Showtime, big fella. This is it. The hour of vindication has finally arrived.
The Ol’ Duff strides purposefully, confidently towards the pack outside the courthouse. Bayne insisted we come in the front way rather than up through the parking garage. He says a man with nothing to hide shouldn’t appear to be hiding, and I have to agree.
But I draw the line at playing the down-at-the-heels Island bumpkin. I have my pride. And today I am immaculate in my Harry Rosen suit and my crisp French cuffs with the cufflinks Mulroney gave me.
Now there was a man, unlike this current crew of political midgets, who understood how the world works, who knew that toast needs butter.
The Ol’ Duff slices the gauntlet of jabbering, back-stabbing media jackals like Charlton Heston parting the Red Sea. I taught you everything you know, you ingrates, and this is how they repay me, treating me like I’m some two-bit criminal?
This was my town, you nobodies, and it will be my town again—or I will lay waste to it.
Inside courtroom 33, it is hot and stuffy. The Trial of the Century, and this shoebox is all they can come up with? I know! They’re trying to make me sweat, trying to make me look guilty, just like they did to Richard Nixon.
I reach for my pen. I feel a warm sticky mess on the front of my shirt! Cripes, they’ve shot me coming in the door! It’s Harper! He’s trying to whack me!
Then I realize—my goddamn Easter bunny’s melted! The one I bit the ears off, so it wouldn’t stick out of my pocket! It’s now oozing down the front of my beautiful white shirt.
It’s going to be a long day.