Mrs. Astor Regrets (45 page)

Meanwhile, other important characters in Mrs. Astor's life were enveloped in affection. Her dogs, Boysie and Girlsie, had been relocated to the Dachshund Love Kennel in Vermont. Mrs. Astor's friend Iris Love, the archeologist who breeds and shows dogs, adopted the aging animals, both born on July 4, 1997. "Girlsie is a total princess," says Molly Flint, the kennel manager. "All the other dogs go in and out of the doggie door. She stands there, so you can open the door for her." In contrast, Flint says, "Boysie is a busybody, he wants to see what everyone else is doing." In Love's home, a photograph of Brooke Astor was hung in a place of honor on the living room wall. Commandeering an old leather chair nearby, Girlsie could be found on many afternoons snoozing underneath her mistress's benevolent gaze.

The Ossining train station is a short drive from Sleepy Hollow Cemetery, where Brooke Astor is buried. Alec Marshall picked me up at the station, and we drove a few blocks in his blue Subaru station wagon to the quaint downtown, dominated by several churches. "My grandmother used to say there were more churches in Ossining than any town nearby," he says during lunch. A slender, careworn man, dressed that day in a pinstriped shirt, a green sweater, and black slacks, Alec looks like his twin—and yet he doesn't. Shorter and more conventionally handsome, he suffers from the aftereffects of surgery for a nonmalignant brain tumor fifteen years ago, including loss of hearing in one ear and partial paralysis of his forehead.

His father had been indicted just two weeks earlier. "For someone with my father's background and heritage to end up this way—how sad," Alec said over a grilled vegetable sandwich at Mauro's restaurant. "For your own father—you could never imagine it, it's impossible." Alec had not spoken to Tony or Charlene since Brooke's funeral in August and had no plans to call them. A few minutes later, an acquaintance stopped by the table to say a warm hello and then blurted out, "I've been reading about your family in the newspapers." Alec nodded politely, still adjusting to the etiquette of having a father facing jail time. After lunch he headed over to Sleepy Hollow Cemetery to see the granite headstone that had just been placed on Brooke's grave.

Ten days earlier the
New York Post,
in typical intemperate fashion, had excoriated Tony Marshall as a "STONE-COLD HEIR" in a page-one story, "GRAVE INSULT," charging that Brooke's final resting place was "a shocking pit of neglect resembling a pauper's grave" covered with dead leaves. When called about the story, Philip, rather than saying "no comment," had fanned the flames with a quote: "We are dismayed that there is still no memorial stone." Ken Warner, Tony's lawyer, told the
Post
that the "lovely pink" headstone was on order. The stone has since been installed.

After turning through the cemetery's ornate gates, Alec drove up a road that twisted and turned, pointing out Leona Helmsley's grave (the "queen of mean" had died a week after Brooke Astor, leaving $12 million to her dog, a sum later reduced by the court). Vincent Astor had originally been buried on his estate in Rhinebeck, but when Brooke sold that home, she had had him moved here. She chose this new resting place based on proximity to her home and the presence of friends who were interred nearby. David Rockefeller had told me, "My family's cemetery is abutting the one that Brooke is in. Years before she died, she picked the lot that was right next to our family, my parents, my brothers. That's where she wanted to be."

Vincent and Brooke Astor's graves, side by side, are tucked away inconspicuously near the top of a hill, facing the Hudson River and the cliffs beyond. It's a peaceful spot, with the kind of unspoiled scenic panorama that inspired nineteenth-century Hudson River School paintings. "My grandmother used to always say she got the last plot with a view," Alec said. The wind was brutal, whipping the remaining leaves around. The earth looked fresh and newly raked, and a Christmas wreath had been carefully placed just above Brooke's elegant faintly pink tombstone, which was engraved just as she had requested: "I had a wonderful life."

The next stop on this family tour was a drive by Holly Hill, just a half-mile or so away. Fenced in from all sides, the sprawling property with the stone mansion is just visible from the road. Driving by one of the two entrances, Alec described how Brooke used to walk to the edge of the property and touch and kiss the gates. He apologized that he could not go inside, but family members cannot visit now. The only people allowed on the premises are Chris Ely, the gardeners, a maid, and security guards.

Alec's apartment is nearby, a jolting return to reality after the grandeur of his grandmother's world. It is a spartan, meticulously neat one-bedroom apartment, roughly 800 square feet, decorated with old wooden Mexican furniture and posters on the walls. The living room doubles as Alec's office and Hilary's bedroom when she stays over on weekends. The sun was setting. Looking out the window, with the view similar to that from his grandmother's grave, of the Hudson River and the cliffs, Alec described how his grandmother used to tell him to watch for the last spot of sun hitting the cliffs before it disappeared below the ridge and say, "Let's make a wish." Brooke Astor was a sophisticated woman, yet she took an innocent pleasure in small things, and these memories are her real legacy to her grandsons.

Like his brother, Alec has family photographs displayed everywhere. His refrigerator door features pictures of his daughter, his mother, Philip and his family, and a shot of Brooke with Alec's fiancée, Sue. A metal cabinet in his office is plastered with photos, including a wintry shot of his father looking dashing in the snowy mountains of Switzerland with a walking stick. "You haven't banned your father?" I asked. "Of course not," he replied.

Alec pulled out random sheets of slides and placed them on a light board with a magnifying glass to view details, and suddenly Brooke's life could be seen in reverse, from the cemetery back: she is laughing on a boat with a youngish Nelson Rockefeller; she is playing croquet with Tony, with her dachshunds getting in the way of the ball; she is climbing a steep mountain in Maine; she is entertaining friends at lunch; her gardens are extraordinary, bursting with brilliant reds and yellows and purples. And then there was an inadvertently heartbreaking photo: Tony and Philip together on a boat bobbing across the sea in Maine in 1985, Tony beaming with relaxed pleasure at his son, Philip in animated conversation by his side, and Alec as the unseen witness, the photographer capturing the moment.

Back at the kitchen table, over tea, Alec wanted to stress one final thing—that despite everything, he still loves his father. "I don't take grudges," he said. "My relationship hasn't changed with Phil, nor has my relationship changed with my father. He changed it, I didn't change it." Driving me back to the train station, he gave a rueful smile and offered up a haiku-like summation of the situation, saying, "Small family, big problems."

The Astor chronicles went on hiatus during the sixteen months following the indictment, with no progress toward a resolution of either of Tony Marshall's legal battles. At the urging of the Manhattan district attorney's office, the Westchester County Surrogate's Court postponed consideration of the challenge to Brooke Astor's will until the criminal case against her son is resolved. Both Tony and Francis Morrissey cut their ties to the criminal attorneys who had handled their indictments and brought in new courthouse lawyers.

As part of a subplot that might have been lifted from a Viennese light opera, the well-connected Morrissey was scolded by prosecutors for dispatching none other than Prince Paul of Romania and his wife to track down a witness, Lia Opris, Mrs. Astor's former aide, now living in that country. As Liz Loewy explained at a February court hearing, Opris "was upset" when the royal couple showed up unexpectedly at her door, and wanted to be left alone. In April, Tony experienced health problems, missing a court appearance because he was resting after a brief hospitalization for a stomach ailment. With neither side proposing a plea bargain, the judge set a tentative trial date for early 2009.

By the standards of both old and new money, Tony Marshall was still destined to become a wealthy man due to his mother's generosity. Even if he was convicted of grand larceny and conspiracy—even if he lost his effort to have his mother's 2002 will and the three codicils admitted to probate—Tony would not have to worry about providing for himself and Charlene. In any scenario, at minimum, he would inherit his mother's Park Avenue apartment and her Holly Hill estate and receive an annual stipend of several million dollars. But with the assets tied up in court and legal bills mounting, he and Charlene decided to reduce their expenses. After giving notice to their chauffeur, the couple switched to driving themselves around in a Toyota Prius.

The family Astor, torn asunder, showed no signs of mending. Contemplating the wreckage of his family, Philip Marshall remained bitter toward his stepmother. "I don't care about the money," he said over dinner in Manhattan in April 2008. "She stole my father." Tony Marshall's eighty-fourth birthday, on May 30, came and went without a visit, a phone call, or a note from either of his sons. The three Marshall men grasped the emotional significance of the date, and each, in his own stubborn way, lamented the anguished silence.

15. The People v. Anthony Marshall

O
N WHAT WOULD
have been Brooke Astor's 107th birthday, March 30, 2009, jury selection began for
The People of the State of New York v. Anthony D. Marshall and Francis X. Morrissey, Jr.
Photographers and cameramen swarmed Tony and Charlene as the couple slowly ascended the courthouse steps at 100 Centre Street. They were page-one news, again.

Wearing a dark suit and a red-and-blue-striped tie, Tony Marshall looked weary as he entered the courtroom. Hospitalized six months earlier for open-heart surgery, Tony had aged considerably in the years since the tabloids first branded him Manhattan's worst-behaved son. Charlene took his arm and helped him down the aisle. Francis Morrissey, slipping unobtrusively into the courtroom with scant interest from the paparazzi, received a warm greeting from the Marshalls.

During the next three weeks, 1,100 would-be jurors traipsed through the courtroom as part of an arduous quest to find 18 civic-minded citizens who were acceptable to both sides and willing to commit to a three-month trial, a time estimate that would prove very optimistic. The four male and eight female jurors and six alternates chosen were an upscale group, including a computer technician for the Council on Foreign Relations, a graduate student, a caterer, a lawyer, a sociologist turned jury consultant, a television director, the head of residential programs at Columbia University, two retirees (formerly a special-ed teacher and an executive assistant), and two laid-off workers, an ex-Wall Streeter and a graphic designer. But given the rarefied nature of Brooke Astor's Park Avenue world, one of New York's renowned cultural leaders would later sniff, "It was a jury of peers. But not our peers."

On the weekend before the trial, Philip and Alec Marshall drove to Vermont to visit their mother. The twins then went hiking and camping together. Philip couldn't stand to be out of the action and kept climbing ever higher to find cell phone reception and return reporters' calls. "I'm up in the mountains. I thought this would be a peak experience," he said. "Now I'm dealing with this stuff at three thousand feet. But I couldn't not take my phone." Philip had tried unsuccessfully to persuade the prosecutors to excuse Alec from the witness list. "Alec didn't sign up for this, I did," said Philip. But the prosecutors were adamant. "I'm just going to tell the truth," said Alec, sounding resigned. "I'm not for my father or against my father." But merely by turning up in court, Alec would be perceived as choosing sides.

Finally, on Monday, April 27, New York staged its latest dramatic off-Broadway production. With a witness list of ninety characters, the trial opened before a large press corps, who viewed the spectacle as if it were the Tony Awards and were eager to rate the performance of the octogenarian defendant, his third wife, and their lawyer, who was accused of forgery. The
New York Post
and the
Daily News,
in a competitive frenzy, each sent a reporter, a columnist, photographers, and sketch artists. Journalists from the
New York Times,
the Associated Press, Bloomberg News, ABC News, and the Huffington Post all watched Tony Marshall and Francis Morrissey assemble with their lawyers at the defense table in the drab, high-ceilinged courtroom, with four large windows, beige linoleum floors, and fluorescent lighting. The jury filed in. Then Elizabeth Loewy, a tall and studious fifty-one-year-old who heads the Manhattan district attorney's elder abuse unit, stepped up to the lectern and launched into her three-hour-and-fifteen-minute opening argument. Beginning with the prosecution's strongest piece of evidence, she read out loud the seven-page letter that Tony Marshall had written to the neurologist Dr. Howard Fillit. In that damning document, Tony described his mother's symptoms of Alzheimer's, calling her "delusional at times." Loewy pointedly noted that Tony wrote that letter three years before his mother made radical changes in her will in his favor, and that he was well aware that Brooke Astor was incompetent.

Loewy had argued vehemently but unsuccessfully in favor of indicting Charlene Marshall. Now she unleashed a scathing attack on Tony's wife, who was seated in the second row in the spectator seats. "Anthony Marshall's preoccupation with getting money for Charlene was actually the motivation for the scheme to defraud," Loewy said, adding that Charlene was "very much behind the scenes pressing him to get more from his mother."

Charlene, wearing the same outfit she had worn for Brooke Astor's funeral (a black-skirted suit and white shirt), looked stunned and her face blushed red. Her season of humiliation was just beginning, as the newspapers lapped up the insults. The
New York Post
columnist Andrea Peyser's story the next day was headlined "ALL FOR WIFE'S LOVE OF MONEY." "Some of us look at Charlene Marshall and see only the stout ankles, support hose and generous double chins," Peyser snarled, describing Charlene as the "Geritol Bonnie to Anthony's Clyde." Even the
Times
weighed in with "Prosecutor in Brooke Astor Case Points Finger at Daughter-in-Law." The trial now had an official villainess.