Men from the U.S. Marshal’s office came by our house again Sunday night, looking for our Notorious Neighbor, who was evading a contempt-of-court charge that had blossomed into an arrest warrant. My husband returned to the bedroom shaking his head. “He’s in over his head,” he said. “He’s taking this relatively petty thing and blowing it up into something really serious.”
It was a sobering moment for me, nice law-abiding person that I am — someone who, years ago, when she came across Flaubert’s decree that a writer should maintain a (mostly) stable existence so that she may live wildly and recklessly and criminally within her fiction, nodded in both agreement and recognition. It made me think of those moments in novels when the person realizes, This is not a game….or, for that matter, NN isn’t just a character someone thought up to make my own life more amusing.
It isn’t just that they got him on Monday, when he must have had his own moment of, “This is not a game”; his lawyers must have said something, because apparently he was en route to turn himself in when someone recognized him and called the cops. He was supposed to mediate a new deal from jail, and buy his way back into his old life before too long…
…except now he’s been indicted for tax evasion.
As in millions of dollars.
As in up to ten years.
I don’t see him buying his way out of this one.