The Charity

by Connie Johnson Hambley

  He waited a full five minutes before the line was picked up by the commissioner. It was just enough time for him to see Abbey return from filing the papers with the court. She gave him a thumbs-up through the open door and waved a thick file of papers at him.

  “Commissioner! Thank you for taking my call. Yes, I spoke with the sheriff this afternoon. Interesting development. I don’t have the time or the resources to focus on that case at the moment. I promise you I will at the first opportunity. I’m calling you to request a marshal and a police escort for an arrest. The complaint has been filed, and an arrest warrant has been issued by the magistrate. I have copies of all necessary search warrants as well. No, I can’t say who on the phone. Security you know. Will you accompany me yourself? Right. I’ll look for you in five minutes. Good-bye.”

  Shea replaced the phone in its cradle. He could feel the adrenaline pulse through his veins. “Jesus H. Christ. This is it. This ain’t no dress rehearsal,” he said to himself as he gathered up the last of the papers. “Just sit tight, Jessica. Just sit tight.” He willed his thoughts to travel over the miles as if he could communicate with her directly. It was as useless as if he was talking to her in person.

  The ringing phone was retrieved from its rich cherry wood case.

  “Yes?” The old man hid his irritation at his meal being disrupted. “I see. How much time is there to prepare?” He listened intently to the response. “Have you located the girl? Good. Excellent. It seems that all is working nicely. Good night.”

  Magnus dabbed the corners of his mouth with a linen napkin and resumed eating his dinner. After another mouthful, he nodded in the direction of a servant. “Please pack a few things for me. I will be gone overnight.”

  Catherine looked at him with inquiring eyes. He responded to her look with a statement. “It’s time you returned to the Florida house, my dear. The weather here is getting much too harsh for you.”

  She smiled and resumed eating.

  Magnus pushed a morsel of veal around his plate with the silver tines of his fork and spoke to the bowed head of his wife. “Everything I have done in my life has been so perfect. Look around you. Our loyalty to our cause glows at us from every corner of our home. I have everything a man could desire. Money. Power. Now, my son has returned to take his rightful spot at the top of my enterprise. It’s perfect. Just so perfect.”

  “I’m happy for you, Magnus. You’ve worked so hard all of your life.”

  “Blood ties always win over love.”

  “Do you think he’s matured enough to take your place?”

  “Matured? I don’t know. He was so much like his mother. I loved her for her Irish fire. At first, I thought her independent mind was charming and somewhat amusing. It was exciting to have her disagree with me and fight for her own vision. Not like you, my love,” Magnus said as he smiled slightly at his wife.

  Catherine blushed slightly. “I’m glad I gave you peace.”

  “Ah, you did! I told you how over time Kathleen and I became constantly at odds with one another at how to raise our sons. One of our sergeants called it a battle for their hearts and minds and advocated that it should be campaigned for accordingly. If my son has outgrown his mother’s childish philosophies, then he’s matured enough to take over.”

  Catherine raised her eyes briefly from her meal. Magnus rarely spoke of his first wife or sons. The fact that he did so now chilled her. She looked at the unfocused glaze in her husband’s eyes and tried to find a common ground that would calm him. “But at one time she shared your goals.”

  “Yes. Yes. She shared my vision of a unified Ireland. But she saw power in having a unified mind to negotiate a withdrawal of British troops. She never saw the logic in physical strikes. Such a blind shame.”

  “Tell me again about Liam.”

  Magnus softened at the mention of his son. “My oldest son was the rightful heir to the position of chairman. Liam shadowed my every move and thought. Never could a man have loved a son more! He was magnificent at executing military strategy. He could implement a plan for an offensive bombing strategy in minutes. He was everything a father could want. Except,” his head dropped, “the Charity did not need another soldier in the field. It needed a leader. It needed someone who could conceive of a plan, not just implement one. I was so focused on cultivating my heir, I allowed my other boy to be raised by his mother. It was only after Liam faltered horribly in many crucial decisions that I realized it was my younger son who had the intelligence to make the Charity even more successful! It was the one mistake I made.”

  Catherine placed her fork down on her plate and dabbed her eyes with her napkin. “To have lost such a son as Liam to war! Sweet Blessed Mother have mercy on his soul.”

  Let her believe that. “Yes. The Lord dealt me a terrible blow with that.”

  “But the Lord blessed you with a second son!”

  “By the time I realized Liam’s constraints, the battle for my other son’s vision was lost to his mother.” It was a bitter loss.

  A last morsel of veal remained in his mouth, delicate seasonings savored. The loss of his young son’s allegiance forced Magnus to the breaking point. His passionate wife had taken one action too many. The creases on his weathered face deepened in a smile as he reminisced about the anguish she felt before her, um, suicide. He gained a great deal of respect from his soldiers and sympathizers for his handling of the situation. Much loyalty flowed toward him. He swallowed the veal.

  Their discussion was disrupted with pounding at his front door. Excited voices could be heard coming down the hallway toward him. Catherine stood up and nervously wiped her hands against her smooth skirt. Magnus indicated that she should sit down. The doors to the dining room burst open.

  Commissioner Davenport and Attorney General Owen Shea stood dwarfed in the grand doorway to the candlelit room. The old man did not acknowledge their presence.

  “Magnus M. Connaught,” the commissioner drew in a large breath and lowered his voice to impart the firm sense of solemnity such occasions required. “You are hereby arrested on the following charges.” He read each count clearly, holding the warrant like a town crier would hold a parchment. “Five counts of income tax evasion. Four counts extortion. Seven counts of aiding and abetting the felony of income tax fraud.” His rib cage closed around the knot forming in his stomach. Reaching the end of the charges, his voice deepened in timbre. “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say may be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to have an attorney present. If you cannot afford one, an attorney will be appointed for you—”

  Magnus snorted his disdain. The absurdity of the moment forced his brows to lower into a single bar across his forehead.

  Uniformed officers ushered Magnus to his feet and placed his arms behind his back. The metallic click of the handcuffs sounded strangely out of place in the rarefied air of the grand room as they were secured around the paper-thin skin of the old man’s wrists.

  “Commissioner. Surely these cuffs are not necessary? Think of the hardship you are imposing on my wife to witness such an act.” Magnus looked around the room, filling with officers of various ranks. He made eye contact with a few and smiled. “I can see I am in very good hands. I hardly think this is necessary. Please undo these and I shall accompany you quietly.”

  Two officers stepped forward to respond to the request and were stared back into their places by the commissioner. “I think we have all that we need here.” He looked at Shea who had not taken his eyes off the old man. “Ready?”

  Shea looked around the room. “Where’s the office?” A joint nodding of heads pointed him in a direction further down the hall. He handed the commissioner another thick fold of papers. “Search warrant. I’ll be back.”

  It was not long before he returned with several officers, each with an armload of papers and boxes. “The likelihood that the most impor
tant papers will be scrubbed by the morning is high. This is important information. We’ll get what’s left tomorrow.” He already had what he was looking for.

  One contingent of men trooped out of the front doors of the warm home and sped away in their official cars. A second group of men watched them go.

  The bank clerk looked at the tarnished set of keys with surprise. “I haven’t seen keys like this in ages. We reissued keys years ago.” She gave a quick look at the woman who presented them to her. “I have to check with my manager to figure out how to handle your request. It’s a little odd, you know? Please wait here.”

  Jessica sat obediently in the indicated wooden chair and looked around the interior of the small institution. The bank where her aunt had rented the safe-deposit box had been acquired and reacquired several times over the years. Fortunately the location of the bank had not changed, indicating that the safe-deposit boxes must still be inside and untouched.

  “I went through some old papers a long deceased aunt left behind and found the letter and the keys.” She produced a faded but functional identification card with her photograph and the name ‘Jess Winters’ on it. Thick make-up covered most of the purple bruises on her face. She was sensitive to being whispered about and watched the doors and the movement of the bank guards carefully. No one seemed alarmed.

  “Mrs. Winters? So sorry to keep you waiting. My manager said these keys are fine. Please come right this way.” The bank clerk resumed her perky yet professional attitude. The slightly overweight clerk was dressed in a thickly woven wool skirt and crisply pressed white shirt. The open cardigan sweater was adorned with a cheap red and green enameled pin in the likeness of Christmas presents. She led Jessica to a small, private viewing room.

  Taking one of the keys, the clerk returned to the musty room carrying a long metal box. “Your other key goes in the top to unlock it. If you need anything, just press this button.”

  Jessica smiled at the woman as the door was closed behind her.

  The box had obviously not been touched in many years. Her hand smoothed along the top of it as she thought about the last time it was touched by the hands of her family. Gathering her thoughts for a moment, she proceeded to work the key until the metal lid creaked open.

  The box was filled with several large envelopes, small boxes and a velvet pouch lay carefully on top. Jessica gently fingered the pouch as memories of a similar one crept into her head. She felt the lump of the broach and remembered what it looked like before bringing it out into the light. Heavy interlocking circles of gold with fine details, called a triune knot, were graced with several amethysts and an emerald. It had been one of her mother’s and aunt’s favorite pieces, given to Margaret by her own mother.

  Jessica remembered the story behind the symbol. The three knots were sometimes called a Celtic, or trinity, knot and symbolized the triune God. To the Irish, everything related to the Trinity—the three stages of womanhood: maid, mother, crone; the three elements: earth, fire, water; and Christianity embraced this knot to symbolize the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. To Bridget it symbolized eternity and eternal love, and she often wore it instead of her crucifix.

  The broach began to warm in her hand. Jessica could almost hear the laughter of her mother as she traced the endless circles around with her finger. The pin was only worn on the happiest of occasions and held nothing but blessed memories.

  Jessica looked through the other boxes before reading any papers inside. Her parent’s wedding portrait and rings were in one pouch. A large photo in a heavy silver frame, of Erin and Jessica when Erin was just a baby, emerged from a velvet bag. The frame was slightly tarnished, but the intricate details were easily seen. Jessica was surprised by the heft of it and ran her fingers over the engravings. Soon several Christmas ornaments littered the polished wooden table. Signs of Christmas were all around her, but she had forced the holiday from her mind. Now, seeing the silver and gold ornaments that once graced her own tree as a child, memories of the magical days flooded over her. She allowed herself a moment to bow her head and steep herself in the memories. No tears came. There would be time for that later.

  Taking a deep breath, she pulled back her shoulders and prepared to review the documents. She had an idea what she might find. Or, rather, what she hoped she would find. Sifting through the contents of the envelopes methodically, she began to see her hopes fulfilled.

  One yellowed envelope contained a notarized letter from her father, dated just prior to their accident. Jessica braced herself and began to read.

  To Whom It May Concern,

  Being of sound mind and body, I, James Kent Wyeth, do hereby set forth facts that I do not have control over. It is my wish that if something were to happen to me, that this letter be used as my statement in a court of law.

  Attached to this letter is a series of documents relating to the handicapping and winning of many races my farm has participated in. My farm has enjoyed a great deal of success, and it is with great concern that I go on record that much of its success was obtained outside of the rules of the track and society. For many years I was unaware of the private dealings of my lead trainer, Gus Adams. For too long I let myself believe that the success was truly of my own making. By reviewing the records of the attached races, you will see higher odds against the favorites and a consistent string of wins at the betting window by several named track veterans. Any horse associated with my farm also enjoyed substantial increases in value of syndication or stud fees. Huge sums of money have been made on my blindness. For that, I am deeply embarrassed.

  I thought this was a contained affair. I thought my troubles began and ended with Gus. I was foolish enough to believe that just by speaking with Gus and telling him I would no longer tolerate the use of my farm for his purposes, that such would be the end of it. Instead, the nightmare started. I quickly learned that any action on my part would have killed my family. The attached hospital records show how they damaged my infant daughter in an ‘unfortunate but common form of respiratory arrest that led to a cerebral hypoxic-anoxic event.’ Somehow those bastards stopped Erin’s breathing long enough to cause severe brain damage. It was all constructed to intimidate me and to keep me from interfering with their plans. The pain and hatred I have felt for the men behind these actions is overwhelming, and I cautiously gathered evidence against them.

  Today our horse, Dark Irish, won the MassCap and broke down immediately after the race. Dark is not the only Wyeth Worldwind Farm horse to fall during a race, but he is the most visible one. He had pre-existing injuries that were not allowed to heal properly. He was raced while doped up on a potent cocktail of corticosteroids for inflammation, and phenylbutazone, or “bute”, and Flunixin for pain. Other records attached will show receipts for many other drugs I have found at my farm, including stimulants, steroids, chemotherapy drugs and even cobra venom. Thank God the jockey wasn’t hurt but I know the questions that will be asked should ruin us. Dark’s odds paid out a disproportionate purse to us leaving little other money to pay those horses that placed farther back in the pack. My farm has won a minus purse too many times. This win should call into question every other win our horses have had. I can only hope that it does.

  The attached records will show that, over the past few months, I have taken actions that will prevent the use of my family and my farm for any more illegal purposes. I have varied the schedules of training of the horses and had track officials witness breezing runs of my thoroughbreds so that they can determine the correct odds for each race. I have hired independent veterinarians to examine my horses for injuries and drug test them. I have changed jockeys at the last minute and given instructions to hold back in the pack to lose.

  All of these efforts were intended to keep one man from ruining my horses and my reputation. I had to learn the hard way that Gus was only one man involved with an army of others. I’ve foolishly sought help from people who were not there to help
me. They were making money from my stupidity.

  But it wasn’t only the horses that were sacrificed. I have felt almost powerless to prevent the use of my farm for the illicit money laundering of a group I believe refers to itself as ‘The Charity.’ Today while I was at my bank I notified them of money transfers of funds I had no knowledge of and other actions. I feel I am placing myself and my family in extreme danger, but I truly know of no other alternative. Track officials are close to indicting me for the fixing of the races. If this were to happen, I would lose the only way I know how to support my family and I would lose all usefulness to this Charity. For the former point, pride states I must fight to right the wrongs I have let happen. For the latter point, I know I will be killed.

  At the reading of this letter, I am dead. I blame myself for being blind to the roots of my success and hope that the actions to protect my family will, in fact, keep them alive.

  Margaret, my love, if you read this you must know the anguish I have felt over Erin. I forever blame myself for her and I am sorry. Whatever other ties Gus has to us, he can no longer be associated with the business of this farm. I have to keep Gus away from Jessica. Gus openly treats her as his own daughter. No man who can do what he has done to us can be trusted with anything.

  As God is my Witness,

  James Kent Wyeth

  Minutes ticked by without Jessica moving. Mechanically, she reached for and reviewed the attached forms and paperwork. It was all there. Records of who bet on what horse and won. Injury reports. All of the backup information on how a horse was destined to win or lose that day. Drug levels. Correlations of injuries to odds setting and the winning of races that should not have been won. Names.

  The last document caused the thick shell of armor surrounding her emotions to fail. It was the hospital records showing the injury to Erin’s infant brain resulting from a sudden and unexplained loss of oxygen.