This spring, I even filed my taxes, under my real name. Months had passed since that bank robbery madness, I'd become less optimistic about being invulnerable, and figured I didn't want one more charge on me for tax evasion. But no one pursued those leads, apparently. Nor did they investigate the last people I was seen with on the night of my disappearance -- both of whom had the number for one of my burner phones.
Maybe they didn't care, or maybe they realized that in most cases, they can simply sit tight and wait for the fugitive to pop up again. How many people can permanently scrap everything they love -- their family, friends, career, hometown -- at a moment's notice? My original plan to reunite with my family and somehow make it work was ridiculous in retrospect.
Oh yeah, about that. I tried calling my wife once I was back in the country. She'd changed her number. She didn't reply to my emails. I see online that she filed for divorce and sold the house.
Suddenly, that six months awaiting trial doesn't seem quite as bad.
Sometimes, I think I'll offer to turn myself in, attempt a plea deal. Then try to see my son after he turns 18. Or maybe I'll end up heading back to Mexico or a Central American nation. It's cheaper, and I've got nothing worth staying here for. The man I was died a little more than a year ago. Even if I were to use my own name again, it doesn't feel right. I'm not who I was, or who I ever aspired to be.
So yeah, probably better to go ahead and take your chances at trial, kids.
Ryan Menezes is an editor and interviewer here at Cracked. Follow him on Twitter for bits cut from this article and other stuff no one should see. Identifying details in this story have been altered to protect the source's privacy.
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