Free January Justice by Athol Dickson

but in California, couples can get a confidential marriage license from a specially authorized notary public, and a court order is required to unseal the document. So Rita Silverstein, Haley’s personal attorney, had applied for the necessary legal authority.
    One morning I had walked over to the rear entrance of the mansion at El Nido, crossed the kitchen and the morning room, and strolled along the gallery to the front living room, where Simon, Teru, Higgins, and my grandparents were already waiting. Haley had been angelic in a white-silk shift, with her hair golden like a halo, and I had been carefully shaved and wearing a new suit. We held hands while Rita confidentially married us by the power vested in her by the State. Then my grandfather spoke a few words about the Lord and said a prayer of blessing, and Haley and I became husband and wife in the eyes of God and California.
    We hadn’t exchanged rings. We had no honeymoon. We knew reporters could find out about our little wedding if they had a reason to go looking, so we gave them no reason to look. We went to great extremes to maintain the employer-employee fiction. We avoided all physical contact unless we were alone together in a room. Haley continued to pay me by check every two weeks. She often attended gala events and public functions with male actors, producers, directors, and other business associates. And the greatest sacrifice: I never actually lived under the same roof with my wife.
    Our only compromise had been the decision that I would live in the guesthouse on her Newport Beach estate, exactly three hundred and twenty-two steps away from her bedroom. This had seemed reasonable for a man who was not only Haley’s driver but also her bodyguard.
    The thought that Haley might suffer because of my past had been only one of my concerns. No matter how often she denied it, I also worried that she might think her fortune was at least partially responsible for my being there. So in addition to insisting on the secrecy, I had asked for the prenuptial agreement. Haley had refused. She said she trusted me completely. I had insisted again. We argued gently about it more than once. I was resolute. It was her heart I craved more than anything else on earth, the humble, kind, and lofty spirit in her. I craved a chance to prove the purity of my love.
    Finally I refused to marry Haley unless she agreed to my two conditions—the secrecy and the prenuptial. I told her, “I couldn’t live with myself if my past caused you harm. And I can tell you a million times that your money doesn’t matter, but as long as the money is still there for me, there will always be the possibility it isn’t totally true. This is the only way to settle it, once and for all. I have to go into this marriage with just our love at stake, and nothing else.”
    At last she understood what it meant to me, and she had agreed to the prenuptial. Or so I thought.
    Sitting there between Teru and Simon in Haley’s kitchen, everything I saw reminded me of her. I thought of what she wrote on that prenuptial agreement in place of her signature. I thought of the “Luckiest Girl Alive,” driven mad by a massive overdose, driven off a cliff above a city with four million of her admirers. Every one of them could grieve publicly for her. Only I could not. Only I must pretend a detachment from my heartache. The love of my life had been murdered in my presence, but I had to hide my grief. I had to find a way to live with that.
    Or not.
    “I can’t inherit anything from Haley,” I said.
    The gardener and the butler stared at me as if I’d lost my mind.
    Teru said, “I thought we went over this before. You’ve already inherited her estate.”
    I took a deep breath. “Look. Because of my job, I had a believable reason to be around Haley most of the time when she was alive. It was risky, but it was possible to pull the marriage off without destroying her reputation. And she really wanted to be married, so