Of course, I wouldn’t wish a pre-dawn raid on anyone, no matter what they’ve done. (Allegedly.)
But the FBI’s recently reported pre-dawn raid on Paul Manafort’s Virginia home is making me think. And what I’m thinking is…This could be the perfect solution for dealing with my attic!
A whole team of strong men and women, carrying out box after box of incriminating materials?
Where do I sign up?
From what I can see, all I have to do is get their attention, somehow — “Yoohoo! Director Mueller! Are you reading this?” — and delicately hint that I, too, may have been colluding with Russia! (Allegedly.)
I cannot confirm or deny, especially if I’m not under oath, but there just might be some vital evidence hidden deep in my attic.
Especially in that back right corner, where it’s too dark to even see properly after 3 o’clock in the afternoon.
Too bad it’s hidden among all the boxes of (possibly) irrelevant papers and junk that have been accumulating since we bought the house and told ourselves, “We’ll just put these boxes of stuff up in the attic for a few weeks, until we get everything else sorted out.” I mean, while we got busy colluding!
There’s no way I could shift any of it, now. But a whole team of strapping young FBI agents? Just the ticket!
I mean “ticket” metaphorically, you understand. Although there might be some unpaid parking tickets up there, too. You never know.
I first realized this might be the answer to all my problems while trying to get my younger son’s room ready for his return from travels around the world.
My husband caught me trundling my suitcases and books out of his room and into his brother’s next door.
“And what will you do when the other boy comes for a visit?”
“Why, move it all back into this room, of course. This is why I have made it very clear to both of them that I love them dearly, and they’re always welcome — with 24 hours’ notice.”
“But Judy — what if the unthinkable happens and they both come home at the same time?”
“I’d be happy, of course. But it’s very unlikely, since everyone prefers Thanksgiving at your sister’s for some reason.” Just because she’s a better cook! “And if they do both insist on coming home at the same time, it’s obvious where everything would have to go.”
“Back to the attic?”
“Don’t be silly. Our bedroom!”
“Why not the attic? What’s the point of insisting we buy a house that has one if you don’t use it anymore?”
“Sweetheart, have you been up there? Even if I felt able to lug everything up the stairs, there really isn’t room — unless we get rid of your train set…”
“Never!”
“…or the five models of obsolete computer equipment…”
“Non-Negotiable.”
“Or the huge glass final amplifier tube from your college radio station?”
“Unthinkable!”
“Well, then all that’s left are the 61 boxes of papers that I haven’t the will-power to go through.”
“So, here’s a question, Judy: why not just throw them away?”
That might seem like the perfect solution. But let me explain how it isn’t. You see…um…well, it’s like this….um…
I’m just not capable of doing it.
It’s not like I’m some kind of hoarder. Or not only that. It’s more that I’m a little OCD, and the only way I can throw out any bunch of old papers is to sit down and go through them all, page by page, first. Because yes, it’s mostly worthless, but every now and then I’ll find the odd hundred dollar bill, sent by some relative who for some reason had no confidence in my ability to cash a gift check before it expired. Or, even more priceless, a birthday or Mother’s Day card, drawn and colored by little hands that have long since grown up and left the house.
How could I risk pitching out something like that? I can’t.
No — this is a job for trained professionals. Which is why the FBI is the perfect solution. I bet they’ll even catalogue it all!
“Say, boss, wouldja look at this? Junk mail from 1982? Unopened? Why? Just — why?”
Pre-dawn? Maybe even no-knock? So I wouldn’t even have to get out of bed for them? Sounds heavenly! So when you’re looking for highly suspicious correspondence between anyone and Russia’s spymasters — no mere subpoena will do. No, you should think of me, Judy Epstein, and my highly incriminating attic!
