by Meghan March
So we’d both been thrown in the bin. While it was considered harsh punishment, I was thankful to be by myself and felt relatively safe within these four gray concrete walls. If I was still in the bunkroom, I would’ve been afraid to close my eyes, regardless of the fatigue dragging me under. But in here, once I blocked out Bertha’s threats, I could let myself drift off to sleep. Only 142 more hours to go…
I stepped out of my mother’s hospital room to answer my buzzing phone.
Ivers. I’d been waiting for him to call me all damn day.
“Please tell me you have good news.”
He cleared his throat, and my stomach dropped when he hesitated before speaking.
“Mr. Duchesne, I would have called sooner, but I wanted to be able to give you a full picture of what we’re dealing with here.”
“What does that even mean?”
“Unfortunately, Ms. Agoston has been charged with conspiracy to commit grand larceny in the first degree, and was remanded into custody following her arraignment this evening.”
My breath heaved out of my lungs like I’d been sucker-punched. I bent at the waist and tried to comprehend what the fuck Ivers was saying.
“What do you mean, remanded into custody? She’s in jail?”
“Yes, Mr. Duchesne. She’s at Rikers.”
“What the fuck?” My hands shook, and my words echoed off the sterile white walls of the hallway. The charge nurse glared and made a cutting motion across her neck. For the second time today, I sank to the floor, weak-kneed. “Can’t you get her out?”
“Mr. Duchesne, I pushed for the judge to set bail—even a ridiculous figure—and he refused. I have a meeting with Special Agent in Charge Childers tomorrow morning to discuss the information Ms. Agoston provided, and I’m hoping we can come to an agreement that will end with the state charges being dropped. We’ll do everything we can to get her out, as quickly as possible.”
Jesus Christ. What a clusterfuck. I closed my eyes and pictured Charlie in a prison jumpsuit. The dinner I’d choked down in the cafeteria threatened to come back up.
Ivers waited patiently for me to respond.
“Look, call me if anything changes. Day or night. Don’t wait next time. I don’t care if you don’t have the full picture or not. I want to know everything, as it happens.”
“Of course.”
I ended the call, dropped my head back against the wall, and squeezed my eyes shut. Charlie was in jail, and my mother was in a coma. In a matter of days, my life had morphed into a waking nightmare.
My father shuffled out of my mother’s room and jerked his head toward the bench across the hall.
“Sit with me?” he asked.
I pulled myself together and joined him on the teal and yellow flowered cushion.
My brain started firing again, and I thought about the connections my father still had. “Do you know anyone who’s close with the governor of New York?”
His eyes widened. “What happened?”
“They arrested her.” The words stuck in my throat, but I forced them out. “She’s … in jail. At Rikers. The judge denied bail.”
My dad sat back and laced his fingers together on his lap.
“Is there any chance you’re going to change your mind about running for my old seat?”
I stared at him, not sure where this was going. “If you tell me that you’ll only get her out if I agree to run, then…”
He unlaced his fingers, twisted toward me, and dropped a hand on my shoulder. “No, I wouldn’t force a choice like that on you. But the fact that you think I could makes it clear you don’t think all that highly of me right now. But that’s something for another day. My point is that if there was any chance you were going to change your mind, she would make an already difficult road impassable.”
“I’m not changing my mind.”
“Okay. So tell me—what are we up against?”
His matter of fact acceptance, even after I’d insulted him, humbled me.
I explained the situation, and once I’d finished, he rubbed a hand across his bristled jaw. “Shit.”
“Yeah. I know.”
“Do you want to go to New York?”
My eyes snapped to his. “I can’t leave Mom. Not now. Not until we know…”
He nodded. “I know. Well, I can’t make any calls right now, but I’ve got some ideas of whom I can contact in the morning. We’ll see what we can do to get her out. And barring that, whatever we can do to keep her safe on the inside.”
My six-inch thick steel cell door swung open, and the guard motioned for me to exit. I’d spent three days in segregation, and I was starting to lose my shit. I knew I should be happy that I’d been unmolested, but seventy-two hours by myself gave me too damn much time to think. I mostly thought about all of the places I should have run instead of New York. I’d been so naïve to think I could just show up, wave my magic notebook, and make everything better. Pride goeth and all that.
He led me through the maze of hallways to a guard station. It took me a few minutes but I caught on to the fact that I was being processed for a transfer. Whether this was a good thing or a bad thing, I wasn’t certain. I saw the U.S. Marshals waiting for me on the other side of the door; I decided it was a bad thing.
No one bothered to correct my assumption.
We drove back to Manhattan, and my stomach knotted tighter with each mile. When they finally parked in a garage under the U.S. District Court, my dread grew. It multiplied when I was led in front of a federal magistrate judge, and he launched into his spiel.
The list of charges against me was so long, I couldn’t keep up as he rattled them off.
Mail fraud, wire fraud, securities fraud, money laundering.
The charges that registered were all too familiar; my father had been convicted of them all. My very own worst-case scenario was playing out in a federal court. Why hadn’t I just kept running? Because I’d wanted to make things right. And maybe I would. For everyone but myself.
As the magistrate judge rambled on about being appointed counsel if I couldn’t afford my own, I knew I needed Ivers. ASAP. I needed someone to explain to me, using idiot-proof words, what the fuck was going to happen to me.
As soon as Ivers’s name entered my thoughts, he was pushing through the doors of the courtroom. The judge dismissed me, and Ivers followed the Marshals as they led me out the back. We were escorted to a small room and Ivers shut the door. He pulled out his phone and started barking orders into it. When he ended his call, he sat down next to me.
My voice shook as I asked, “What the hell just happened?”
“In addition to conspiracy, you’ve been charged with several of the felonies of which your father was convicted.”
“But why? I had nothing to do with it.”
“Well, the information you turned over to the FBI seems to say differently.”
“What are you talking about? I don’t understand.” My voice rose on the last words; I was barely holding it together.
The door opened.
Shit.
Cold fear snaked down my spine.
Michael Drake, the Assistant U.S. Attorney who’d eviscerated me on cross-examination during my father’s trial, had joined the burn Charlie at the stake party.
“Well, Ms. Agoston, you’re looking a little different than the last time I saw you.” If I weren’t handcuffed, I would have been tempted to slap the smug smirk off his face.
I didn’t know how to respond to his taunting statement other than telling him to go fuck himself, so I kept my mouth shut.
“Let’s cut through the BS and get down to why you’ve bothered to drag my client through this farce when we both know she didn’t have anything to do with Agoston’s scam.”
Drake sat down across from us.
“The accounts in her name say otherwise.”
The cold fear spread from my spine to envelop my entire body like an icy straight jacket. “Wh … what are you talking about?”
Drake’s smile was triumphant. “So far, we’ve identified several accounts in your name in the Caymans and in Switzerland, courtesy of the little book you turned over to the FBI.”
“How … how is that even possible?” I stammered, between shallow, panting breaths.
“You tell me, Charlotte.”
“Cut the crap,” Ivers said. “Her father did it. She wasn’t involved. You know it, and I know it. Besides, if she was smart enough to pull this off, why the hell would she be dumb enough to put the accounts in her own name and turn over evidence to help the FBI find them?” Ivers sounded so calm and self-assured, but then, his entire life wasn’t flashing before his eyes. I thought of the days I’d spent in the bin. I can’t do this. I can’t do this.
Drake’s laugh could have been used as a track for an evil movie villain. “Lucky for me, I don’t need to answer that question in order to send her to prison for the rest of her life. No jury on Earth is going to let her walk after they see the evidence.”
I lunged for the garbage and threw up the rubbery chicken patty I’d been served for lunch. I dropped to my knees, gagging and spitting, resting my arms and handcuffed hands on the edge of the trashcan for support. My head spun, and the urge to pass out was pressing down on me. Part of me welcomed the darkness and the escape it would offer.
“Disgusting.” Drake’s snide tone pulled me out of my momentary stupor. Awareness rushed back in, along with an untapped inner reserve of strength. I had to get up. I was already ashamed that he’d brought me to my knees.
Ivers crossed the room and opened the door. “Could someone get us some water?”
I pushed up and stumbled to my feet, Ivers catching me by the arm and helping me back to my chair. A few seconds later he pressed a styrofoam cup into my hands. I drank slowly, not wanting to puke again.
I fumbled the cup to the table and took a moment to compose myself. The silence in the room was deafening. Or maybe it was just the blood rushing in my ears.
Finally, Ivers crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair. He continued the conversation with Drake as though nothing remarkable had happened.
“Are all of the accounts you’ve been able to identify in her name?”
I squeezed my eyes shut, not wanting to hear the answer that would send me running for the garbage can again. My heart thundered so loudly I almost missed Drake’s self-satisfied, “Yes.”
Tears burned my eyes, but I blinked them back. I was not going to let him see me cry.
“Do you suspect that all of the accounts are in her name?” Ivers asked, his cool tone completely at odds with the damning information he was hearing.
“No,” Drake replied. “But it’s a clear possibility at this point that dozens of them are.” I clenched my hands together to stop the shaking.
“How long do you figure it’s going to take you to cut through the red tape with all of these foreign banks and recover the money?”
Drake straightened, and looked down as he spun a cufflink. “It’ll take some time, but we’ll get there.”
Ivers leaned forward, elbows resting on the table. “So the reason you ran down here so damn fast isn’t because you want to cut a deal in exchange for Charlotte’s help to recover the money? Because we both know if she’s the one signing the withdrawal slips and approving the wire transfers, it’ll take weeks rather than months or years of the red tape you’ll be wading through to get it back.”
Drake looked bored as he said, “We might be willing to discuss the possibility.”
The icy grip clutching my chest receded a fraction. I reminded myself that with my recent luck, a deal could still mean years in prison. If not decades.
I held completely still, as if afraid any movement from me would derail whatever ground Ivers had just gained.
“Recovery of the funds from the accounts you identify in her name, but only if the subject bank is willing to cooperate, in exchange for full dismissal of the charges with prejudice. And no re-filing any state or federal charges arising out of, or related to, any aspect of Agoston’s scheme,” Ivers said.
“Full recovery of the funds,” Drake shot back.
“With interest, even a partial recovery is going to approach the original amount Agoston took, and she can only get you money from accounts in her name identified by the FBI, and only if the bank cooperates. She can’t agree to things that are outside of her control.”
Drake leaned back in his chair, taking his time to mull over Ivers’s words as if my future wasn’t hanging in the balance.
“I don’t know…” Drake drawled.
Ivers went in for the kill. “Would you prefer the media know that the DOJ has the ability to recover the money right now, and it’s considering throwing that advantage away and taking years to accomplish the same result because it wants to prove a point by locking up one innocent girl?”
Drake’s features were carved in stone. I held my breath as Ivers and I waited for his response.
“Let me make a call.” Drake rose and left the room.
I sucked in huge breath and looked over at Ivers. “Is this really going to work?”
Ivers didn’t hesitate. “Yes.”
Sweet relief rushed through me for a beat before another thought struck me.
“Do … do I have to go back to Rikers? Because … I don’t know if I can handle that.”
He bit his bottom lip. The action was decidedly at odds with his expensive suit and air of confidence. After a moment, he shook his head.
“I can’t imagine the feds are going to let you out of their sight now that we know you’re effectively the key to recovering the money. It’s much more likely that they’ll stash you somewhere in protective custody. If this gets out, people would kill to get to you. They can’t risk that happening.”
Then I asked the question that had been reverberating through my head since Drake had dropped the bomb about the accounts being in my name.
“I didn’t set up any of those accounts, so how could they possibly be in my name?”
Ivers’s expression was sympathetic when he said, “I really think that’s a question for your father, Charlotte.”
We sat in heavy, awkward silence while we waited for Drake to return.
And waited.
And waited.
Finally, the door to the room swung open, and Drake strode back in, expression unreadable.
He crossed his arms over his chest, and once again, I held my breath.
“You’ve got a deal.”
Three weeks later.
I grabbed the heavy bag to slow its swinging motion. Sweat stung my eyes as I swiped the back of my forearm across my dripping face. Releasing the bag, I reached up with both hands to grip the beam where it hung from the ceiling of my garage. I leaned into the stretch and dragged in a few deep breaths. Exhaustion was the only way I could shut my brain off for a few minutes at a time. And God knew I needed a break.
To say the last three weeks had been brutal would be an understatement.
Prolonged uncertainty took a vicious toll on a person. Physically, mentally, and otherwise. The ability to compartmentalize that I honed in the service was all that was holding me together. My father had tapped into a well of strength I hadn’t known he possessed. Even before my mother opened her eyes, he’d seemed to make a decision that his capacity to fight for her was stronger than his fear of losing her. His spine had straightened, he’d cleaned himself up, and his eyes had regained the sharpness I was used to seeing there. I was starting to think he’d brought my mother back from the brink by force of will alone. She’d opened her eyes two days ago with a lopsided smile and whispered, “Jefferson? What happened?”
I’d dropped to my knees beside her bed as my father had pressed her small hand to his lips and thanked every deity known to man for bringing her back to us. A portion of the crushing weight I’d been carrying had lifted. She wasn’t out of the woods completely, but it was a hell of an improvement over watching her lay the
re, motionless, for weeks on end. The doctors had already started discussing moving her to a rehab facility. Today she’d insisted that I go home and get some rest. Take some time to myself.
Which is why I’d spent the last hour pounding the bag until my arms were almost too heavy to lift.
My father had urged me to go to New York, but Ivers had told me unequivocally it would be a wasted trip. The FBI wouldn’t let Charlie see anyone except him, and his visits were extremely limited. For ethical reasons, he couldn’t tell me anything except she was fine. It was a small consolation.
Since the day Charlie had been discovered, it had seemed like every media outlet in the country had tried to pin me down for an interview. We’d had to beef up security at the hospital, and I’d never been so happy to live behind a gate. It was all I could do to refrain from beating the shit out of the former intern who still waited outside my house, yelling that he deserved an exclusive for being the one to break the story. Every time I saw him, I couldn’t help but wonder if Charlie would have ever told me the truth. Because of him, I’d never know, and that fact ate at me, continually dredging up doubt.
The folded up letter in my wallet was all that kept me from losing hope. She’d said she’d left her heart with me. But that wasn’t enough. I wanted all of her.
The letter also kept me up at night because of what she didn’t include: an assurance that she was coming back.
