Hollywood Taxes: A Tycoon in TV Land

Chapter 20: Prison Visit

"Help? Of course I can help. But how about we talk right here?" Ron casually deflected, doing everything he could to avoid going back to the diner with Caroline.

Who knew what might happen if he ended up caught between two women he'd "ganked" on the same night? Ron had learned his lesson from Chen—the legendary cautionary tale—and had no intention of following in his footsteps. This was America, after all.

Sure, not many women practiced swordsmanship here, but citizens could legally own guns. And the thought of one of them snapping and showing up with a submachine gun wasn't all that comforting either.

Until he figured out a way to juggle both women safely, Ron decided his best bet was to avoid putting the three of them in the same room altogether.

"All right," Caroline said, sensing something a little off with Ron today but choosing not to dwell on it. She just assumed he wasn't hungry and maybe had other plans. "I wanted to ask you to visit my father. I don't know how he's doing in there… he's not being bullied by the other inmates, is he?"

"Don't worry. Your father's in for financial crimes. Inmates like that are usually kept in single cells. And thanks to his excellent tax record, we at the IRS actually grant certain… privileges." Ron gave her a playful wink.

That had been one of the selling points he used when persuading Mr. Channing back in the day. Though Ron had only learned about his arrest later through Caroline, he was confident Mr. Channing hadn't forgotten the direct IRS line he'd left him.

It was a hotline reserved for "special clients"—people who ran shady businesses but still paid taxes by the book. As Ron liked to say, "If you live by the sword, you're gonna get cut eventually."

And when that day came, at least they'd be treated well behind bars. This was America—capitalism ran everything, even the prison system, which had its own hierarchy of comfort.

Given how much Mr. Channing had paid in taxes, Ron figured the man was probably enjoying five-star accommodations. Of course, that wasn't something he could outright say, so he dropped hints instead.

Unfortunately, Caroline didn't catch the subtext. She simply thought Ron was trying to reassure her. "I still worry… Would you mind checking in on him for me, Ron? And if possible, maybe ask him to write me a letter?"

Her big, teary eyes stared into his, and Ron couldn't bring himself to say no.

"Sure," he said with a sigh. "I'll drive down this afternoon. You stay at the hotel and wait for me. I'll call the front desk and extend your stay for a few days—don't worry about a thing."

"Thank you so much, Ron. I really don't want to owe you too many favors. Without my father's protection, I'm learning to stand on my own. Actually, my new coworker has already agreed to let me stay with her. Just let me keep a little dignity, okay?"

If she hadn't been standing in front of him, Ron would've screamed in frustration. The thing he least wanted had just happened: they're living together now?!

How was he supposed to play the game if the two ladies were in the same house? No way was a threesome on the table… right?

On one side was long-legged, tight-bodied Caroline. On the other, the stunning and curvy Max. Just thinking about it made Ron feel a nosebleed coming on. The sheer sin of it all…

He quickly tilted his head back and pinched his nose—thankfully, no actual blood came out. That would've been really embarrassing.

"You okay, Ron?" Caroline asked with concern. "You're not about to sneeze, are you? I've got tissues. Are you coming down with something?"

"Yeah, probably," Ron said, going along with it. "You know how crazy things got last night. We didn't even have a blanket."

No blanket—now that was a solid excuse.

"No blanket?" Caroline's face lit up with both nervous fear and guilty pleasure. She bit her lip seductively. "You also insisted on doing it by the window, remember…? Maybe tonight, we can try again when you come back."

She gave him a lingering look, then turned and walked away, leaving Ron frozen in place with a conflicted expression—and a wide-eyed Stuart peeking out from the comic book store next door.

"Yo, is that your girl?" Stuart grinned. "Dude, she's hot!"

Ron whipped his head around and glared at him, sending the geeky voyeur scrambling back inside.

With no other option, Ron canceled his original plan to visit Hector and check in on the poverty-stricken neighborhoods. Instead, he drove solo for over two hours to Shawkshank Prison outside of Los Angeles.

He parked at the gate and looked up at the facility. Was it just his imagination, or did this place have an oppressive, heavy vibe to it? Even the sky above seemed gloomier.

Shawkshank was a massive prison complex located on the coast. It was fully equipped and housed two distinct tiers of inmates: one section for murderers and violent offenders, built like a dilapidated medieval fortress, and another for high-profile white-collar criminals, complete with golf courses, computers, and endless wine. The two were separated by nothing but a wall—a surreal symbol of capitalism at its finest.

Even more ironically, the luxurious high-end ward had been built by the low-level violent inmates—brick by brick. Construction had finished two years ago, opened last year, and this year, Mr. Channing had moved in.

Ron's arrival was warmly received by Warden Samuel Norton.

"My dear Mr. Cooper, what a pleasure it is to have you here! Do pass along my regards to Senator Francis. So, what brings you here today?"

"I've got some business to take care of," Ron replied. "How's everything going, Norton? No trouble from the inmates lately?"

"You know me," the warden said with a fake pious smile. "I guide their souls with the Bible and cleanse their bodies with labor."

After the usual pleasantries, Ron explained his purpose for visiting. The moment he did, he noticed the warden visibly relax.

That struck Ron as odd.

What's that about? Something fishy going on here? he thought with a sneer. Nah… what kind of profit could a warden even make off a prison like this? After all the layers of red tape, there's barely any gravy left.

"Hey, Ron. Long time no see," said Mr. Channing with a faint smile. "I never would've guessed you'd be the first to visit me. I thought it'd be one of those bitter rich guys from Beverly Hills."

Under the guard's supervision, Mr. Channing took a seat across from Ron.

Ron sighed dramatically, "Mr. Channing, I have to say, you really let me down. Something this big happened, and you didn't even give me a heads-up. I thought we were friends."

"Haha, that wasn't necessary," Martin replied with a chuckle. "I know you're working with someone important now—no need to drag you into this mess. Besides, if something really went wrong, the only person I cared about on the outside, Caroline, would've thought to reach out to you. Like she did today, right?"

Classic conman. Even behind bars, Channing was as sharp as ever, immediately seeing through Ron's intentions. No wonder he had the rich wrapped around his finger for years.

"So, you already know why I'm here. No need to beat around the bush. Ever since you got arrested, Caroline's been falling apart. She was only allowed to leave with three personal items and was thrown out of your mansion—nearly ended up on the street," Ron said, explaining her situation.

Channing smiled at Ron, eyes filled with warmth—almost like a father evaluating a potential son-in-law. "But she didn't end up on the street, did she? I'm guessing that's thanks to you. I've always said you and Caroline were a great match. If you're here to ask for my blessing to marry her, my answer is: I approve."

Channing's mood seemed unshaken, even playful. But Ron wasn't in the mood for jokes.

"Sorry, Mr. Channing. My answer's the same as before—I'm still young and not planning to settle down anytime soon. Maybe one day, when I've had my fill of fun, I'll consider it."

"You young folks can make your own decisions," Channing said with a shrug, clearly dissatisfied. There wasn't much he could control anymore—his greatest hope now was simply that his daughter would have someone dependable looking after her.

"Alright, putting that aside," Ron continued, "you should know Caroline's genuinely worried about you. Even though I told her she doesn't have to be, well… you know how she is. Maybe you should write her a letter."

As Ron spoke, he tapped his fingers rhythmically on the table. Channing understood immediately and nodded. "Of course. I've already written one. But I'm not quite sure about the phrasing—maybe you can take a look? It's a personal letter, though, so…"

Ron stood up and, without drawing attention, slipped a small wad of cash into the prison guard's hand. "Hey, buddy, mind giving us a little privacy? Maybe go enjoy a smoke break or something."

The guard gave him a knowing smile, pocketed the cash, and stepped out, making sure to close the door behind him. Ron glanced up at the security camera. Once the red light blinked off, he finally spoke.

"Mr. Channing, I'm sure someone as smart as you wouldn't have left Caroline completely empty-handed. Stocks, bonds, offshore accounts—something, right? Before I came, my colleagues told me that the total assets seized from your home, minus your years of extravagant spending, are still missing around ten million dollars. Care to explain?"

Channing raised his hands in mock defeat. "I knew it. No matter how well I hide it, you IRS hounds always sniff it out."

"I'll take that as a compliment," Ron replied smugly, nodding. "So, what's your plan? How are you going to get that money into Caroline's hands?"

Channing sighed and shook his head. "Originally, I planned to funnel it to her through a reliable lawyer, disguised as a startup fund. But now that you know, I suppose that's no longer an option, is it?"

"Of course not," Ron's tone sharpened at the mention of official business. "Any inheritance exceeding $2.5 million is subject to a 50% estate tax. I'm sure you haven't forgotten that. As her friend, I'm willing to include my reward as part of the transfer to her."

Channing was silent for a long moment before finally relenting. "Alright, you win. I'll entrust you with the whole process. I'll write you another letter—take it to a lawyer named Saul. Ron, can you guarantee that if I do this, she'll remain protected under the IRS's umbrella?"

"I swear," Ron said, raising his right hand in oath.

Just then, a thunderclap lit up the visitation room as if it were broad daylight.

BOOM.

Rain poured down outside.