The FBI gave me back my father’s watch in April.
An agent named Lisa Chen brought it to Opal’s house in a sealed evidence bag. She had me sign a property release form at Opal’s kitchen table.
“It still runs,” Agent Chen said. “We checked.”
I slipped it out of the bag. The gold was a little scratched. The leather band was more cracked than I remembered.
I held it up to my ear.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
Still running. Thirty-five years after Dad first put it on his wrist.
I strapped it on.
The Ohio Court of Claims approved my wrongful imprisonment claim in June. The federal claim came through in September. Between them, it came to a little over $250,000. Carol told me it wasn’t much for four years of a life.
“It’s enough to start over,” I said.
I didn’t move back into the house on Brand Road.
I couldn’t. Every room had Trevor and Monica in it.
I sold it in October, for $641,000. To a young couple with twin baby boys. The husband was a firefighter. The wife was a nurse at Riverside Methodist.
The same hospital where I sat beside Loretta for seven weeks.
After paying off the original mortgage and Carol’s fees, I had a little over $380,000.
I paid Opal back first. Every dollar she’d paid Russell and Carol. $31,400. She’d kept the ledger in a little green notebook in her kitchen drawer, in that careful cursive.
She tried to refuse it.
“Opal,” I said. “You told Russell I’m the only person you trust to keep your ledger. So let me keep it right.”
She took the check. Then she cried. Then she made chicken soup.
With the rest, I started a new company.
Not medical supplies. Something else.
I opened a small consulting office in a storefront on High Street in Worthington. Right below Russell’s office, next to the bakery.
Hale Forensic Bookkeeping.
I help small businesses find out if somebody’s stealing from them. Family businesses, mostly. Where the brother-in-law runs payroll. Where the daughter has the bank login. Where everybody trusts everybody.
Russell refers me cases. Carol refers me cases.
And twice a month, I volunteer with a reentry program at the Ohio Reformatory for Women in Marysville. I teach a class on budgeting and bookkeeping to women who are about to go home.
The first day, a young woman in the back row raised her hand.
“Why should we listen to you?” she asked. “You don’t know what it’s like in here.”
I rolled up my sleeve. I showed her my father’s watch.
“Harmon Hall, unit 4B,” I said. “Three years and ten months. I was counted four times a day.”
The room went quiet.
“And now,” I said, “let’s talk about how to read a bank statement. Because the next time somebody tries to steal from you, I want you to be the first one to see it.”
Ethan Blake is a skilled Creative Content Specialist with a talent for crafting engaging and thought-provoking narratives. With a strong background in storytelling and digital content creation, Ethan brings a unique perspective to his role at TheArchivists, where he curates and produces captivating content for a global audience.
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