that if I was willing to do grunt work, she’d sponsor me for real estate school. I could work in the office while I pursued my license. For the first time in a long time, I perked up. It would have been stupid to refuse, so I agreed to meet her at her office the following Monday.

Twenty years later, I’m kissing real estate and my old life goodbye. There are a few things I have to admit right up front. Early on I allowed Rena to charm me. She’d take me out to fancy restaurants. She’d massage my ego and make intriguing promises. And she’d write me big bonus checks at times when I didn’t think I’d earned the money. She often treated me better than her own family members. I was young, hungry, and damaged.

So what did I know about her business tactics? In the beginning I was completely in the dark. After a few months I became the office manager. I studied for my license, passed the test, and I listened and learned. Rena was slow to let me in on the workings of the business. I basically set up meetings, kept files in order, and got her coffee. She kept her door closed and her business private. She was married to her work, childless, and she kept long hours. She asked little of her staff and even less from me.

Me being me, I was curious from the start. I paid attention to office chatter and I read the fine print. Rena’s success almost seemed accidental. Yes she was charming and intelligent, but I suspected she was making a whole lot of money on the down low. It wasn’t so much her lifestyle, it was just a gut feeling. I wondered why she wasn’t flaunting her success; why she kept so few brokers, and why she did most of her own administrative work. She’d occasionally say something like,

“No matter how much you make, the government takes most of it,” or “At the end of the day, everything is suspicious.”

It took a few years before I started realizing the secret meetings and business trips were adding up to something illicit. I dared not ask her about it, knowing she’d just let me go like all the rest who ended up packing up their cubicles; expendable casualties all. I liked the money and the flexible hours. She never let me work on deals larger than half a million dollars, but I didn’t mind as long as good money was coming in.

About fifteen years into my tenure, things started changing, big things. First it was a couple of lawsuits from buyers. Rena wrote it off as buyers remorse and par for the business, but it felt different. Over the next couple of years the number of lawsuits increased and our accountant hanged himself. Rena said he was clinically depressed. What did I know, Rena discouraged socializing in and out of the office, my co-workers were strangers.

I left the office a bit earlier than usual one day, stopping at a café for a coffee on my way home. I was approached by two gentlemen while I waited in line. They told me they were FBI, flashed their badges, and asked me if I had time to talk. I didn’t feel like there were options.

Over the next two hours I learned more than I imagined could be true. I knew Rena’s deals were probably not 100% legal, but I didn’t own the business and she kept me out of her affairs. The agents informed me that they knew I wasn’t directly involved, however, because I worked for Rena, I was complicit.

Rena was buying up swamp land, filling it with landfill, and doing it all under the radar. More than likely gifting, dining, and paying off politicians. It took a good ten years for numerous houses to be swallowed up by sinkholes and for sewer systems to implode. That was the tip of the iceberg. The FBI promised to go easy on me if I cooperated. I had mixed feelings, Rena’s bonuses had made me a very comfortable man, but all of those people who’d lost their only asset left me with a sick feeling. I had to cooperate, keeping in mind that Costa Rica is a new start I could live with. We all know how powerful denial can be.

Stories are fictional unless otherwise noted.

Please provide your email in order to subscribe. Thank you.

I was never crazy about August (except for when I lived in Maine): too hot, insanity at the airports, and most of my friends leave me. Alas, autumn is almost here: darkness comes earlier, chilly nights, and cool enough to be in the kitchen cooking.

I’ve had a couple of people tell me that they preferred when my blogs were non-fiction. I’m sorry for that, however, I’m enjoying this type of writing and at this time in my life . . .

“The reason I talk to myself is because I’m the only one whose answers I accept.”
― George Carlin