At least she would be alert in the morning. At least she would be ready to try some kind of escape. Anna hoped that only the woman would come in with her breakfast, as she had this morning.
Try to sleep, she told herself. Try to conserve your strength, Anna Gold. You’ll need it more than you ever needed it before.
She closed her eyes. She could hear their footsteps above her and for a moment wondered if they had some sort of peephole and had been toying with her all this time, watching her work the chain loose from the wall, permitting her the illusion of the possibility of an escape.
There was no way to judge what they did, what they thought. They were beyond reason, operating on another plane, in a world of their own mad making. How did such people go undetected?
As she lay there she thought about her mother and the way her mother had accepted her final days. Her mother always worried about her father more than she worried about herself. Even then.
“He’ll be in great pain, Anna. You and Miriam must be a comfort to him.”
“You’re the one in great pain, Mama.”
“No. Where I’m going there is no more pain. I’ve accepted my fate.”
I’m sick of acceptance, she thought. We accept our horrible history of persecution; we accept the discrimination; we accept the bad luck, the sickness, and we accept death.
I accept nothing.
No, Mama, no more. No, Papa, no more, even if it means risking your curses.
She thought she was going a little mad. She thought she saw her father at the door with the two crazy people at his side.
“This is what comes of your defiance, Anna. I cannot help you now. All I can do is say Kaddish.”
“No!” she screamed. “You do not have to accept!”
She sat up. There was no one at the door. All was quiet except for that rumbling on the other side of the wall, that monotonous grinding, cutting into her very soul.
She fell back on the bed and, as she had when she had first woken, imagined herself looking up from the bottom of her grave. She waited for the first spoonful of dirt and prayed it wouldn’t be her father throwing it down on her coffin the day after her body had been found, empty, childless, discarded like a worthless, broken incubator.
19
Robert Royce was one of the new breed of lawyers who seemed to feed on deprecation. With an arrogant flair, he loved to pass on a new lawyer joke. He always followed it with “I’m laughing all the way to the bank.”
In his mid-thirties, bright with those boyish good looks that took a man gently into his sixties and seventies, he swaggered with confidence through what he liked to call “the maze of justice.” Few attorneys had his stage presence in court. He knew how to hold his trim six-foot-two-inch frame so as to exude strength and project to a jury or a judge. When opposing attorneys and members of juries first saw him with his shock of light brown hair lying over his forehead as if he had brushed it there with his fingers, and saw his twinkling, hazel brown eyes and soft, rich complexion, they were put off guard. They expected youth and inexperience, an “Aw, gee, I didn’t know” to come out of that coy mouth.
But the moment he began, those images and expectations died a quick and painful death. He had a surprisingly deep, resonant voice that, if one heard it with his or her eyes closed, one would believe belonged to a man nearly twice his age. He was quick to see the point, quick to cut to the chase, quick to ridicule and cite precedent. Anyone who underestimated him paid dearly for it.
Most important, perhaps, was the fact that as one of the new breed of media-conscious lawyers, he knew how to use the camera and was a master of the sound bite. Unlike his older and more refined peers, he actively sought publicity and fed on it.
“If we’ve learned anything from the O.J. Simpson trial,” he told his associates, “it’s that legal battles are often won or lost in the headlines. And the same goes, therefore, for legal careers.”
It was a simple axiom of modern times: A lawyer who was well known, no matter how that fame or notoriety was established, was a lawyer who could charge his clients more and yet was in more demand. To Robert Royce there was no such thing as bad publicity; there was just publicity.
And so it came as no surprise to those who knew him that he would decide to represent Roy Gault. Instead of the typical ambulance chaser, Robert Royce was the pursuer of fame, the king of sound bites. He held court on the steps of the courthouse, directing himself to the microphones above him as if he were speaking to the balcony in a theater, and then he fixed his sharp gaze on the camera lenses like one following the instruction of Orson Welles: Look as if you’re looking into someone’s face and make it seem personal.
“It’s ridiculous to assume Mr. Gault left his home intending to commit murder,” he declared after it was learned the district attorney was seeking to charge Gault with murder one. “How would he know Doctor Williams would come out and confront him and his followers directly? It was an act of utter rage, spontaneous, without malice aforethought.”
“But Mr. Gault claims he was justified,” one of the reporters shot back.
Robert Royce smiled.
“That’s his religious belief. One man’s fanatic is another man’s messiah.”
The cameras clicked. He had given the radio and television news reporters their opening remark and ensured himself of the top spot in the news intro: “One man’s fanatic is another man’s messiah.”
Rightly assuming the case would attract statewide and national attention, Royce seized the opportunity and claimed this would be one of his pro bono cases, a matter of principle. Dr. Williams’s death was horrible and should never have occurred, but America, he declared, was a land that prided itself on permitting diversity. The radical religious contingent had just as much right to exist as did the middle-of-the-road diehard Democratic and Republican organizations, traditional religious groups, and the Boy Scouts of America.
“I do not agree with what you say, but I will fight to the death for your right to say it,” he offered with his disarmingly boyish smile.
In the back of his mind, he expected to plea-bargain Roy Gault into first-degree manslaughter. Yes, it was true that the case had everyone’s interest and high exposure right now, but the machinations of the legal system would enable him to drag the proceedings through procedural hell, and after months and months it would lose its position on the front burner—which, he had concluded cynically years earlier, was when real justice and legal maneuvering finally took place in some judge’s chambers.
For the moment, however, he was prone to milk it of every last drop of ink.
“The only reason Mr. Gault has been charged with first-degree murder is the district attorney’s well-known ambition to run for Congress. However, I don’t believe the public is that stupid,” he concluded, even though everything he did was predicated on that very same assumption.
McShane stopped to buy a newspaper after leaving Cookie because he wanted to see if there was a picture of Robert Royce. There was a big one on the front page capturing Royce’s courtroom-steps speech, his right arm in the air, his briefcase in his left hand, his gaze directed toward the heavens as if he were reciting a Shakespearean soliloquy. McShane quickly perused the news story and then headed for Royce’s home. It was Sunday. Even the overwhelmingly ambitious took a day off.
McShane had learned that Robert Royce lived in a sprawling ranch-style home built on ten picturesque acres between Liberty and Neversink. The windows of the dining room looked out on the reservoir and the mountain range. The house itself had a rich red-brick finish and a front lawn as wide and as long as most homeowners’ entire lots. The macadam driveway circled up to the front of the house and the three-car garage. There were ornamental pole lights with antique brass lanterns spaced along the way, and across the front lawn there were four small but richly green evergreens. Fall had dried up all the flowers and sent the leaves of surrounding hickory, beech, and maple trees tumbling in the wind, but the glittering late
-afternoon sun made the well-manicured and maintained lawn look freshly grown and the windows and walkway sparkle.
When McShane drove up, he saw the garage door was opened and a late-model S-class silver Mercedes in the garage. The second space was empty and the third contained a golf cart. He hoped the empty space didn’t mean Robert Royce wasn’t home. When he stepped out of his car, he paused to gaze down at the reservoir. It looked near its full capacity, thanks to the late-summer storms. The water was silvery blue, peaceful, inviting. What a wonderful spot for a home, he thought. A man could feel invulnerable up here.
The front door had a circle of stained glass in the center. The door itself was built from rich dark oak. McShane pushed the door button and heard a tinkle of chimes tap out some familiar tune. As he waited for someone to come to the door, he tried to think of what it was. Robert Royce himself was soon there, dressed in a purple velvet smoking jacket and a pair of gray slacks. His hair was neatly brushed back on the sides with that trademark shock of some strands over his forehead. He looked as if he were preparing for a Barbara Walters interview.
“I’ve got a press conference first thing tomorrow morning at my office,” he said quickly but with a smile. “Nine o’clock.” He handed McShane a business card.
McShane took it but replied, “I’m not a reporter.” He showed Royce his identification.
“Detective? Very interesting, but you know I can’t talk about my client and the case, I’m sure.”
“I’m not here about Roy Gault,” McShane said. “At least, I don’t know if I am.”
“Don’t know if you are? Well…you’ve got my attention, Detective”—he looked at McShane’s card—“McShane. You have a good lead-in. How can I help you?” he asked, after folding his arms under his chest. It was apparent he had no intention of inviting McShane into the house.
“Do you know an Anna Gold?”
Royce blinked and his right eyebrow lifted with the twist in the right corner of his mouth.
“That depends on why you’re asking,” he said.
“I don’t see how your knowing or not knowing her would depend on that,” McShane countered. Royce just stared. “I found your cellular phone number in her Rolodex when I searched her apartment.”
Royce’s face softened.
“She’s a client—or, I should say, a potential client—of mine,” he offered. “Why are you asking me about her? Why did you search her apartment?”
“Her story will be in tomorrow’s paper. She was apparently abducted while in the Van’s parking lot.”
“What?” Royce grimaced. “‘Abducted’? What the hell’s that mean?”
“Someone’s kidnapped her. The FBI is involved in this too,” McShane added, hoping that would win him a more cooperative Robert Royce.
“Really?” He shook his head. “I’m sorry to hear this.”
“What did you mean when you said ‘potential client’?”
Royce shook his head again, this time more emphatically.
“I’m afraid anything more comes under the attorney-client privilege, Detective. I will tell you that it’s been nearly a week since I last spoke with her.”
“Why would she have your cellular number?”
Royce shook his head.
“Look,” McShane said, “this is a young woman who has literally disappeared. She is probably in great danger. I’m not trying to overly dramatize the situation, but the FBI has reason to believe she might be a victim of something very sinister. Whatever you tell me will be off the record. I can assure you of that.”
“Where’s the FBI?” Royce asked suspiciously.
“I’m handling this aspect.”
Royce considered.
“All right. Come on in,” he said, and stepped back.
McShane entered and Royce closed the door. He indicated a room to the right, which was an office furnished with two red leather settees, a red leather cherry-wood chair, a large cherry-wood desk and swivel chair, and matching coffee and side tables. The wall to the left was a built-in bookcase filled with volumes of classic literary works as well as modern novels and nonfiction books. There were two large panel windows behind the desk. The dark brown drapes were pulled back so the woods were in full view. On the right wall Royce had hung his award plaques and some pictures of himself with a variety of celebrities on the local golf courses; there were also pictures of him with a woman whom McShane assumed was his wife. She was an attractive woman but looked a bit dour in all the pictures. McShane noted that there were no pictures of children.
“Have a seat,” Royce said, indicating the settee on the left. McShane sat and Royce went to the chair. He crossed his legs and folded his hands in his lap. “I don’t know if you know it,” he began, “I don’t know who she told, if anyone, but Anna Gold is pregnant.”
“I’m aware of that. As far as I know now, this early in the investigation, only her sister knew—and, from what her sister told me, her lover.”
Royce nodded.
“Lover,” he said with a sneer.
“Do you know who he is?” McShane asked.
Royce shook his head.
“Anna Gold is a very naive and innocent young woman. She’s more like a teenager because she was so cloistered all of her life. As you know if you spoke to her sister, Anna comes from an Orthodox Jewish family. She’s sweet but vulnerable. Whoever this cad is, she fell for him hook, line, and sinker, as they say. She believes his promises, but she was beginning to experience some doubt, and that was why she came to see me.”
“If she wanted you to go after him, she must have told you his name.”
“That wasn’t it,” Royce said, shaking his head and smiling. “This type of woman, emotionally and socially undeveloped, usually never goes after the man.” He spoke as if he were a man of age and wisdom. His confident, self-assured air annoyed McShane, but he nodded and listened politely. “I’ve had my share of divorce cases and know whereof I speak,” he added.
“I bet.”
“No, Anna wouldn’t give me a name. She wanted to protect the creep. She blamed herself for the predicament she was in. The last time I spoke with her, she even intimated it might have something to do with an angry God taking retribution.” He shook his head. “We are surrounded by wackos of all sorts and shapes wrapping themselves in one religious banner or another.”
He paused as if he were constructing his next sound bite.
“I still don’t follow you. Why did you say she was a potential client, then?” McShane asked.
Royce stared a moment and then sat back, placing his hands on the arms of the chair.
“One of the things I do, which is pretty lucrative for me, is arrange for legal adoptions. Anna, who works in the public defender’s office, as you undoubtedly know, came into contact with a pregnant woman who was being defended for repeated shoplifting. The woman told her what she was going to do about her pregnancy, which had gone too far. I think she was just too stupid to think about an abortion, myself. Anyway, soon afterward, Anna came to see me to find out about the option. This is why I said she was having some doubts about her lover boy and his promises.”
“You were going to set up an adoption of her child?”
“I have it in the works if she wants it. She was supposed to tell me this coming week. The couple is very anxious about it. They are willing to take care of all of Anna’s living expenses, put her up in their guest house until she gives birth.”
“Why give her your cellular number?”
“I gave her all my numbers, even my unlisted home number. As I said, this couple is very anxious. They were pleased to hear about Anna’s condition and what sort of a person she was. They thought the baby was perfect for them and”—he paused and leaned forward—“they added some financial incentive to my fee. I, er…have the highest respect for added financial incentives,” he said, smiling.
“Anna was very much on the fence about it,” he continued, sitting back again. “I thought if she calls and s
ays she wants to go ahead with the adoption, I had better jump on it and get it arranged quickly. So I gave her all my numbers.”
McShane nodded.
“I don’t want to see any of this in some news story,” Royce warned.
“You won’t.”
“You don’t have any leads, then, as to the man involved?”
“Not really. I think one of her girlfriends might know. She was reluctant to tell me. Some woman-to-woman loyalty thing, but I think I’ll get her to tell me all she knows the next time I interview her,” he said confidently.
“Let me know if there is anything I can do to help. I’m fairly successful when it comes to persuading women,” he said, smiling.
“Really? I’m not,” McShane said, and thought a moment. “Tell me more about this couple.”
“I never saw two people more desperate to have a child. I think they were considering a trip to Romania, only they’re not keen on foreign children, nor do they travel much. They’re not all that wealthy—some family money.”
“Can you give me their names?”
“Oh, absolutely not. I couldn’t do that. That would really be a breach of ethics.”
“Do you think there’s any possibility they were desperate and impatient enough to move things along?” McShane asked.
“You mean kidnap her?” Royce thought a moment. “I doubt it, but who can swear about anyone these days?”
“The FBI thinks this might be tied into the radical religious right, the antiabortion movement.”
“Why?”
Under Abduction Page 15
