Chapter 4: Guilt and Glitter

The cop even joked, “If this was a rusty Civic, nobody’d care.”

But the problem was, we’d just paid the penalty and taken off with a Porsche Cayenne.

It was a loophole that only worked because the car was worth so much. My cousin acted like it was just another day.

My cousin showed his payment records, saying he’d followed the contract and already transferred the penalty to the customer.

He pulled up his banking app, showing the transfer receipt. “See? Double the rate. All by the book.”

I’d been terrified of the police, but after reading the contract, they said it was a civil matter and told us to settle it among ourselves.

The officer shrugged. “Take it to small claims if you want. Nothing criminal here.”

The Porsche owner was floored. So was I.

He stared at the contract, then at us, like we’d just pulled a fast one on him. I felt relief, but also a heavy wave of guilt.

He demanded to know why the police wouldn’t arrest us.

He slammed his fist on the desk. “How is this not theft?”

They explained: first, the car wasn’t missing and communication was open. Second, we’d signed a contract and paid the penalty. Third, the car hadn’t been used for illegal business.

The officer ticked off each point, sounding like he’d done this a hundred times. “You got your money, your car’s not missing, nobody’s running a chop shop. What do you want from us?”

They had no grounds to arrest us.

One cop even said, “Maybe next time, read the fine print.”

The owner raged about the lack of justice, but my cousin just shrugged. “Then sue me. I’ll pay whatever the court says.”

My cousin’s voice was steady, almost bored. “That’s what contracts are for.”

The owner fell silent, face red with anger.

He looked like he wanted to punch a hole in the wall, but all he did was glare.

The police told everyone to calm down and move on.

They handed back the contract, told us to shake hands, and sent us out.

My cousin threw his arm around me and laughed as we left the station. He noticed I was still trembling and asked what I was so afraid of.

He grinned, giving my shoulder a squeeze. “Come on, kid. You made it out.”

I told him I was scared of breaking the law—and getting beat up by the owner.

My voice was barely more than a whisper. “He looked like he wanted to kill me.”

He laughed, “If some punk beats you up, he gets a night in jail—bad luck. But if a Porsche owner throws a punch? That’s a lawsuit waiting to happen! You could retire on that settlement.”

He winked. “Deep pockets, deep settlements. That’s the American way.”

That’s when it finally clicked—how my cousin made his fortune.

He never blinked at risk, always running the numbers. For him, it was all about the odds.

If the payoff was bigger than the penalty, he’d always push the envelope.

He lived for loopholes, for the angle nobody else saw. I realized I’d been playing checkers, and he was playing chess.

No, what we did wasn’t even illegal. It was just a breach of contract.

I let out a shaky breath. Somehow, that felt even worse.

Only then did I realize I wasn’t my cousin’s only employee. He had people working at hospitals all over the city.