Trial of Terence Andover (story, comments welcome)

[Gaborn]

(OOC) This is a story of the absurd, it was meant to be totally ridiculous, but at the same time at least possible to occur. (/OOC)

My name is Terence Andover. On the morning of July 17 I was pulling out of my local banks office in Jay, New Hampshire. My family was quite well off and an uncle left me a small fortune, doled out in minuscule increments (I have a history of poor judgement and gambling) that I wouldn’t have unrestricted access to until I managed to get out of and stay out of debt for at least a year. I could use the money in the event of a verifiable medical expense not covered through my limited insurance. I was also given a stipend equivalent to $150 each week. Unfortunately I have wasted that stipend repeatedly and have taken a loan out on the small home I was given. I am behind on my payments and have been begging for extensions, slipping further into debt to assure that this was granted. Incidentally I also work for the bank, and thus am quite dependant on it for the maintenance of my wealth.

Anyway, I’m pulling out of the bank in my 1981 blue Pontiac, and this fancy black Jaguar speeding along slams into my tail. I swerve instinctively to avoid him, and this red Ferrari smashes into my passenger side. I’m glad I’m wearing my seatbelt. As my passenger side crumples, two thoughts enter my mind. First, I want to get out and make sure everyone is all right. Second I want to pound the idiots that did this to me into very small, very flat strips.

As you might have noticed, at this point I’m not very happy. On the day I learn I will most likely lose possession of the home that I have lived in for 10 years, just minutes after I learned I would most likely be fired if I could not turn my financial situation around (banks like fiscally responsible employees), these hot rodding, self obsessed, filthy rich, ostentatious bastards decided to ram into my car, totally wrecking the damned thing. I had missed updating my insurance and so would receive no money to replace the car. I was barely making enough money to feed and clothe myself and could ill afford to buy a new used car to drive. The cars I could afford would be in such poor condition and require so much work as to be impractical.
So I jump out, looking for a fight, my five-foot five inch frame perhaps not as menacing as I could wish. I had thought my day was bad before, then I noticed who was in each of the other cars. If the Italian suits and briefcases were not enough, the distinctive lawyerly scribbling showed just how much trouble I was in. When I learned associates of Orrin and Patrick, the single most powerful attorneys within 30 miles of Jay were in the first car, I was devastated.

The other car had representatives of Black and Frankfurter, the other extremely powerful firm in the area, and frequent competitor to O & P. I now had two groups of exceedingly angry lawyers with badly damaged cars ready for legal action, practically salivating at my throat. I had a fortune in the bank I could not access, a debt I could not pay, a job I was in danger of losing, no means of transportation, no insurance, and no lawyer.

Of course I couldn’t afford a high power attorney, not to pay a retainer anyway. They would doubtless file suit against me extremely quickly, though I’d file against them just to be contrary and to possibly get money out of this, even if it gets them more irate. When the swarm is buzzing around your head and stinging you, striking the hive again isn’t likely to matter much. And so after we exchanged insurance information and gave statements to the police that arrived to take an accident report, I went to the public defender’s office. Those sworn to uphold law and order, fight for justice and right, ready to swing into action at a moment’s notice, were out to lunch. I couldn’t wait, couldn’t afford to wait. Fortunately a lawyer is not required for the filing of a civil complaint, particularly in the initial stages. Haphazard as it was, the majority of civil cases were filed by terrified individuals with little to no knowledge of the law and only the desire to see justice done motivating them to act in such drastic fashion. I had the terror of bankruptcy, and the fire to see that I could get some bills paid and not face massive debt compelling my action.

And so I approached the secretary at the courthouse claims office. She seemed the matronly grandmother type, a steel gray bun wrapped so tightly it looked as if it would pop at the slightest increase in pressure. She seemed distracted as she inquired what I wanted and handed me the paperwork I required to complete my task without further comment, maintaining an averted gaze to make a phone call with her other hand. Not slightly put off, I moved back to seat in a corner that had a table and oddly cheerful lamp where I could work in relative peace, relatively free from interference.

“Hello, are you Terence Andover?” My mind raced as to how to respond. He was almost certainly associated with one of the firms suing me, or at least about to sue. He probably was going to serve me notice they already filed suit, perhaps provide a peremptory figure. Perhaps it would be an extortion attempt. It was an open secret that my rich uncle left me a fortune. People, having read far too many dreary melodramas, assumed I lived like a pauper solely by choice, and perhaps I did at that. If I didn’t gamble, I wouldn’t have debt. If I were I out of debt, I would have no barrier to my millions. With my millions, I could afford and almost certainly be on a gambling binge. On such a binge my millions would disappear, most likely at the blackjack table. Without my millions I’d be . . . a pauper. Honesty was probably the best policy.

“That’s who your speaking to, now who am I conversing with?” I said it as cheerfully and with as much vigor as I could manage. I even managed to meet his gaze steadily. My hands didn’t shake, nor did my knees knock. But my heart thudded as if I were running a marathon, the winner of which would not be put to death, second place and the slower person’s fate being less than certain.

His pale gray eyes flared almost with a dangerous, glinting violence dancing at its core. His nose flared, his eyebrows raised, even his hair, sandy brown, seemed to stand straight up at the impudence that I might actually enquire as to who might seek to locate me. His voice hid his anger well, though he did allow a hint of smugness as he said, “Well, this is to give you official notice that you are being sued.” The paper he handed me was fairly small, a simple document with only the most basic information. He must have seen my mild confusion, or some perverse need to state the obvious, caused him to add, “The rest of the papers detailing the complaint will be sent you, or whoever opts to represent you within a day or so. I am told the damages sought will be quite high.” I nodded, not grateful for the explanation, merely a short, sharp acknowledgment that the information was received and under advisement. Just another whack at an empty hive, I must really hate lawyers, something I never knew. This could almost be fun.

The firm that hit me first was B & F. I immediately filled in the firm as the first defendants in what was now my countersuit. I had left the defendant blank on the distinct possibility that one or both of the firms would be faster than one half-crazed, panicky, broke bank teller. Fortunately I now knew I didn’t just dislike them, I’d hate to think I was suing like some stupid, ambulance chasing, self hurting, flimflam artist by filing first and making the bloodsuckers seem the helpless hapless defendants. I won’t show up in court in a neck brace as they doubtless will. There won’t be allegations of whiplash unless my doctor and a second opinion both agree that there was significant, real damage, linked specifically with the accident. I will not lie, nor fabricate evidence or events. I will not comprise truth, nor reality, merely to improve my monetary situation. My desperation does not exceed my ethics; whatever cardboard box I will call home after the trial and finding for the attorneys will not be tainted by dishonesty. My seething hatred laden bile will drive the suit, and my inevitable defeat.

After the incident with B & F’s crony I attacked the second lawsuit with almost over eager gusto, completing the form and handing both to the disillusioned creature forlornly waiting at her desk. I Saw in her eyes as she looked at me that she was contemplating the gamut of emotions. A human, experiencing the love, hatred, happiness, hurts, pains, sorrows, joys and mirth of a full, and complete life simultaneously. Thoughts, terrible and wonderful, showed in the peaks and valleys, the rivers of veins, the set of her jaw, encompassing the entire human experience in a moment. Those eyes had seen hardship and pain, the height of ecstacy and the bottomless depths of resigned defeat. The horrors of humanity had passed before that gaze so often as to dull the pain, yet sharpen its effects, each a knife stabbing, each a unique story of despair and hope. She would likely never know the outcome of the cases she handled. She saw people at their most fragile, after the horrors they endured, before any hope of recompense could be realized. She could see only a snapshot, a frozen image of hopelessness. I have seen the tired, the poor, the huddled masses, and it is beyond comprehension, and should never be necessary. All this was communicated clearly in the merest glimpse at those ageless eyes, once dulled, yet a spark now gleamed, perhaps struck by her noting my fiery determination. For within those eyes were other thoughts. ‘I have seen pain, and yes, it is terrible. Yet I have seen righteous indignation and it is more terrifying and far less terrible. I have seen mothers who lost sons, people who’ve lost everything soldiering on with determination. NOT ONE MORE PERSON, I will fight, I will never surrender, all I live for is gone. Now I will have others live in my place for my soul is a dead, scarred thing. I have helped the helpless, comforted the comfortless, strengthened the weakened. All in all, no matter the terrors of your life, no matter your personal horrors, your bugaboos and phantasms, the ghosts of your past are Casper compared to the problems of some other people. Living life to the best of your ability, staying where you can help people, changing things around you to improve everyone, if there were any point to life, surely that must be it. That is the true purpose. I am here and here I stay. Look on my works, ye mighty and despair were the only words, the only legacy of a dead king. Well, look on my works, ye mighty and weak, and lift others up to look with you.’ All from the merest glimpse of the face of Marjorie Janus, so her nameplate said.

Quieted, and perhaps in a more spiritual mood I turned, and half a second later the door opened. The neatly dressed 25ish man with hair trimmed almost militarily, well muscled with narrow, almost pinpoint eyes seemed almost apoplectic as I strode over, and said “Are you perchance an associate at Orrin & Patrick, currently representing two of their employees involved in a traffic incident with one, Terence Andover?”

His mouth worked, gasping for air, seeking his bearings, almost ready to fall over in sheer disbelief. “Why . . . what do you . . . how . . . were you . . . YES, ok, yes I am involved in that case.” His eyes, now flecks of pure ruby, challenged me, ‘make something of it, laugh at me, insult my boss, insult me, try it, just try it. Go on, I don’t care if they arrest me for giving you the beating you deserve. You’re arrogant and I would do almost anything to take you down a peg.’

Unfortunately, I wasn’t in the mood to start a fight. “In that case, consider your client served,” I said it absolutely calmly, resisting the urge to grin in pure malice, though I did allow my eyelid to twitch into something that almost resembled a wink. “I also assume you have similar paperwork which details your version of events? Or are you still working out the ground you could possibly have for suing me based on your own incompetence?” By giving him my paperwork first I initiated proceedings and managed the satisfaction of first blood that I had so critically been denied before. By asking if he had any, then asking if it was even ready I was direly insulting him, impugning his firm’s legal capabilities, and implying they were too incompetent to even fill out, or even file the most simplistic of paperwork that even a novice legal mind could muddle through.

I admired his poise at that moment though. He had just had a series of nasty surprises, mainly that I didn’t seem locked in the fetal position at the mere idea of being sued. I had managed to wrest control of the situation from him, something he clearly wasn’t used to. I even managed to insult him, his employers, and very nearly explicitly call the lot of them incompetent fools. “That is quite correct. I take it you were the other party involved in this dispute?” At my nod, he handed me a set of papers, somewhat more complex than B & F provided. “I am also authorized to present a settlement offer. Pay for the damages done to Orrin and Patrick’s company car,” This made me wince, not just some lawyer’s car, a company car! “. . . and add $20,000 to compensate for medical bills and the psychological impact and we can put this whole messy incident behind us.”

You had to give the guy credit. He must have guessed from what he heard they didn’t have a very good case, slamming into the side of a slow-moving car was not a very good reason to then sue the driver of the car you collided with. The offer actually was quite bearable, or would be for most people that owned assets valued at $28,856,666.35 according to my last look at my accounts. Unfortunately, thanks to my crazy uncle, I wouldn’t have access to that money until and unless their suits were successful. The bloodsucking, marrow chewing lawyers could dig into my accounts if they were successful in their efforts, until which time I had to rely on pro bono legal help, or at least someone who worked on a contingency basis.

“I’m sorry, but unless you are willing to offer me at least $60,000 in damages even as a starting point, which includes replacing the car and compensation for my own psychological trauma I really don’t see that even talking to you is worth my time” Staying on top, riding the waves of anger was more important than the actual number, much less my justification of it. Both of us knew even before the offer was made that we would be seeing the interior of a courtroom over this matter, it was just a question of the note on which our conversation terminated. Satisfactorily in my view.

After the filing, things seemed to slow down. Not that I’m implying nothing happened, the media seemed to embrace this as a holy cause, giving it blanket wall-to-wall coverage. I suspect much of that was due to the $23.4 million in punitive and actual damages the lawsuit sought. But for me, a poor man with no television and barely able to afford a newspaper, I was almost oblivious. Almost. Children stopped me on the street to ask if I was ‘the rich guy on tv,’ house wives swooned, single women swarmed and requests that I join poker games skyrocketed (No, I didn’t take them up on that last, I’m trying to control myself; as for the rest of it, what two consenting adults do behind closed doors is irrelevant to my legal situation).

As for what I did do, I spent most days searching for a good lawyer. I usually had only to come around the corner and law offices all down the street would turn their lights off, put a ‘closed for business’ notice in their window and shut the blinds. My search did not go well. I began waiting exclusively at the public defenders offices, assuming they would eventually give in and go to work, do their jobs and give me the representation I was entitled to. I couldn’t drive to another town to appeal to other lawyers, with no car and no money for a cab. The media, meanwhile, was playing the theory that I wanted to represent myself. I didn’t even have a phone since MCI cut me off, so the Public Defender’s office was my only hope. At this point I would have accepted a law clerk, even a paralegal would have been something. Then I met the man to represent me, very probably the only person in the tri county area who would take the job. Carlos Saguaro Miguel Arroyo, my lawyer, licensed in the state for more than six years, with one slight problem. He first approached me as I was sitting on the steps in front of the P.D.’s office. I watched him approach and was reminded of Fidel Castro, only with skin that was darker, more sun blasted, a kind face with dark eyes that seemed amused by the world in general, having seen it for more than 60 years, aged grey hair. I wasn’t quite amused however when he handed me his card, and the first words I saw were: ‘attorney at law.’ Pure euphoria would be a far more accurate description of my feelings. Then he spoke to me.

“I’m sorry, could you repeat that?” I asked the question with a feeling of dread creeping over me. He repeated himself “I’m sorry, I don’t speak Spanish. No Espanole. Do you speak English?” He smiled fixedly, looking confused. My shoulders slumped, my knees turned to goo, and I collapsed sitting almost bonelessly, head in my hands. I couldn’t face anything. I’d lost. I’d never find a lawyer, my money was gone, my career was finished, my life over.

I felt his hand brush my shoulder and heard him sit next to me. I looked at him again. He seemed well dressed, professional, capable. He had an infectious smile and his eyes pled for me to hire him for the legal services I did desperately need. I studied him for a long moment. My face finally softened, I managed a reluctant smile and a nod, grabbing his hand and shaking it firmly. He seemed slightly puzzled, so I took his card, got out a pen and underlined twice the phrase Attorney. He was hired.

You might assume things moved rapidly at that point, and perhaps they did. Carlos provided legal documents (in Spanish, naturally) for me to sign, and being largely unversed in the intricacies of legal practices I knew I wouldn’t fully comprehend them were they in English, so I signed them. I heard about Judge Creswick’s being assigned to my case. I knew he had been born and raised in Texas before his parents decided to move back here abruptly when he was in his mid teens. His reputation, at least according to the paper that Carlos began providing me daily (I had become a voracious news junky, at least on one topic), was that of a country lawyer. There were rumors of bribes, favoritism, a tendency to ignore both the letter and spirit of the law on the merest whim. Most troubling was the local gossip column, which was written by a former lawyer, disbarred for violating attorney-client privilege (I already asked, he wouldn’t even advise me). Judge Creswick, according to the column, had “an association” with a lawyer involved in a case when he was a minor. I knew that Horace Black had moved his practice from Texas. I also knew that Old Man Thaddeus Orrin, the current Orrin’s father, had been a local prosecutor in Amarillo for almost 40 years and still practiced today. It amounted to par for the course in my situation, to have the judge potentially favoring my opponents. I did write a letter to the columnist asking why the judge wasn’t forced to recuse himself. The reply, in short was ‘Since the issues I dug up occurred when His Honor was a juvenile there is no written record that this ever occurred. A judge cannot be absolutely forced off a case without a hearing where sufficient evidence exists. My informant, though 100% reliable will not testify at such a hearing for eminently obvious (to me at least) reasons. Have a nice day. Sincerely, Douglas Chase’ It wasn’t long after that, a matter of a day or so when we held the first preliminary hearing into the case. Or, at the time, cases.

“Let’s keep this informal. I know Black & Frankfurter filed their claim first. I also know that Mr. Andover has provided them with his own claim. Orrin & Patrick was then served followed immediately by Mr. Andover again. Now, Mr. Black, I want to know why we shouldn’t save the taxpayers the added expense of separate trials. I know your firm and Mr. Orrin’s have had many disagreements in the past, frequently represent a client just because the other firm took the other side. Putting your personal feelings aside, can you justify why I shouldn’t put you on the same side, with much the same complaint on basically the same subject? You both do want an ounce of Mr. Andover’s flesh that is, shall we say, slightly lower on his body? Or are you going to say you are not asking for compensation based on your allegations of Mr. Andover’ recklessness in regards to your wreck?”

Horace Black, a smooth talking, slight Hispanic with tiny glasses that accentuated large, almost cow eyes, replied in his clear, deep voice, “Well uh. . . .”

“I’ll take that to mean you agree with my assertion. Mr. Orrin?” The Judge’s ironic tone gave me some hope.

Dustin Q. Orrin, A highly polished, energetic red haired man seemed marginally more articulate than his counterpart, “That is an interesting view, Your Honor. But well . . . when you get right down to the issue . . . well, I just don’t like my colleague, Your Honor, and, well, that is my position I guess. And I don’t think you can make me.” The last two sentences seemed rushed, and were fired out in tense spurts, clearly this was not going as planned.

“So, you think I’m being unfair do you? A little unfair?” both men nod. “What if I told you work together, or the case is dismissed, think you can collaborate then?” Both men, in absolute, abject terror nodded vigorously, trying to keep composure that was completely shattered.

“Now, Mr. Andover,” My turn. Up to this point I am extremely relaxed. This might be easier than I thought. “Are you truly a multimillionaire? Why don’t you just pay to replace their cars? It may not be justice, but it is better than a lengthy trial and losing your fortune.” Calmly, I explained my peculiar predicament “I see, so because of poor choices you made, you are denied your fortune.” I nodded affirmative “Did you arrange it so those two cars would strike you and you could make a fortune off suing them, and you just got unlucky and hit the only people capable of standing up to you?” I stood to object, but he rose, an avenging angel come to strike me down for my wild past. “Didn’t you simply make another reckless choice, one last throw of the dice, one final turn of the cards? Should they be punished because the dice landed six instead of snake-eyes, the card a joker rather than an ace?”

I am so outraged, so angry, I can barely speak. I have agonized over this for weeks, my future hangs in the balance, and this bastard. . . . My fingers curl into claws, I scream, high pitched and terrible, my eyes glaze, and the next thing I know I wake up in a bed. I am severely confused. What happened? How long was I out? Did that whole series of events occur, or am I totally insane? What constitutes insanity in New Hampshire? I don’t think I am. Does that matter? If I wasn’t, but everyone else was, would that help? Could I prove it? What if I am insane, but the world is similarly afflicted, and only in this hospital sanity exists? Could it be that I am technically, and scientifically, as well as medically sane, but legally insane? Certainly an attack on a judge would qualify as being a health risk to others. Certainly I lost control. Am I then condemned, forever, to be a mere nothing, a beggar in a land of kings. A lackey for the dollar. A handyman and hobo, destined to travel the country working at petty jobs, running from the police as I am accused, guilt or innocence not withstanding, of every petty crime and theft. I could easily become the town scapegoat, its gremlin. When a cookie disappears a child, all wide-eyed innocence can blame it on the ‘bad man’ Mr. Andover. My case is lost.

Ah, here comes my lawyer and a doctor with news, I wonder if the doctor speaks English? Perhaps French, or German? Possibly Greek, now wouldn’t that be the icing on the proverbially promised, but never delivered, cake. However, managing clear and perfect honest to goodness American English the doctor said “Now don’t be nervous, I know you are a bit disoriented. I am Dr. Jack Brennan. You suffered an acute bout of depression, tension, stress about your case, and you are overworked. Officially at least. Unofficially, you beat the hell out of Judge Creswick, nearly strangling him before your fingers could be pried from his neck. For the record though, you won your case.”

I heard every word in that statement. Each word burrowed into my consciousness, each syllable pinged neatly in to place. Ping, ping, ping, ping, then done. I heard them,.I knew what each meant, yet the whole had no meaning. My lawyer, my deliverer, my fighter, my advocate, spoke in English!!!! “I suppose you wonder what you got in the case. They were quite good at arguing their side, citing precedent after precedent. Yet the bench trial I requested left no doubt as to the outcome, if only they knew. You see, that article you saw in the paper that one day, the gossip column you swore at for 6 minutes before shredding and burning it, spit on the ashes, threw them in the toilet, urinated on them, and flushed was correct. I helped the judge after he drew some graffiti on his school wall as a boy. The school gave him a relatively light penalty and the law barely touched him. He thought he owed me, so he told me about your case. I haven’t had much luck getting cases, perhaps because I’m Hispanic and racism does exists. In any event, we took your case. I told the truth to the gossip columnist and the trap was set. Both lawyers assumed they had an in with the judge through the other. Meanwhile, he played all sides to dispel notions of partiality. Your nemeses had no problem when I did request the bench trial because of the column and their ‘advantage.’ The end result was a $4,645,343.33 verdict in your favor. Oh, and you snapped Creswick’s clavicle; he’s not very happy with you. And the reason I never told you I spoke English? Just messing with you.” He grinned, showing his perfect white teeth. I just stared. Somehow, someway, I had won. An appeal by the lawyers could not succeed. I had literally broken the neck of the judge, who then ruled in my favor. Ruled in my favor, sweeter words could not exist. Then my savior handed me a simple document, outlining his fees should I retain him throughout the appellate process, or if I preferred, a severance fee. $4,645,000 in severance wages, 95% of any winnings finally awarded. I would deal with this for months and get next to nothing, or I could have my former lawyer sue me for not paying severance wages I apparently agreed to when I signed a document without reading it (It was one of the many Spanish ones, I did mention them, didn’t I?). Somehow, knowing the struggle would continue, that the fight would go on and then finally end, that made it worthwhile.

And that’s my story. The strange case of Terrence Andover. That you read this means you found it in my pocket. Perhaps you were searching my pockets for some money. I hope I remembered to leave my wallet in it, take what you find. I hope you are not a burglar, not because I worry about my property, but because I quite literally have nothing worth the risk for you to take. I hope I turned off the gas. I hope I didn’t spatter too badly, that my head didn’t absorb so much of the blast that my neighbors don’t hear it and come to investigate, if you did, and are reading this, hi Bill! Or is it Tony and/or Ruth? Sandra or Stephen from across the street? I hope my corpse is found soon after . . . I’ve turned the heat off, and would hate to think I was cold.

[DemonArchangel]

why did he kill himself?

[Gaborn]

The short answer is that he killed himself because he had no hope. At every turn the system had betrayed him. Even his defense attorney, the one person he had absolutely trusted had betrayed him. Everytime he puts his trust in the system he is betrayed.

At each point he has a little bit of hope, a feeling that things will work out in the end something happens that crushes him. He has no car, he will lose his house, he has no money whatsoever, he has a shyster lawyer, and he has a fortune that he will never see.

[DemonArchangel]

well i would have just blackmailed the lawyer. Apparently your main character isn't really that intelligent.

[Gaborn]

well i would have just blackmailed the lawyer. Apparently your main character isn't really that intelligent.

Considering his gambling problem I'd agree he isn't particularly intelligent. But how would he blackmail the lawyer? What proof would he have? There is no law against speaking spanish, there is no evidence of the deception, it is one person's word against another.

[DemonArchangel]

Well, either that, or I would have put a nice neat 9mm slug into the base of his skull. Murder does seem like a good option in this situation. Oh and by the way, if Andover just simply worked out a contract that gave the lawyer like 50% he wouldn't have had to kill himself.

[Gaborn]

Agreed, no one said Andover was a legal genius. In his defense however he was under so much pressure that he signed whatever the lawyer gave him to sign because he had no one else he felt he could trust and no one else willing to fight for him.

[Gaborn]

Agreed, no one said Andover was a legal genius. In his defense however he was under so much pressure that he signed whatever the lawyer gave him to sign because he had no one else he felt he could trust and no one else willing to fight for him.

Edit: Didn't address your murder point. What benefit would that have gained him? He'd still lose the house, he'd lose the car, he'd lose his job, he'd be in prison, potentially for life, or (if NH has the death penalty, I don't live there and am not sure) death row. Is that worth it?

[DemonArchangel]

oh, hmmm..... i would have just waited for him in a dark alley with a silenced pistol. NH does allow for the posession of silencers. Or better yet, his house...

[Gaborn]

Ok, you can commit the murder. How will that help you? You are facing an appeal of the damages and just lost someone to represent you. Presumabely the lawyer has his own lawyer who would see the existing agreement to wages as something owed regardless of the lawyers death. Then you are already going to lose everything as I said. What benefit will his death be?

[GabrielThief]

I think you're all looking at too many "what if" scenarios and reading too much into them. I believe, and correct me if I'm wrong Gaborn, that the point of this story was to show that people have to live with the consequences of their actions. He did what he did, and has to live with how it turned out, because he couldn't bear to live with how it turned out, he killed himself.

Not exactly the choice I would have made, but no amount of "what if"ing, will change how the story goes.

[Gaborn]

Thats very true, it was a story about consequences, but it was also a critique of the justice system in that it can often crush people due to corrruption and hurt the innocent. For the record, I also would not have killed myself were I somehow in that situation, but I can understand that Terence felt that everything he believed had betrayed him, he felt a supreme and overwhelming depression and couldn't deal with it. Whether life dealt him a bad hand and he was simply born to be irresponsible is debateable. Whether he could have made a different choice and somehow made something work favorably, while academic, is not necessarily irrelevant. Is it possible he could have saved himself at some point during the story? Did he make correct decisions at the time that worked out badly in the end or did he make a bad choice? I suppose the issue is just how inevitable was it that he would be destroyed mentally, emotionally, and finally in despair physically?

[DemonArchangel]

Well if he hadn't made bad choices before his lawyer ripped his ass off, he would be still standing AND driving a new porsche.

[Raige]

Hey Gaborn, good story. It's easy for those who haven't really lost all hope to say "Well, suicide isn't the way to go" or "Well, he could've done this or that or the other thing." And it's also really easy for those who think they are so great as to not make irresponsible choices to say "Well, if he wasn't so irresponsible, blah blah blah." Obviously, your story was fictional, but it probably wasn't as far from reality as we'd like to think.

So, I forgot where I was going with those trains of thought, but anyway, good job Gaborn, great read.

[Gaborn]

DemonArchangel - true. If he hadn't gambled he would have his money long since.

Raige - Thanks very much.