by Belva Plain
Eddy took it. Bold printed lettering and lines of typewritten sentences blurred toward a signature at the end. He handed it back unread. And a silence thrummed, rang, tingled in his ears.
“You’ll have to put these on,” the second man said.
Mrs. Evans was staring at the handcuffs. Her lips hung open, and her faded, neatly waved hair was rumpled.
“I’ll go with you,” Eddy said. “You don’t have to put those on me. You don’t understand, I’m not the sort of person who’ll make trouble. You don’t understand.”
“Make it easy for yourself,” the man told him. “Put out your hands.”
Oh, God, Eddy thought, not through the main door! Not to be marched past all those desks and all those eyes.
“Can we go out the back door?” His voice faltered badly; he was furious at his damned voice.
You must bear yourself well, you’re Vernon Edward Osborne, and you’ll straighten out this crazy business.
“There’s a private entrance,” Mrs. Evans said, weeping now. “It’s not the way you came in. Please,” she pleaded, “it’s quicker that way, anyhow.”
Eddy’s hands just hung at the ends of his too-stiff arms. There was no place to put them. Walking around like that, you looked ridiculous. Mrs. Evans leapt for the Burberry raincoat that was always kept in the closet and draped it over his awkward hands. She reached up and kissed him, her wet nose brushing his jaw.
“God bless you, Mr. Osborne. He’s a good man,” she warned the intruders. “Be gentle with him,” she said fiercely.
“Don’t worry, lady.”
So Eddy departed from the offices of Osborne and Company with one man ahead of him and one behind him. A plain black sedan was parked below, and no one in the hurrying crowd on the sidewalk saw the three men get into the backseat and drive away.
When they had traveled a few blocks, Eddy brought himself to ask where they were going.
“The United States Courthouse at Foley Square.”
It was not a jail, anyway. Or did they have a jail there?
He knew nothing of the law. How should I know? he asked himself. I was never in trouble, I hardly ever got a traffic ticket. This is rotten. Rotten. A man like me in handcuffs. Me.
Helpless because of his bound hands, he had to be assisted from the car. Mechanically, he moved through the broad halls past many doors; he had impressions such as one receives when in a moving car, a speeding blur of people clustered in corridors, waiting for something, of poor-seeming people, of brisk people with important briefcases, of body smells, odors of rain-wet woolens, stale cigarette smoke, of washing powder where someone was mopping the floor, and finally, of police in a room with green-white lights that glared over scuff marks on the walls and over brown scuffed furniture.
When they removed the handcuffs, he rubbed his wrists, not to ease pain, for there had been none, but rather to remove the feel of contact with something filthy. They held his splayed fingers firmly onto an inked pad; they stood him with a placard bearing a number on his chest and took his picture as if he were a rapist or a mugger, as if he had abused little boys or murdered his wife. As if he were not Vernon Edward Osborne. And through it all he did not speak a word, but promptly did what he was told to do while his heart’s hammering did not abate, and he thought that perhaps it might stop or rupture something in his chest, and then all this would be over. When he had to urinate, somebody went with him to the men’s room. For a moment in there he was sure he was going to vomit, but, mercifully, the sensation passed. They led him at last to a room where there was a telephone so that he could call Rathbone. Rathbone was already on the way. Somebody asked him whether he wanted to make any more calls, and with the asking, which to his inexperience seemed to be an unexpected kindness, he went all soft, fearful that tears might gather in his eyes. And he declined. Besides, he was not ready yet to talk to Pam; he needed time to figure out how he was going to say that the thing he had feared, while denying his fear, had happened.
In this room where people were coming in and out, he could see into more rooms and out into the bustling halls. What a place of misery and contention was here! Why would anybody ever want to be a judge or a lawyer or to perform any labor in such a place of misery? But when Henry Rathbone came in, Eddy put on the face that the world knew best, and was jocular Eddy Osborne again, whom nothing fazed.
“Well, Henry, here I am. What happens next, the guillotine?”
“No, no, Eddy. Don’t worry, we’ll have you out on bail in no time. You’ll go home and sleep in your own bed tonight. Come with me.”
“Where to?”
“We have to appear before a United States magistrate. He sets the bail. The U.S. prosecutor will be there too.”
Rathbone was short, not much higher than Eddy’s shoulder, and yet he felt like a child beside him. For Rathbone had authority in this place, and his walk showed it. That’s the way I used to walk through the bullpen at Osborne and Company, Eddy said to himself, and then realized that he had already said “used to.”
The magistrate sat high in a small courtroom, wearing his black robes. Even in that dingy, unimpressive room he looked—well, magisterial. He was supposed to, wasn’t he? Perhaps it was the robe that did it. The United States attorney was a handsome man whose face would have been striking on a coin. It was a vote-getting face, perfect on television. And Eddy stood waiting and watching while the three men talked. It had begun to rain harder; a downpour sluiced long runnels on the dirty window. In spite of its fluorescent bulbs the room darkened, and to Eddy the effect of darkness was ominous. On the other hand, cheerful sunlight would have mocked him.
“The charges,” said the handsome prosecutor, “warrant high bail, Your Honor. This man is charged on five separate counts involving, so far, more than three hundred million dollars. So far.”
“Your Honor,” responded Rathbone, “my client is not a hardened criminal. This is a first offense. If it is an offense at all, which I certainly do not concede.”
“Your Honor,” said the prosecutor, “I would like to ask that bail be set at five million dollars.”
The magistrate’s eyebrows went up, black eyebrows in a ruddy forehead. He looks as if he likes his Scotch, thought Eddy. On the other hand, it may just be high blood pressure. His mind wandered again. Now the rain was smearing patterns in the grime, circles and curlicues.
“That is most excessive, Your Honor,” Rathbone was arguing. “Mr. Osborne has a home and a wife. He has relatives. His sister is married to one of the most prominent men in the city. He has roots. He’s not going to run away.”
“That can’t be guaranteed, Your Honor,” protested the United States attorney.
“It can, Your Honor. I would ask that reasonable bail be set. One hundred thousand dollars would be reasonable.”
“Your Honor, in the light of the charges, that makes no sense. It is out of proportion, entirely out of proportion.”
Rathbone persisted. “He is not going to flee, Your Honor. Can we not compromise?”
“Your Honor, we are poles apart.”
“Well,” said the magistrate, “we can’t be here all day over this.”
The man looked tired. Again, Eddy thought, I wouldn’t take a job like this one no matter what it paid, and come to think of it, it doesn’t pay much. And there was a long silence while the magistrate pondered.
At last he made his decision. “Bail will be two million dollars.”
“May I consult with my client for a moment?” asked Rathbone. They went to the back of the room. “Have you got it? Can you get it?” he whispered.
“God no, you know I’m strapped. All the accounts were in Pam’s name.” Thank God he had been smart enough to do that.
“Your relatives? Berg? We could try a bail bondsman, but it would take time. Red tape and time.”
Eddy thought. He hated to ask Martin. Forever after he would be miserable in Martin’s presence, he would shrink. It was a bad thing to be beholden to a relative
, even to one whom he liked well enough.
“The money would mean very little to your brother-in-law.”
Eddy was silent.
“You know it would,” Rathbone repeated softly.
Eddy looked off into the thick, smoky air beyond the window, and then back at Rathbone. “I dread asking,” he said, and heard, despising it, the tone of appeal in his voice.
“I understand. Would it be easier if I were to ask instead?”
“It would help,” Eddy replied with some relief. Then a thought struck him. “What if he isn’t in?”
“Don’t worry. I’ll track him down. Berg knows me. At least, we’ve met more than once.”
“Thank you, Henry. Thank you very much.” And then a second thought struck dread, and he had to ask, “Do you suppose you could try to find my wife too? She’s at her mother’s in the country. Wait. Here’s the number. Do you think you could sort of gently, sort of gradually, break the news to her? I never told her. I should have. She could have prepared herself, the way you prepare for a death when someone’s been sick for a long time. This is like someone’s dying of a heart attack with no warning. But I never wanted her to lose faith in me. Who knew it would come to this? Oh, this is the worst. It’s killing me to think of Pam getting this news.”
Rathbone nodded sympathetically. “I’ll take care of it. And you take it easy, Eddy.”
When Rathbone left, Eddy remained where he was, gazing out of the window at nothing, yet too much aware of the two men in the front of the room, the magistrate still on the bench, and aware, too, of another man near the door, some sort of guard, he supposed, to make sure that Eddy didn’t try to escape.
It seemed interminable hours, but actually it was only a little more than twenty minutes before Rathbone returned and at once addressed the court. Bail had been arranged and would be delivered within the hour.
Then he walked back to Eddy. “Berg couldn’t have been more helpful,” he reported. “I only had to ask him once.”
“I suppose he was pretty shocked. Stunned.”
“I guess so, but he didn’t show it. He seemed only concerned. Compassionate. And I tried to reach your wife, but she had left. Her mother said she was going to make some stops on the way and probably wouldn’t be home before dinnertime. That’ll give you a chance to wash up and rest before she gets there.” Rathbone added kindly, “Take a stiff drink, sit down, and talk together as calmly as you can and then have a good dinner.”
“Are we going to lick this thing, Henry?” Eddy asked, very low. “Tell me the truth, please. I can handle it.”
“Eddy … We’re going to do the very best we can, that’s the answer.”
• • •
The Filipino couple were in the kitchen. Ramón, with an apron over his white coat, was polishing silver, and María Luz was stirring something at the stove.
“How would you two like to take the evening off?” Eddy proposed, showing his most cheerful manner. “Mrs. Osborne and I have just been invited somewhere, so you might as well go.”
“But the dinner …” María Luz was both doubtful and hopeful.
“Save the dinner for tomorrow.” He gave them a jovial wave as he left the kitchen. “Go on. Enjoy yourselves.”
The last thing he could tolerate right now was a ritual dinner, the elegance of which he ordinarily appreciated. But tonight there might be tears and recriminations. Who knew what tonight would bring?
In the library he sat in a vague sort of daze until he heard them going out at the back door. Then, as if obeying some peremptory command, he sprang up. In a pantry closet he found some cardboard cartons and pulled them into the library. He telephoned to the building superintendent and asked for more cartons, the largest he had and as many as he had.
“As many? We have a couple of dozen, Mr. Osborne, waiting for the trash pickup.”
“Bring them all,” said Eddy.
Back in the cleaning closets he found rolls of tissue paper, of brown wrapping paper, and balls of heavy twine. The house was well stocked with such practical items, for Pam was a good housekeeper, an efficient keeper of the house, the home that was now being destroyed. For no matter what Rathbone said—what had he said? Something like I’ll do my best?—Eddy felt disaster in his bones. At the same time he could also remember moments when, even today, he had been certain that things would all turn out well in the end. But now, now at this moment, he felt only disaster.
When the superintendent had covered half the library’s floor with cartons, Eddy saw the questions on his tongue. But they remained unasked; no doubt something in Eddy’s face had deterred the man. As soon as he was gone, Eddy set to work, taking pictures down from the walls. There went the Sargent lady in her velvet dress; Winslow Homer’s palm trees bending in a southern wind; the Pissarro’s crowded, rainy street in Paris. These were his treasures and he was ripping them off his walls. There was even one that had not yet been hung, a nineteenth-century portrait of a horse that he had ordered from London for Pam.
For three hours he worked, going from room to room. He was frantic. Panic rose in him, and panic was cold; it ran up and down his arms and raised the hair on the back of his neck. Lifting, padding, cutting his fingers on twine, he sweated. He wrapped small objects, porcelains and ivories, emptying the twin lacquered cabinets in the drawing room; he began to take down his first editions, the leather-bound Dickens, the Walt Whitman, the—
“What in heaven’s name are you doing?” Pam screamed. “Have you gone crazy? Crazy?”
He pulled himself erect and, ankle deep in paper, regarded his wife, his cherished wife, in her camel-hair coat and her alligator boots. And for the moment he was dumbstruck.
Stupidly, he said, “We’re moving to Kentucky, you remember. So I thought, I had some time, I came home early. I thought I’d get a few things ready.”
She grabbed his shirtfront. “Eddy, listen to me. I’ve known you were hiding something but I gave up asking you what. Do you think I’m an idiot? I’ve been so afraid.… Sit down here and tell me what’s wrong. I want to know. Now! Now!”
His Adam’s apple seemed to swell until it hurt. Nevertheless he had to begin. “I’m in trouble with the government, Pam. Some tax trouble. God, I hoped it would turn out all right! I wanted to spare you, but I can’t anymore. I was arrested this morning.”
“Arrested?”
“Yes. It was—well, it was quite an experience.” And he managed a weak, shamefaced smile. “Fingerprints and all.”
“But what have you done?” she cried.
“A few foolish things, I have to admit. But nothing criminal. I haven’t hurt anybody. It’s a tax mess, that’s all, too complicated to explain. I’d need to show you reams of papers. My lawyer says we’ll work it out.”
“But if you were arrested, you must be out on bail.”
“Yes. Martin put it up.”
She was standing above him. And he looked up at her calm forehead under the velvet headband. Most women, hearing this piece of news, would be losing control.
“Why don’t you get angry at me?” he asked. “I would feel better if you did. I deserve it. Don’t be afraid of losing your temper. Yell at me.”
“What’s the point? What would it accomplish?” she responded wearily. Quality, he thought as always. Breeding. It shows.
In the street below, a fire engine passed with a long, terrifying wail, receded, and left a bleak aftermath of stillness. Pam was waiting.
“I got in too deep,” he said. “I don’t know how it happened. I thought I had a magic touch. I always did have. I knew my way around the market.” He put his head in his hands. “Maybe I lost my touch. Things started to drain away. It was like a hemorrhage.” And he made a little sound almost like a sob.
She stroked his hair. “Don’t, Eddy. Aren’t you the one who always says anything can be worked out if you keep your wits about you?”
He raised his head. “Pam, I think it’s possible that I might go to prison.”
“Who’s your lawyer? What does he say?”
“Henry Rathbone. One of the best in the city. He says it’ll be okay.” Had he actually said that? He had only promised to do his best.
“Did he tell you to pack up these things, to move?”
“He doesn’t know I’m doing this. It’s my idea to get things out of here in case anyone wants to come snooping after the paintings and antiques. The stuff’s all yours, anyway.”
“Louis XVI doesn’t fit on a horse farm.”
“Sell anything you don’t want and take the cash. Oh, I’m glad I was smart enough to put this apartment in your name too. It’s got to be worth four or five million by now.”
The doorbell rang, making Eddy start. “Don’t open it!”
“It has to be somebody they recognize downstairs, or no one would have let them come up,” said Pam.
He supposed, after the morning’s experience, that he would never again feel secure about who might be on the other side of a door. And then, when he heard the voices of Martin and Connie, he had the same feeling that had overcome him in the presence of Rathbone, that he was a child waiting to be scolded.
Connie stared about her. “My God, look at this ruin! Whatever possessed you, Eddy? Whatever?”
Martin waved her to silence. “How’re you doing, Eddy? It’s been a hell of a day for you.”
“I want to thank you, Martin. If I can thank you, that is. But how can I ever for what you did?”
“Just see how you can work your way out of your troubles. That’ll be thanks enough. Your sisters are beside themselves with worry. Lara phoned just now. She wanted to take the next flight.”
“No, no,” Eddy objected. Lara wouldn’t say a word of condemnation, yet he felt he couldn’t face her with this failure, not Lara, who had encouraged him from his days in junior high school up to now. “No, don’t let Lara come,” he repeated.
“We told her not to. With two children and the office work …” Martin shoved aside a pile of tissue paper and sat down on the sofa. “I only spoke ten minutes with Rathbone, so tell me, how deep in the hole are you?”
