Chapter 3

Class Warfare

During this ongoing back-and-forth, I had little contact with Karen. She would call occasionally, eager to chat, and fill me in on the latest with her and the others—especially Michael and her former friend, the cheerleader, whose name I still can’t recall. Michael often called her, throwing jabs at her ‘husband’ and mocking how ridiculous it was that she was paired with a nobody.

Karen retaliated by saying that while I might have been a nobody before, I was now a somebody—at least to her. She told him that, whenever I could, I gave of myself to her freely and willingly. She pointed out that this was something Michael never did when they were together, whether as boyfriend and girlfriend or later, when they were engaged. All Michael ever did was take—never giving anything in return. She said he would hang up in anger and wouldn’t reach out again until the next he felt abusive.

I didn’t have time to play along with these petty games because I was focused on doing well when we graduated. I was ranked in the top five of our class—not the top five percent, but the top five. I had a full scholarship offer from one of the best law schools in the country. Until graduation, I planned to stay out of the drama, hoping Karen would get the marriage annulled. I figured I could then look back on it as just a funny college story.

As the saying goes, ‘Men smile, and gods laugh’—or something like that. Two weeks before graduation, my offer for a full ride to law school was rescinded. The reason wasn’t related to my academic performance, but rather my family connections. The law school people decided that I could afford to pay my own way and might even be able to convince my in-laws to make a generous donation to the school, benefiting other deserving law students.”

I was crushed and locked myself in my dorm room for two days, letting the frustration eat at me. Eventually, anger took over, and I called Karen, unloading on her. I can’t recall exactly what I said, but the next day, someone pounded on my door, demanding I open it and ‘man up.’ When I did, I was met with a middle-aged man in an expensive suit, flanked by three others who looked like they could take down a grizzly without breaking a sweat.

The middle-aged man sized me up, his gaze cold and calculating, before speaking. “I’m Karen’s father,” he said, “and you must be her husband—or the man who’s about to make her a widow, depending on how you talk to me.”

I was caught off guard by Mr. Olson’s words, unsure how to react at first. The best response I could come up with was to ask him how much Karen had shared about our marriage. He gave me a brief summary of what she’d told him, and it turned out she’d only mentioned a few key details. I realized I’d need to fill in the gaps to give him the full picture.

“Mr. Olson, did Karen show you the folder with everything from the ceremony, including the photos?”

I continued, “A lot of what I’m about to tell you is backed up by what’s in that folder. I’m not sure if Karen’s ashamed of it or if she’s trying to keep it confidential, hoping to reconcile with Michael Stanley.”

Mr. Olson replied, “I’ve never seen a pink folder, and Karen didn’t mention it either. I’d really like to take a look at what’s inside that folder. And you’re telling me that young Michael is involved in this?”

“Yes, sir. There’s a photo in the folder that clearly shows Karen and me looking under the influence. We’re both standing there, staring at the photographer with glassy eyes. I’ll be honest with you—I don’t smoke or drink. It’s not because I’m against it, I just choose not to.”

“What else is in this pink folder?” Karen’s dad asked. “I need to know what to expect. I don’t want any surprises. In my line of work, surprises like this can ruin you if you’re not careful.”

“The folder contains a marriage certificate, the marriage license, a certified copy, the photo I mentioned, and a few others. Nothing damaging that I can remember—just some photos of us, along with Michael Stanley and a girl Karen says is now her ex-best friend.”

“Excuse me, William. Do you go by William or Bill? I’ll just be a moment to confer with my associates,” Mr. Olson said, stepping into a huddle with the men in suits who had accompanied him.