Your Cheatin’ Heart

“YOUR CHEATIN’ HEART”

Your cheatin’ heart
Will make you weep
You’ll cry and cry
And try to sleep

But sleep won’t come
The whole night through
Your cheatin’ heart
Will tell on you

When tears come down
Like falling rain
You’ll toss around
And call my name

You’ll walk the floor
The way I do
Your cheatin’ heart
Will tell on you


Written and Performed by Hank Williams, Sr.


YOUR CHEATIN’ HEART

By

SENORLONGO


There seems to be an old saying to cover virtually every situation. In this case it’s “the husband is always the last to know.” Looking back I realized now that I should have seen the signs—the conversations at parties that stopped suddenly when I approached, the tittering behind my back, the knowing glances from our so-called friends, people turning away when I walked near. Why didn’t I see them? It’s simple—I trusted my wife and I couldn’t imagine that anyone would be stupid enough to cross me.

My name is Rocco Fabbri. My parents and I immigrated to the United States from Sicily where vendetta is the way of life. Sicilians always get even and we usually get even more. I’ve been known to completely destroy my adversaries. The second reason is that I’m one of the nation’s top criminal defense attorneys. I don’t care if my client if guilty or innocent. The system demands that all accused have an active and capable defense. I always give my client my best effort and that is almost always outstanding. I’ve defended some of the biggest scumbags and most ardent criminals known to man. I have dozens of contacts on the wrong side of the law and almost all owe me favors.

I’d had many discussions with my wife Jill from before we became engaged, as well as over the ten years we’d been married about the sanctity of marriage vows. I’d made it totally clear that adultery was a deal breaker for me and to date she’d always agreed. In spite of my unsavory clients I was a very religious man, attending early Mass almost every morning, maybe because of the slime I had to deal with on a daily basis.

It was through an accident—a series of seemingly unrelated events—that I first learned of Jill’s adultery. Eric Hoffman was a sophomore at one of our local universities. I would have been able to get his DUI arrest reduced to a misdemeanor, usually public intoxication, if not for the bags of crack and meth in his pocket when he was stopped. Now Eric was looking at hard time, even as a first-time offender.

Eric’s dad was Bernard Hoffman, a real estate magnate from upstate near Albany. We spoke on the phone several times, but he wanted a face-to-face. I didn’t mind; I was charging him $500 an hour. The meeting was set for Tuesday, the seventeenth. I was expecting him at 1:00, but he phoned at ten that morning. “Rocky (nobody calls me Rocco), listen…I got gout in my foot. I’m in agony and I can’t walk. Can we meet in my hotel room?”

“Of course, Bernard; I should be able to see you a bit after one if that’s okay.”

“Thanks, Rocky; I’m at the Marriott, room 502. I’ll see you whenever. I’m not going anywhere.” Returning to my work, I planned on leaving at noon in anticipation of grabbing a bite to eat at the Marriott’s fine restaurant. I had just driven into the Marriott’s lot when I saw Jill’s car. It’s hard to miss. She drives a new BMW 740 Li sedan with a special custom paint job. She just loved the old Jaguar XKE in what I would call lilac, but the company called Heather. Jaguar did the special paint job for $16,000. I thought it was money well spent at the time—a special gift for my special girl.

Parking near her car I hustled into the restaurant hoping to catch her so we could spend a few minutes together before my meeting. I know exactly what you’re thinking and you’re absolutely right—she wasn’t anywhere to be found—although, at the time I was firmly convinced of her fidelity. I wandered all through the restaurant and lobby, even asking at the front desk if they’d seen her. Jill tends to stand out. She’s tall at five-foot ten and slender with an athletic body and the firmest ass I’d ever encountered. Her jet black hair hung straight to her shoulders. I knew she’d be dressed appropriately for a high-end hotel in one of her designer outfits.

Jill was thirty to my forty-two. Lest you think I’m some slouch, I’m six-foot three and weigh 190 pounds, mostly muscle from many workouts at the gym. My full head of curly black hair is gray only at my temples. Jill has often told me it makes me look “distinguished.” I have brown eyes to Jill’s iridescent green. I’m clean shaven with short sideburns. Some people think I’m good looking, but I think I’m just “okay” unlike Jill who is drop dead gorgeous with a body to match. Like my wife, I’m always extremely well dressed. Today I’m wearing a $5,000 charcoal gray worsted wool suit from my personal tailor in Hong Kong and $2,000 tasseled black loafers to match my light gray silk shirt and mostly cranberry paisley tie.

By now, not having found my loving wife, I started to put two and two together and I didn’t like the answer I was seeing. I retreated to my car and moved it away from Jill’s. Fortunately, my Mercedes SL-400 Cabriolet is sleek and low, easily hidden behind an SUV or a panel truck. I moved about eight slots away and an aisle farther from the building where I could barely see Jill’s car, but my Canon DSLR and zoom lens could bring the driver’s side of her sedan up close.

I always keep a camera in my car and a compact in my briefcase to photograph my clients when they are taken into custody and sometimes after if I think they’ve been assaulted by some over eager cops or jailers. Using my cell phone I called Bernard to tell him I’d be late—something important had come up—but I’d definitely get to him later this afternoon.

Thinking that I might have a long wait I removed my jacket and laid it in the back then I opened my collar and took off my tie. My seat reclined and I hid my face under a baseball cap. It was almost two hours later that Jill finally appeared. Her clothes were a mess and her normally neat hair badly needed combing. My zoom lens picked up what I thought might be semen in her hair. She walked straight to her car with her lover, oblivious to anything and everything around her. Snapping photos in rapid succession I easily recognized the boyfriend. It was our neighbor Alex Hammond; he lived about five houses up the block from ours. After a quick grope and a slow kiss they were gone. I grabbed my jacket and briefcase and walked hurriedly to the lobby, hoping I’d get lucky.

Beth Samuels was an assistant manager here. I’m the reason her only son isn’t in prison for twenty to life. Encouraged by some of his idiot friends he and two others stuck up a gas station and killed the attendant two years ago. Martin had stayed in the car, but technically and legally he was just as responsible as the kid who’d pulled the trigger. They trio had gotten away with all of $43. Martin told his mother the following morning. He was terrified and claimed he didn’t know the others planned the robbery; he thought they were going to try buying beer. Beth called me. She knew me from Corpus Christi Church in Mineola where she was an active parishioner and I did some pro bono work with their outreach program. Long story short, he gave evidence against the others and received a slap on the wrist—five years in a minimum security facility, serving only twenty months, and ten years probation. The other two boys–both seventeen like Martin–got twenty to life in an environment where they were sure to be raped daily. I was pleased to see Beth behind the counter.

“Hi, Rocky—what brings you to the Marriott?”

“I have a meeting with a client. Did I just see Alex Hammond, the real estate guy, on my way in?”

“Sure…he’s here every Tuesday and Thursday for some meetings with his staff. He always uses the same room—217. It’s a suite with a couch and a few chairs and room for a few tables. His assistant is always with him.”

“Is she that tall woman with the black hair?”

“Yeah, that’s the one; boy, is she a looker, and what a wardrobe. I’m surprised she can afford it.”

“Beth, any idea how long they’ve been holding these meetings?”

“Sure…hold on,” she said as she checked her computer. “Okay, I remember now; he started just after the New Year—every Tuesday and Thursday for the past ten weeks.”

“Beth, can you give me a print-out? I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.”

She whispered, “I’m not supposed to, Rocky. I could get into trouble. He’s not doing anything illegal, is he?”

“I don’t think so, Beth, but it might help me to establish a pattern for him.”

“Oh!” We continued to speak while she typed on her console. She reached down to pull several pages from the printer. Folding them and placing them into an envelope she handed it to me. “Here’s your itemized receipt, Sir. Please come back again.”

“I certainly will. The service here is great. Thank you.” Those remarks were directed to the fiftyish man I knew was her boss in the office doorway behind her. I was gone a second later walking toward the elevators. Bernard showed me into his room a few minutes later. He was hopping and sat with his foot elevated.

“You’d think gout is funny if you ever saw some of the old movies like ‘Captain Blood’ with Errol Flynn. Trust me, Rocky—it’s not. It’s just about the most painful
thing I’ve ever experienced. I’ll be on my ass for a week. Now, tell me about my idiot son.”

I spoke for about twenty minutes explaining the charges and the potential sentences. He was grateful that I’d requested his son be placed in a special section of the county jail where he’d be relatively safe and I reminded him about bail.

“No, Rocky…there will be no bail. He’s always been a kid who had to experience things for himself. I tried to warn him about the dangers of drugs and alcohol, among many other things, but he wouldn’t listen. If I told him to keep his hands off the stove he’d just have to try it to be sure. He can stay in the jail until the trial.”

“Suppose I could arrange for a plea bargain. I’m sure I can get the DUI settled if he voluntarily surrenders his license and, of course, if you took his car that would help, too. Is it registered in your name?” He nodded and we agreed on that course of action to start. Then I continued, “Leaving him in the jail could work to our advantage. It will be at least ninety days and probably more until the case comes before a judge. I won’t push for a speedy trial so I might be able to get him off with time served. I’ll speak with the DA tomorrow morning. Eric will have to perform community service and a lot of it, like five hundred hours. I’ll review everything with him tomorrow, too.” We spoke for another fifteen minutes before we discussed my bill.

“You’re paying my standard rate–$500 an hour plus expenses. If I had to guess I’d estimate this will cost you between forty and fifty, but it could be more or even less depending on how things go with the DA and also on how things go with your son. I’ll pitch probation and community service with the emphasis on community service and the expectation that he must follow through. If he shows enthusiasm things will go better. I know you’ve had trouble communicating with him in the past, but he’s never been in this kind of trouble before.”

“I’ll give you a check for twenty thousand now if that’s okay.” I nodded to indicate that it was. “I’ll see Eric tomorrow morning if at all possible. Want me to call you after?”

“Yes, it’s important that I know everything. Be sure to tell him not to lie to me or hide information. The more surprises I get the harder it will be for him.” He wrote the check, we shook hands, and I left. Once in the parking lot I used my cell to phone the private investigator the firm uses, asking him to meet me in my office ASAP.

I was at my desk only a few minutes when he walked in, closed the door, and sat, his notebook open on the other side of my massive desk. “You really should turn this desk around. You’re missing the beautiful view.” This was how our conversations always began.

“If I did that you know I’d never get any work done…and speaking of work, I have a job for you. It’s personal, Pete so not a word to anyone other than me. I’ll pay you from my own pocket—cash so there’s no record.” One look at him told me he knew pretty much what I was going to say. “Here’s a printout of Alex Hammond’s room rentals at the Marriott. His business and home information are on the back page. He and his assistant go there every Tuesday and Thursday.”

He gave the printout a quick glance. “Let me guess—his assistant is a tall good-looking woman with straight black hair who dresses well.”

“Unfortunately…I’ll want everything you can get—photos, video if you can, audio…the whole shebang.”

“I’m truly sorry, Rocky. You’ll get it…everything you need. I will never understand why a woman would risk everything she has for some cheap sex. I see it every day, but I’ll never understand it.” He rose and turned, but spoke again before leaving. “You understand that I can’t do this personally. Your wife knows me so I’ll have my best people on this. I’ll see you in another week.” I grumbled something as he walked out the door.


+++++


One of my weaknesses, other than my wife and daughters, is country music. I can’t help it—I just love the stuff, especially the old-timers like Merle Haggard, Johnny Cash, Patsy Cline, and Hank Williams, Sr. ! I was barely in my car on the way home where I was eagerly looking forward to seeing and hugging my two darling daughters Alicia, eight, and Sofia, six, but not my lying cheating spouse when I heard Hank belting out, “Your cheatin’ heart will make you weep, you’ll cry and cry and try to sleep. But sleep won’t come the whole night through. Your cheatin’ heart will tell on you.”

“How appropriate,” I thought as I pulled out of the parking lot and onto the highway. I work in Mineola in Nassau County, Long Island—it’s the county seat and home to the county courts–and I live in the upper class community of Centerport in neighboring Suffolk County. To give you an idea—the ultra wealthy Vanderbilts once had a huge estate there. We don’t have an estate, but we do have a big four-bedroom colonial on more than an acre. The land alone is worth more than a million and our property taxes are more than many on the island earn in an entire year. Fortunately, money isn’t a problem.