The Darlings

by Cristina Alger

  “Let me guess: Penzell is BioReach’s lawyer.”

  “You got it. And even though Les has been screaming bloody murder for a year now, nothing’s ever come of it. No investigation, nothing. Maybe he’s just super good at his job, I don’t know. But I think there’s a whole lot more going on below the surface. I mean, guys with briefcases of cash and bodies at the bottom of the East River, that kind of stuff. I could talk about it for hours. Penzell & Rubicam is, shall we say, a pet project of mine.”

  “Let’s talk about RCM and Delphic instead.”

  Owen held up his hands. “All right, all right,” he said. “Just giving you a little of the backstory. I’ll cut to the chase in a second. You’re going to thank me later, though, so just bear that in mind.”

  “Listen, I’ll thank you now. All I can say is, I’ll get you the exclusive.”

  Owen laughed. “Damn straight. Or just get me a date with that lovely young assistant of yours, the one you had call me in the middle of Thanksgiving dinner. Where do you find these women? Craigslist?”

  “I’m sorry about that.”

  “You never need to apologize for sending pretty girls my way,” Owen said, his blue eyes laughing at Duncan’s discomfort, which had appeared in his cheeks in the form of an awkward purplish blush. “Plus, this is a hell of a story.”

  “I just wish my niece weren’t in the middle of it.”

  “Well, listen to this: Yesterday afternoon, I lob in a call to Sol Penzell. I thought maybe I could shake him up a little. I leave a message with his secretary saying that I’m with the Wall Street Journal, and would he like to comment on the article that I’m writing about allegations of fraud and conspiracy at RCM and Delphic. You could tell that really took the wind out of her. Twenty minutes later, I get a call from a random cell phone number. It’s Yvonne Reilly, the secretary.”

  “That’s interesting,” Duncan said. “The secretaries always know everything, don’t they. What did she ask?”

  “She starts peppering me with questions. Who’s running the investigation? Is Delphic under investigation, or just RCM? What about Penzell & Rubicam? She was nervous as hell. Anyway, I did my best to scare the shit out of her, you know, without really saying much of anything.”

  “Gentlemanly of you.”

  Owen rolled his eyes. “Oh please. If anyone taught me how to pressure a source, it was you. Took a little cajoling, but I worked the Barry magic on her. Anyway, she agreed to meet with me. She wouldn’t really say much over the phone, but I got the sense that she has a serious story to tell. I thought you might like to come along.”

  Duncan whistled. “I think I owe you more than an exclusive. Is she coming here now?”

  “I’m going to meet her in twenty minutes. Ready for a walk down Wall Street?”

  “More than ever.”

  Later, when Duncan sat down to describe Yvonne for the article in Press, the first word that came to mind was nondescript. She was of medium height and build, with hair that was neither orange nor yellow, but a sort of faded, fried in-between. She could have been thirty-five or fifty. She had spent too much time in the sun. It showed on her face and on the backs of her hands. Tanning was perhaps her only real act of vanity. Her nails were short and bitten to the quick, working-girl fingers. Duncan always noticed everyone’s hands. He thought they said a lot about a person, whether they were vain or nervous or practical or well taken care of, which is why he still got a manicure twice a month. Yvonne looked like any other secretary, one of the herd that crossed over through the tunnels, across the bridges, twice daily on their way in and out of Manhattan.

  Nondescript, but he knew exactly who she was the moment he saw her.

  Because it was the Saturday after Thanksgiving, the Financial District was thinly populated. Duncan was relieved to see that Fraunces Tavern, a pub Owen frequented and Duncan was sure he had suggested, was open. It was a watering hole during the week for Goldman Sachs bankers, but on the weekends, it wasn’t highly trafficked. Particularly before noon. The lights were on but there didn’t seem to be any patrons. A good place for an anonymous conversation.

  Yvonne was finishing a Camel outside on the cobbled street. The wind had picked up off the river and felt piercingly cold against the skin. Her shoulders hunched up around her ears. It was too cold to be outside for long. She was either a serious smoker or very nervous; Duncan suspected both.

  “Are you Yvonne?” Owen said, when she looked up. She had smoked the cigarette down to the filter. She took a last drag and stubbed it out beneath her toe.

  “You didn’t say you were bringing a friend,” she said, and cocked her head to one side. Her hands were stuffed deep into her pockets. She withdrew one reluctantly to shake hands with them both, but returned it with the speed of a card dealer in Vegas.

  “Duncan Sander, Ms. Reilly,” he said, holding open the door for her. “After you.”

  “Duncan’s a friend but also a colleague,” Owen said. “He’s an exceptional journalist. He’s been working on this story with me, so if it’s all right with you, he’ll stay for our talk?”

  Yvonne’s eyes darted across Duncan’s face, assessing him. “I know who you are,” she said. She dropped her R’s almost imperceptibly, so that are sounded more like ahhhh. Duncan saw the flash of a gold cross, tucked into the collar of her blouse. It was the only jewelry she was wearing besides her wedding band. Boston Irish, Duncan thought. I bet she has five kids at home. Goes to Mass every Sunday.

  “You’re that magazine guy, I forget which one.” She didn’t sound impressed, but Duncan nodded his head humbly anyway.

  “Yes, ma’am. Can I get you a drink from the bar?”

  She hesitated and then said, “Water’s fine.”

  “I’ll have a Sam Adams,” Owen said. “You sure you don’t want one of those? It’s noon somewhere in the world. As my father used to say.”

  “What the hell. I’ll need a drink after this.”

  “Three Sam Adams, coming up,” Duncan said.

  When he returned, Yvonne was picking apart a cocktail napkin and rolling its remains into tiny white balls with her fingertips.

  “I want you to understand Sol,” she was saying to Owen. She paused as Duncan pulled up a chair. Her voice was low and tense, and Owen was leaning in on his elbows in order to hear her. “I know what you must think of him. Or of me, for that matter, working for him for so long. But he’s a good man. Or he can be. He cares about the people in his life. He’s taken care of me for over fourteen years. Not just paying me well. Though he did that, too, and I’ve been able to give my boys more because of it, more than I ever thought I could. I have two, you know.” Her eyes darted inquisitively between them like a bird’s, sizing them up. “The younger one, well, he was a real premie. A lot of complications. I went into labor while I was in the office, right there at my desk. It was real touch and go, you know, from the beginning. I almost died from losing so much blood. Sol got us in with the head ob-gyn at Mount Sinai. Private room, whole nine yards. I was pretty out of it but all I could think was, ‘We can’t afford this!’” She laughed, her eyes softening. “I had never stayed in a room that nice, not even on our honeymoon. Anyway, at the end of it, the hospital wouldn’t charge us. The doctor, he wouldn’t either. Someone told us that the office had taken care of it, but I knew it was Sol. I asked him about it, but he just kept saying that the insurance picked it up. Course that wasn’t true. We both knew it, but that’s just the thing about Sol. He does some really incredible things for people, and he doesn’t even want the credit.”

  “You called me, Yvonne,” Owen said. “Let’s talk about why.”

  She took a deep breath. “You got kids? Either of you?”

  They shook their heads in unison.

  “Well, I’d do anything for mine. I’ve seen a lot of stuff come across my desk, you know, in the last fourteen years. But some of the stuff that’s been going on lately, well. And if what you’re saying is true, that there’s an investigation and
all that, I’d rather not be caught in the middle of it.”

  “Have you thought about going to talk to the attorney general’s office directly? Or getting yourself a lawyer?”

  Yvonne winced. She had a turned-up nose covered in freckles like a speckled egg. It wrinkled slightly as she sat back in her chair. “Listen, you’re way ahead of me. Your call was the first time I heard about any investigation. I hadn’t really thought about going to the authorities or anything. I can’t just run out and get myself a lawyer. Lawyers are expensive. I should know. I send out their bills.”

  A smile flickered across Owen’s face. “I understand.”

  “Also,” Yvonne leaned into the table, nervously fingering the cross around her neck. “Look. I’ve got to look out for myself here. My husband got laid off nine months ago. He worked at Bear, doing investment operations. It’s been hard; there aren’t any jobs. He’s working now, but it’s not enough. Everyone talks about these bankers and fund managers losing their jobs, but people like us are getting hit pretty hard, too. We live paycheck to paycheck.”

  Owen’s face was impassive. “Your boss is about to get indicted for fraud, malpractice, bribery,” he said. “The best thing you can do is blow the whistle before that happens.”

  Yvonne nodded, her eyes cast down at her shoes, and dismembered the last napkin. It came apart easily between her fingers, and she rolled it slowly into a series of long twists, like little white cigarettes. “Sol took care of me,” she said simply. “Now I’ve got to take care of myself. I’m not talking to the media out of the goodness of my heart.”

  Duncan pulled a pen out of his pocket. On a napkin, he wrote a number. He pushed it across the table. “Your story has value. I get that. What we want to do is a piece in the Wall Street Journal now, then a longer follow-up in Press. An exclusive. You only talk to us.”

  Yvonne stared at the napkin. “How do I know someone won’t offer me more?”

  “They might,” Duncan said. “But time is money. Every second you wait, your story depreciates in value.”

  “And the investigation? You’re sure it’s happening?”

  “We’re sure.” Owen said. They both nodded.

  She looked at the number, then back at them. When she spoke, her voice was heavy with resignation. “There’s a guy named David Levin. At the SEC. They’re setting him up. Sol and Carter, I mean. Or they have, it’s done already. They wire transferred to an offshore account in his name, and made it look like he was on the take. The wires are backdated so it looks as though it happened a few months ago.”

  Duncan could barely breathe. “How do you know this?” he said. “Are you sure what you’re saying isn’t some kind of mistake?”

  “I’m sure,” she said, “because I’m the one who set up the transfers.”

  Later, when it was over and Duncan had paid the tab at the bar, he asked her what made her do it.

  “Set up the transfers?” she said.

  “No, agree to talk to us.”

  “I told you. I’ve got kids. If I’m going to lose my job, well, I’ve got to take care of them somehow. You guys better be ready to pay me pretty quick.”

  She took a fresh pack of Camels out of her pocket, and pulled the gold cording so that the wrapper came off in two expert halves. She withdrew a cigarette from the pack. Owen offered a light and waited as she took a long drag. “What kills me about this whole thing,” she continued, “what really got me about it, was that they set up Paul. You know, Carter’s son-in-law. I don’t know him real well; no idea if he’s a decent guy. I met him a couple times, at firm Christmas parties and baseball games, that kind of thing. Seems nice enough.” She shrugged.

  “Why would that upset you more than their setting up anyone else?”

  “Because he’s family. They were willing to sell out family, to save themselves. That’s a line,” she said, “that I just don’t ever want to cross.”

  “You ready to talk to the AG’s office now? I know it’s been a long day.”

  “It’s been a long fourteen years,” she said.

  After he spoke with Alexa, Duncan stared at his phone, debating. “One more quick call,” he said to Yvonne. Marina answered on the first ring. “I’m in a cab on the way to the NYAG’s office. How quickly can you get there? I can pick you up on my way, if you’d like to join us.”

  “I’m already there,” she said.

  SUNDAY, 8:58 A.M.

  A black Escalade pulled up in front of 120 Broadway and out popped Neil Rubicam, looking fresh as a daisy. Carter had never seen Neil looking anything but. He was always slightly tan and seemingly well rested, which irritated Carter even though he knew the man hardly slept and never took vacations. There was a slickness to Neil that made him come off more like an actor playing the part of a big-shot attorney than an actual attorney.

  Most lawyers whom Carter knew cared little about their appearance, but Neil cultivated his. He liked his power tie and his custom-made suit; he made a show of checking the time whenever he had a new watch. Neil wasn’t exactly handsome but he was well groomed. He had the kind of kinetic charisma that people took notice of. Women loved him. The last time Carter checked, he was divorcing Wife Number Three and had already tee’d up Wife Number Four. Carter wondered how he had time for it all.

  As he strode toward him, Neil flashed Carter a brilliant smile. One thing that always struck Carter about Neil was his height. At six foot four, Carter wasn’t used to meeting anyone eye to eye. Also, Neil’s teeth were improbably white and he smiled easily, even when someone was trying to screw him. Today, Carter found his smile oddly reassuring. For better or worse, Neil always seemed in command of the situation.

  “Great to see you, Carter,” he said, with an easy handshake. He clapped him on the shoulder and gestured toward the building. “Let’s get started?”

  “Thanks again for coming up for this, Neil,” he said. “Are we not waiting for Sol?”

  “Sol’s on his way. We can start the meeting without him.” Seeing Carter’s hesitation, he added, “Not to sound ominous, but I’ll be the one running the conversation today. Sol’s close with Eli, but everyone understands that you’ll be coming to the table with a litigator. It doesn’t mean anything, except that we mean business.”

  Neil seemed to be enjoying himself. That was the thing about lawyers, Carter realized. On corporate deals, the lawyers worked twice as hard and got paid a quarter as much; they handled all the unpleasant tedious details that bankers didn’t have the patience to address; they did it all with a smile because at the end of the day, the bankers were the ones paying their bills. Lawyers were the team goalies. If the team won, the guys who scored got all the credit. But if they lost, the goalies got all the blame.

  But in the rare situations where the deal went horribly off the rails and the ball got handed to the litigators, the tables turned. Carter may still be paying Rubicam & Penzells’ bills, but he was no longer running the show. There was no going back: What was once a corporate matter was now a litigation matter. Carter couldn’t have prepared for how it felt. In fact, he didn’t really feel anything at all, except for an odd sense of dislocation, as though something had gone very wrong and he had been mistaken for someone else, and all he could do was feel helpless and wait for things to play themselves out.

  “I understand,” Carter nodded.

  They passed through building security, emptying their pockets of keys and change and wallets, removing their belts and shoes and putting them into a plastic bin as though at the airport. The halls had a dingy, depressed air about them, as though everything was coated in dust. Carter remembered them viscerally; he had been in this building years before, when Merrill was still in law school. She had interned in the Civil Rights Bureau while studying at NYU. He had met her for lunch a few times when he was downtown for meetings. She would bounce out of the dank elevators with her eyes shining, bubbling over with what she was working on that day, and the whole lobby would light up with her energy. Merrill had
always wanted to be a prosecutor. She took the job at Champion & Gilmore because it was a feeder to the U.S. Attorney’s office. She had promised Carter it wasn’t about the money—he could give her as much of that as she needed—but rather, the right approach to the career she wanted. That was Merrill, always willing to work hard and play by the rules. As far as Carter knew, coming to work here was still her objective, though he wondered how she would feel after all of this was over. He was so proud of her, his shining star. He wondered if she would ever feel that way about him again.

  The thought of what he was about to do unleashed a wave of queasiness. He blinked hard against the fluorescent lights. The room started to spin. Carter nodded when the guard asked him if he had a BlackBerry, and turned it over wordlessly for inspection. He thought if he opened his mouth he might throw up. Neil was talking, but Carter couldn’t hear him. He began to feel as though he were floating. He was present, but not fully so; it was as if he had drifted out of his body and was bouncing up against the ceiling like a balloon, watching himself down below.

  Carter wondered if this was how it felt before you died. If it was, it wasn’t so bad. He felt light, nearly weightless, as if the fatigue and stress that had been weighing him down for the past few months had somehow evaporated. He should have been scared, or at the very least concerned, but he wasn’t that, either. Instead he felt relieved. Perhaps because in some back corner of his mind he felt as though the end was finally here. He had been waiting for it, and the anticipation was worse than anything else.

  The elevator lurched slightly when its doors closed, a nauseating jolt to the body.

  “Jesus Christ,” Neil muttered. “Fucking government buildings. Nothing works.” He turned and looked at Carter. “How’re you feeling?”

  “I’m okay,” he said, stuffing his hands in his pockets so that Neil wouldn’t see the slight tremor. “I’m ready. Let’s just get it over with.”