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tary, “I’ve got a Mr. Paul Jensen starting on the 16th. He’ll<br />
be in the file room, can you see to that please?”<br />
“Yes sir, right away,” came the reply.<br />
“You can also go home early if you’d like, I’m taking<br />
the rest of the afternoon off.”<br />
“Thank you, Mr. Roberts,” she said. “Enjoy your<br />
weekend.” Initially he didn’t have any plans for that particular<br />
weekend, but as he drove home, the wheels started<br />
to turn.<br />
Paul Jensen was not a family man, no serious commitments<br />
to anyone, no one to answer to. He was orphaned<br />
as an infant, having had no siblings to speak of<br />
either. In other words, if some accident were to befall him,<br />
he would not be missed. Roberts pondered that idea as he<br />
pulled into his driveway. But if he were to have an accident,<br />
it would have to look like an accident. How does one commit<br />
the perfect “accident?” One thing he wouldn’t have to<br />
worry about would be guilt, or his own conscience. Paul<br />
Jensen had already seen to that. Roberts went to bed that<br />
evening with the thought still fresh in his mind. He awoke<br />
on Saturday morning with a brilliant idea.<br />
He decided to have that year’s Christmas party<br />
catered, a buffet brunch with an open bar. And just in case<br />
one of his staff got too tipsy, he had made arrangements for<br />
them to be driven home. For the entire year, the office had<br />
operated in the black, and the generosity that Burt Stockton<br />
had instilled in him reflected in the bonus checks he<br />
handed out. As the rest of his staff left along with the caterers,<br />
no one noticed that he asked Paul Jensen to do him a<br />
favor before he went home.<br />
“You want me to go down first?” Jensen asked quizzically.<br />
“<strong>The</strong> one thing I don’t need, Paul, is some drunk<br />
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