The Darlings (35 page)

“Well, it wasn't a single individual. That's the thing.”

“If other members of the firm were involved with either mismanagement of our assets or Alain's dealings with this David Levin at the SEC, clearly that is unfortunate. But as of this time, I'm unaware of it. And I like to think I employ ethical, upstanding people. For the most part.”

“How about Paul?”

“Paul?”

“Were you aware that he was involved? With these, as you say, ‘dealings' with the SEC?”

“Paul wasn't involved in this. He came to the firm two months ago. And I resent the suggestion.”

“I'm not suggesting it,” Robertson said. His voice was at once cold and victorious. “I'm stating it.” He pushed the papers back across the table. “From the looks of what you've provided here, Paul was one of the signatories approving these transfers.”

Carter felt his heart plummet. Suddenly his body was cold and he shivered inadvertently. He snatched up the papers.

“Turn to the last page. See there? Right under Alain's signature.”

“There must be some mistake,” Carter said, turning to Neil. “I need to speak with Sol. Why is Paul's name on this?”

Neil glared at him with eyes that demanded silence. “Sol needs to be here,” Neil said, addressing Eli and not Robertson. He was visibly unnerved. “We need to at least get him on the phone.”

“He won't be joining us,” Robertson said. “And you won't be able to reach him. We arrested him this morning.”

Neil stood up, his palms flat on the table. “What did you just say?” He looked so angry that Carter wondered if he was going to physically attack Robertson.

Now everyone was standing and the room was spinning again. Carter thought he might pass out. He was blinking hard over and over behind his glasses, trying to stay focused, but everything was happening quickly, as though someone had pressed fast-forward on a movie he was watching, and he was having trouble processing the rapid movements of the actors on the screen.

“It's not a nice thing to do, set up your partner,” Robertson said to Carter. “It's even worse to set up your son-in-law. Don't you think?”

“I didn't—”

“Not another word, Carter.
Not another word
.” Neil tried to sound commanding, but there was desperate shakiness in his voice.

There was a knock at the door. “Come in,” Eli said, and made a move to open it.

“I need to talk to Sol,” Carter said to Neil. “Paul wasn't involved with this. He didn't tell me that.”

“Are you challenging the validity of these documents?” Neil said, holding up the papers. He was shaking them, or maybe his hands were just shaking. Either way, he had lost his composure. Carter stared at him, terrified. His hair, usually slicked back with gel, had started to fly forward in pieces and his face was an angry purplish red.

“This is Officer Dowd,” Eli said calmly, and the room turned to see the newcomer. “Unfortunately, Carter, we've made the decision to place you under arrest at this time.”

“This is not happening,” Neil said.

Robertson turned to him, his dark eyes blazing. “Don't push your luck, Neil,” he said, lip curled. “We took your partner away in handcuffs this morning. We have witnesses, from your office, who are willing to testify to the fact that these transfers are a sham, part of a setup to make it look as though Alain Duvalier and Paul Ross were bribing David Levin. I also have a former SEC attorney, Scott Stevens—you may remember his name—who's willing to go on the record about his own experience with this case. He claims to have been forced out of the SEC for his handling of an RCM investigation a few years ago. The fact is we've got more than sufficient evidence against your client to merit an arrest. He's a flight risk. If you hadn't come in today, we would have come to you. Just be grateful the media isn't outside.”

“For what possible purpose would Sol manufacture this? That's rather contrived, even for you.” Neil seethed. His nostrils flared viciously as he spoke.

Robertson smiled, a cat-that-ate-the-canary smile. “My assumption—and feel free to speak up if I have it wrong here, Carter—is that setting up David Levin was a last-ditch attempt to shift the focus away from the person at the SEC who was, in fact, protecting RCM and Delphic. It's an interesting play. Also risky. Officer Dowd is going to take you down to the First Precinct now, and we'll go from there. If you'd like to discuss your relationship with Jane Hewitt with us, which I suggest you do, now is the time. Otherwise, I'm sure she'll be willing to discuss it with us when we place her under arrest.”

Carter rose to his feet. He gripped the table's edge to steady himself; his whole body shook. He felt as fragile and insignificant as a leaf on a great oak tree; at any moment a gust of wind could stir the branches and he'd find himself in free fall.

He opened his mouth but couldn't speak to Robertson. To Neil he said, “Call Ines. Call Merrill. Call Merrill first. Tell her what's happened. Make sure she knows I would never hurt her.”

After his rights were read and his hands were cuffed, Carter was led into a car by the state trooper; all he could think about was Merrill's wedding day. It had been perfectly clear. The sky was a light hazy blue, the color of her eyes, and of her bridesmaids' dresses, and of the cummerbunds on each of the groomsmen. There had been a tent, white and crested, its flimsy walls fluttering gallantly in the evening air. They had danced all night, almost until sunrise.

Merrill had always wanted to have a wedding at Beech House. Ines had pushed for a city wedding—easier to coordinate, fancier, a big black-tie affair—but Carter had taken a stand. He wanted to give Merrill that day, exactly how she had seen it in her mind's eye. If he could have paid for the weather, he would have. In the end, it had been perfect.

Merrill and Paul had left a day later for a honeymoon in the south of France. Carter was grateful that he had seen them off, and also that she was gone by Tuesday, when the planes hit the Trade Towers, and all was lost in New York.

SUNDAY, 11:00 A.M.

M
arion lay on the bed, squeezed her eyes shut, and waited. If she waited long enough, she figured one of the following would happen: (1) she would fall back asleep and when she woke up, everything would be fine; (2) someone would call and explain to her that there had been a horrific mix-up, but that things were on their way to being sorted out; (3) the front door would open and Sol would walk through it, calling her name and harrumphing about the idiocy of the NYAG's office. She would make him coffee while he explained away the morning's events, a web of mistakes and confusion that had culminated in his arrest and quick release. She would shake her head and pitch in the occasional affirmation (“Just awful!” and “You really handled it so well, though”), and he would apologize for giving her such a scare. Later, they would tell their friends about the arrest in gory detail, a good war story over cocktails.

Minutes ticked by. Her heart pounded out of her chest. The longer she waited, the more anxious she became. Though she knew she was fully awake, a part of her began to insist that this was all just an exceedingly real nightmare. If she just focused hard enough, perhaps she would be able to wake herself out of it.

Open your eyes, Marion
, she thought furiously.
If you just open your eyes, you'll see that Sol is sleeping next to you, and all of this was just a very bad dream
.

The phone rang, a shrill, piercing scream.

She sat up, eyes open. The first thing she saw was Sol's pajama pants on the floor by the closet. They were splayed out in a way that made it look as though he had abandoned them midsprint. The details of the morning came rushing back, precise and horrible. Marion winced and answered the phone.

“Hello?” she said, terrified of what news might be coming. Her fingers tightened around the receiver.

“Marion?”

“Yes, this is she?”

“It's Ines Darling. What's happening, Marion? Sol's been on TV! I thought he was with my husband.” Usually, Ines's coolness unnerved Marion. Everything about Ines always appeared effortless and smooth: her straight, glossy hair, her perfectly tailored clothes, the way she carried herself and moved through a room. Though Marion knew she didn't mean to, Ines sometimes made her feel the way she had in middle school: hopelessly plump and unkempt. Marion was forever losing her keys or having bad hair days or overindulging on bread at dinner. She couldn't imagine Ines, perfect, glamorous Ines, contending with such trivial imperfections.

Ines had always treated her kindly, but Marion suspected she saw her as a chore, someone she had to put up with on account of business. Ines was friends with women like CeCe Patterson and Delphine Lewis; “Page Six women,” as Sol liked to call them. Marion was certainly not a Page Six woman, nor did she have any desire to be. In truth, she found them a bit dull. She was perfectly content with the friendly acquaintanceship she had cultivated with Ines; they only socialized together with their husbands and never indulged in the pretense that they might arrange to meet for lunch, just the two of them. Marion could not think of a time when Ines had called her on the phone.

“Hello, Ines,” Marion replied hoarsely. “I'm sorry, I don't know where Carter is . . . Sol . . . they arrested him this morning.”

“
My God, are you all right
? When did this happen?”

“It was early, around six? Sol was still sleeping. There was this banging on the door, so loud I thought they might break it down. I answered it in my bathrobe. There were five of them. Big guys, wearing NYPD vests. They flashed a warrant and just pushed past me into the apartment. I thought there must have been some sort of mistake . . .” Marion trailed off, the shaking in her voice uncontrollable. She pressed her hand to her heart as if she could slow its beating with a little pressure.

“Are you alone right now?”

A sob managed to sneak out. “I am!” Marion was trying so hard to contain herself but it
just felt so awful . . .
She fell back against the bed, clutching her torso as though she had been kicked in the ribs. In forty years of marriage, she had never been apart from Sol for more than two days at a time. If a business trip was longer than that, she went with him. If Sol was sick, she got sick; if Sol was sad, her heart felt broken. Marion knew they were different from other couples. Overly dependent, perhaps. But other couples, or at least the couples she knew, all had children. She imagined that if they had been able to, they might not have developed as they had, like Siamese twins, joined at the heart. Without him, what
was
she? Without him, well. . . Marion couldn't imagine that. She refused to imagine that.

“Can you call someone?” Ines insisted. “I think you should call someone so you're not alone. Did they say anything to you about when he would be back?”

“They said
nothing
. It was terrifying, Ines, truly. He came out to meet them, he was just in pajama pants and an old shirt, and they just started reading him his rights—you know, the way they do in the movies?—and they tried to put handcuffs on him right there in front of me—
can you imagine?
—and he had to ask them if he could put on some proper clothing. It was all so humiliating. Two of them took him back to the bedroom and he had to just throw something on, right there in front of them. They never put the handcuffs on, thank God. I just kept saying to them, my God, he's sixty-two years old.”

Ines bit her lip. The image of Sol being escorted out of a police car outside 100 Centre Street was fresh in her mind; they had shown it on the news twice since 9 a.m. His hands, she was sure, had been cuffed in front of him.

“This is terrible,” she said. “I'm so sorry. Listen, I'm in East Hampton now, but I'm getting a car to drive me into the city. I'd drive myself, but—well, my nerves are shot. I have no idea where Carter is. I thought he was with Sol until I saw the news—”

Marion hadn't turned on the television. She flicked it on now, muted. It was only a minute before her husband's face filled the screen.

How on earth did the reporters know to be there? Did they have a snitch at the police department who called them with juicy tips like the time and location of the founding partner of Penzell & Rubicam's arrest? How much would a tip like that go for?

“—I hate these fucking reporters,” Ines muttered, as though she could read Marion's mind. “Excuse my language, but they're absolute vultures.”

Marion wasn't listening anymore; her eyes were transfixed by the news feed.
He looks so old
, she thought, her hand still pressed to her left breast. Beneath it, her heart beat fast and hard.
My poor Sol.

Dark circles ringed his eyes. He averted them from the camera, staring down at the cement as he walked. His hair was askew, his shirt collar half up; he still looked fresh from bed. The camera pulled out and showed a full-body shot of Sol as he entered the building, flanked by police officers. Then Marion saw it: They had cuffed his hands in front of him. Like a common criminal.

They must have done that to him in the squad car
, Marion thought.
What else would they do? They had been rough with him this morning; not rough, but forceful, physically intimidating . . . it wasn't right, not right at all . . .

“I'm sorry,” she mumbled to Ines. “I should go.”

“Yes, yes, of course. Please call me if you hear anything, anything at all. You have my cell, don't you?”

“Yes,” Marion said numbly, though she wasn't sure she did.

“Everything's going to be fine. This will all get resolved.”

Marion hung up the phone and slid back down into bed. She had tried to look into his eyes the whole time it was happening. But even when he was speaking to her (“
Be calm, Marion, this is just a mistake
”) he was looking away, at the floor, at one of the officers. It all happened so quickly. In the moment before he left, he was allowed to hug her good-bye. He pressed his whole body flush against hers. She could hear his breathing, rapid and short, against her neck. She could smell his musty morning scent, and his morning breath, as if they were still in bed with each other, the scratch of his beard against her cheek. In her ear he whispered, “I love you, Marion. Please forgive me for this.” As he pulled away from her, she caught his gaze only for a second.

Something was wrong.

Shouldn't he have been surprised? Alert? Indignant? Instead, he had looked away from her . . . as they pushed him out the door, his shoulders hung slack with resignation . . .

He had been expecting this
, she thought.
Maybe not that morning, or that week, or even that year, but it was something he had anticipated.

It wasn't a mistake
.

Marion rolled onto her stomach, burying her face in Sol's pillow. She could smell him on it. She let herself cry now, a full, open-mouthed wailing cry, the sound muffled into the bed.

“What is ‘this' Sol?” She said aloud. “How can I forgive you if I don't know what you've done?”

Hearing her own voice aloud embarrassed her. She buried her head deeper in the pillow, blocking out the room's unbearable silence.