The Underrated Son-In-Law : I Am The World Richest Man

It was heavy winter in the cold tranquil, prison yard where I stood by the side of an impervious jailer whose hostile face held no joy.

Once he bent over to sign some documents, he gave me a nod that impinged me to do same.

“Today you are released from the four walls of this prison, Brian Patrick,” he called me softly and patted my fragile shoulders as though to be more emphatic.

I grinned, swallowed hard, lowered my gaze as if by any careless moves of my eyelids those tears would trickle.

I sniffed. Finally my tears trickled.

“You are going back to the society. Be of good behavior and stay off financial fraud,” his masculine voice groaned a warning.

I dared to fight back more tears as my shattered face brook no argument.

Behind the gigantic gate of the prison yard, I stood, waiting as the gate creaked and got opened for me to step out.

“So I was leaving this prison finally,” I intoned in my head.

A welcoming, chilled wind blew at me, leaving my long, unkempt hair fluttering behind my neck.

I threw a few steps forward and that marked the end of my stay in a fifteen- years-jail sentence. Confused about which way to take, I squatted and finally broke down in terrifying tears.

“Finally it is over, and I am free from this hell of a prison…”

The voice came once again reminding me that I had a family to return to, even though fifteen years might have denied them exact recognition of me. But I was free to return to a society that accused me of $15 billion company fraud.

Morgan Harris.

He could probably be richer and more influential now. Yes!

 I sniffed and started walking down the lonely cold road as I thought of Morgan Harris; those names tuckered me out as pictures of that horrible morning flashed in my head.

How did a poor office cleaner like me get involved in a company fraud?

I had gotten imprisoned when I realized my boss; Morgan Harris had only used me to commit a financial fraud in the Community Central Bank. Who else would he have used if not me, Brian Patrick, the poorest and the least paid staff at Morgan Group?

My thumb print, signature and photos were all glaring in the exhibit presented by the jury. At the time Community Central Bank was still in search of their $15 billion and since the culprit was standing right before them, Morgan Harris handed me over to them to be tried and jailed.

Little wonder!

Fifteen years ago weren’t years I often relished. I had disappointed my family, my friends, and posterity.

Nobody believed I was innocent of the crime. Only my conscience reposed its honesty in me.

I halted on the road, shut my eyes, raised my gaze at the blue sky above and wondered which way to turn. On the road I noticed pedestrians kept their distance and stigmatized me. It was when I crossed the edge of a glass wall that my reflection struck in my head. Fifteen years of being bullied, starved and ridiculed in jail had stolen the better parts of me. The despicable treatment decked my thought that I barely could reason well.

I was looking shabby, unkempt dirty and ragged. When I stole a glance at a beggar by the road side, I noticed I wasn’t better off in appearance. First thing first! I needed to reunite with my family. But what would become of them now? My heartbeat had resounded in shame when I thought about my family.

My parents were aged and depended on me for survival and with a fifty dollars monthly salary as a cleaner; we barely lived above one dollar per day. The worst of it all was that I visited parties just to have decent meals, and I could recall father joining me so that we could keep reserve for the days to come.

Before going to jail, I left them with nothing except tears in their eyes and tension in their veins.

I had only reminded them, “I will be out soon! I will be out!” while the hailer dragged me away like some kitten.

I could still see the clouds of hatred and shades of go-to-hell in the eyes of my father and the watery, weeping eyes of my mother, who couldn’t stand her only child and bread winner to be imprisoned for a crime he didn’t commit.

I patiently waited for fifteen years to go by for me to prove my innocence to my parents and the society at large.

I had lost memory of our home address by now, but I knew the road to it. I would be fascinated to meet with my family again, and exchange warm kisses. I only wished it would be a reality and not some infatuation.

I had a lot of questions for my father, bordering much around my true identity.

The last time he visited me in jail, father had engaged me in a steamy argument and bickering which left me shattered afterwards. After that very visit I had wondered why it took him so long to reveal this to me. In fact it was during such stormy revelation that I started seeing myself as a bastard.

But was I actually a bastard?

My conscience had been opened to believe that I was only but an adopted son. The sadness in his eyes ever since I was convicted of the alleged financial fraud couldn’t let him keep back the secret for too long. To father I had committed a besetting sin, so it was time to let the cat out of the basket.

“I am hugely disappointed in you, Brian,” father had said through clenched teeth. “I never knew you were a criminal. I am happy you are not even my bloodline. You are but an adopted child. As soon as you are out of jail, you must find your true identity and family. And if you rot in jail so be it. You disappointed us, you son of shame. You did!”