After Perfect

This book is dedicated to the children of the incarcerated and to the children who are incarcerated.

Spit out the venom from their bite. Calmly and confidently know you can have the only thing that matters in this illusory world. They will always struggle, but the open heart needs nothing. Build a private mansion with your own hands out of what others ignore. That is the unassailable castle.

—Anonymous

MEMORIAL DAY, 1993

McLEAN, VIRGINIA

I took a bucket of chalk and told my little sister Chloe to lie down.

“Lie down.”

“Why?” Chloe asked, cautiously for a five-year-old.

“I'm a detective, and I'm going to sketch your body. Pretend like you're dead.”

“Okay, but Mom's going to be mad.” We were in our matching Laura Ashley party dresses.

Mara, my older sister, rode her banana-seat bike in circles on the stone walkway, ignoring us as usual.

As I began smearing yellow chalk along the side of Chloe's dress, we heard the sound of rumbling and buzzing coming toward us from a distance, louder with each passing second. I looked over at Mara, who had dragged her bike onto the grass. Her head was tilted toward the sky, watching birds fly out of the trees. Then Chloe jumped up and placed both hands over her ears to block the deafening sound. Seconds later, my mother flew out the front door, barefoot in her pink Chanel suit. Her red hair was pulled back with a pearl headband, and she was fumbling with the family video camera.

“Girls!” she cried. “There's Daddy! Wave!”

Chloe and I darted toward our mother, who had run into the middle of the street, spinning around with the camera. We looked up into the sky, and there was dad circling the rooftop of our Georgian estate in his red and yellow single-engine prop Porsche Mooney airplane. He flew so low to the ground that we could see him laughing and waving to us in his aviator sunglasses.

“Daddy!” we screamed, his engine drowning our voices. We danced and twirled and threw our arms up into the air, waving to him as we watched. The red wings of his plane swayed from side to side with each passing turn before coming back around again to surprise us even closer to the rooftop of our house. Our American flag whipped in the wind when he came back around once more before disappearing into the distant sky.

He was my superhero.

Chloe and I spun around and around, falling dizzily into the grass, and Mara, who seemed concerned, ran over to our mother.

“Mom?” She tugged on her arm.

“Yeah, sweetheart?” The video camera was still recording.

“Is Dad going to get in trouble?”

My mother laughed at the thought. “I hope not.”

The roads were quiet, and white frost covered the otherwise green hills of Virginia. No one could hear the engines of several government-marked SUVs traveling one before the other, like soldiers down Dolley Madison Boulevard.

Like every other typical morning in our house, my father was the first awake. He was leaning over the marble sink in the master bathroom in his boxer shorts shaving the outer edges of his Clark Gable mustache with an electric razor. His collection of Hermès ties hung on a rack alongside the open closet door opposite his collection of Brooks Brothers suits. In the background, CNN reported on the television screen behind him: “Jury selection began Tuesday in the Martha Stewart criminal trial, where the self-made lifestyle maven will try to defend herself against charges of obstruction of justice, making false statements, and securities fraud.” The NASDAQ and Dow Jones numbers crawled along the bottom. I asked my father once what the numbers meant. He replied, “Don't worry about it, that's your dad's job.”

My mother was sitting in front of the gold-framed mirror at her vanity table just down the corridor. Her hair pulled back with a navy scrunchy, she was examining her wrinkles and moving her skin with her hands to see how she would look with a face-lift.

Sometimes she forgot how beautiful she was. As a little girl, strangers would pull me aside at the market and ask, “Hey, kid, is your mom a movie star?”

She wrapped her silk bathrobe around her nightgown and headed to the kitchen to put on the morning coffee.

Chloe was upstairs grabbing her gym bag and lacrosse stick. Her boyfriend kept honking the horn of his Jeep Grand Cherokee out front.

“Coming!” she yelled as if he could hear her.

T
he SUVs continued on, passing an unmarked security house where, next to it in the gravel path, a sign had been planted: George Bush Center for Intelligence CIA Next Right. Hardly noticeable for the average tourist passing by on the way to Dulles International Airport, intentionally inconspicuous as all of the secret intelligence of the world lies just a mile down what looks to be a harmless suburban road. It was the winter of 1993 when I found out what it was, in the car with my mother on the way to school, and a secret agent stopped us at the red light. He questioned her. I remember asking what for, and she explained to me what was hidden down the street. A gunman had opened fire on several cars entering the CIA headquarters, wounding three and killing two employees. I understood then, despite the quiet feeling in our neighborhood, that things happened all around us every day that we weren't privy to.

The SUVs turned onto Georgetown Pike, gaining speed, passing the Kennedys' Hickory Hill estate to the left down Chain Bridge Road, and the little yellow schoolhouse on the hill to the right, a place my sisters and I used to march to with our Fisher-Price sleds each winter. But when the vehicles approached the corner to our street, Kedleston Court, a quiet cul-de-sac of mansions, Chloe flew out the front door, struggling to whip her backpack over her shoulder and lugging her lacrosse stick and gym bag in her other hand. She hopped into the passenger's side of her boyfriend's Jeep, and they took off, passing the SUVs without a second thought. It had been three years since 9/11; since US Air Force F-16 fighter jets flew so low to the ground they shook our beds at night. The days of my father flying his airplane above our home were long gone. We had become accustomed to this quiet feeling. We trusted that we were safe.

The SUVs came to a screeching halt, blocking our driveway and forty-foot stone walkway. The slamming of car doors and the heavy clicking of loaded guns disturbed our quiet morning routine when a dozen men covered in black bulletproof vests with yellow emblazoned letters on the back fanned out across the lawn, toward the front door of our estate, framed by Corinthian columns that beckoned the movers and shakers of Washington, DC—the entire property engulfed by green ivy and willow trees.

M
y mother was leaning against the kitchen island, sipping her coffee as she watched the morning banter of the
Today
show's Matt Lauer and Katie Couric. If only she had turned around, had the TV not been so loud, she would have seen through the open shutters the infamous emblazoned letters—

“FBI!”

If she didn't look the other way, maybe she would have known. It was too late.

“Get on the ground!
Get on the ground!
Now! Now!”

She dropped her mug, shattering it to pieces at her feet, spilling coffee all over the marble floor, running for the front door to find it wide open. My father was being handcuffed, his face smashed against the pink Persian rug in the foyer.

“You have the right to remain silent. Anything you do or say can be used against you in a court of law . . .”

My mother shook, begging my father for an explanation as she asked a series of cluttered and hysterical questions. He pleaded with her while the FBI lifted him to his feet. He told her he was innocent. He told her not to worry. He told her to call Bernie Carl. Had his hands not been handcuffed behind his back, he would have been pointing his finger at her.

My mother, watching from the foyer as my father was thrown into the back of a black Suburban, crumbled to the floor, barely breathing, heaving from shock.

She didn't know.

T
he year was 2004, and America was unaware that it was about to fall into its worst economic recession since the Great Depression. George W. Bush was president, the “War on Terror” had begun, Lehman Brothers still existed, the real estate industry was skyrocketing, and everyone was happy stretching the limits of his or her livelihood on multiple credit cards and second mortgages. The rich grew richer. The poor grew poorer. And I—well, I had been lucky. Most who knew me then would have said that I was from the 1 percent. Although I never knew how much money my family was worth, how much liquid cash we had, or how much was sitting in crooked stocks. I have since discovered that one's financial security is often an illusion, although I didn't always feel that way. At eighteen years old, I had never paid much attention to the feeling of safety—of security. It was never discussed. It didn't have to be. I grew up a few blocks west of Ethel and Bobby Kennedy's Hickory Hill estate, and a few blocks south of the CIA in McLean, Virginia—the affluent suburb of Washington, DC, filled with politicians, spies, and newscasters. “Security” was just a privileged afterthought lingering in my subconscious somewhere as I floated through my seemingly fairy-tale life without a care in the world.

I was the girl who had everything: The mansion, the private plane, the Range Rover, summers on Nantucket Island. I was popular, had loving sisters who were my best friends, happily married parents, and dreams of being a movie star. Raised among the American elite, my father had created the epitome of an American Dream.

We looked perfect.

My father didn't come from money. He built our life for us from the ground up. The grandson of Greek immigrants, the eldest of seven children, born and raised a sweet, southern boy from Richmond, Virginia, who spent his summers watching ball games at Fenway Park in Boston with his grandparents. “I ate all the cherries on the cherry tree and broke windows playing baseball in the backyard. I remember seeing the last baseball game in 1960 between the Boston Red Sox and the New York Yankees at Fenway Park when Ted Williams and Mickey Mantle played against each other. The Red Sox won.” He loved to tell that story.

Being the grandson of immigrants, he was proud of the life he worked so hard to build. He was the first of his family to graduate from college, the College of William & Mary in the historic town of Williamsburg, Virginia. The alma mater to the founding fathers James Monroe and Thomas Jefferson, the blue blood that shaped the principles on which this nation was built. Once, my father took me to a tavern for lunch in Colonial Williamsburg where all of the employees dressed up as pilgrims. He wanted me to engage in its history. I remember our server reminded me of Mammy the housemaid from
Gone with the Wind
, my favorite film growing up. She was a round African American woman dressed in a white bonnet and blue smock. As she set my plate of meat loaf and grits on the table, I looked at her, and instead of feeling like beautiful Scarlett O'Hara, I felt racist. I swore to myself I'd never go back there. I'd never, ever be seen with all those pilgrims wearing buckled shoes.

But my father looked back on his college days with great nostalgia. He was young and broke, and told us stories like the time he broke into the school cafeteria and ate all the Jell-O because he didn't have any money for dinner. Or how he charmed all of the wealthy New England girls into cooking for him. After graduation, he was drafted during the Vietnam War and served his time dutifully in the air force, where he learned how to fly fighter jets. He went on to attend Howard University Law School, the prestigious all-black university in Washington, DC, where he wrote for the law journal and became a clerk at the White House in the still rippling years and aftermath of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. and the civil rights movement. It was less expensive than a place like Harvard. When someone would ask me, as a kid, where my father went to law school, and I replied, “Howard,” they would respond as if they hadn't heard correctly. “Harvard?” “No,” I'd say, “
How
ard.” Without fail, there was a moment of confusion for the other person. With all of the wealth we accumulated, people found it hard to believe he was a die-hard liberal. When I was older, my father would explain to me the importance of equal rights, affirmative action, gun control, and health care. Always rooting for the underdog in the quest to achieve the American Dream.