The Company You Keep

by Neil Gordon

  “Ummm…” I put a hand through what I liked to call my hair, my eyes closed, and rested like this a moment. “This reporter from the Albany Times. He’s been to see Billy, now he’s coming here.”

  Molly answered this one more softly. “That’s not bad news, J, that’s good news.”

  “And how do you make this good news?” My eyes were still closed.

  “Oh, come on. You needed to get proactive sooner or later. They’re going to smear you with this Sharon Solarz thing and eat you up in court. You tell this reporter the truth about Julia and her father and get it over with.”

  I could have cried. Even Molly had no idea how impossible that was. She knew my secrets, but she didn’t even imagine Bob Montgomery’s. I mean, how the hell could I have told her that? And without knowing that: the truth? Ha ha ha. But what I said was: “Okay, I know.”

  “But you’re not going to do it, are you?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I don’t understand you.” Molly spoke calmly, as if to inject a note of reason into madness—quite a frequent tone of hers with me. “You have to do it, you know.”

  I nodded, as much as my head in my hands permitted, but I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t. So I nodded, and didn’t say anything, and after a moment she spoke more gently.

  “Can I help?”

  “You already have. And are.”

  “Uh-huh.” She came close now and put a hand on my shoulder, a gesture of companionship that struck me, at the time, as infinitely sexy.

  “Come on, J. I know you don’t want to assassinate your ex-wife in the papers. I admire you. But now’s not the time for ideals. Izzy needs you. She needs to stay with you. With us.”

  “Okay.” I was just shutting her up now. Her hand on my shoulder was unbearable, unbearable, and I wanted it never to move.

  “Good. Get going now, boy. And remember what my father used to say.”

  “What was that?” Willing her hand to stay put, to just stay put.

  “That your problems aren’t likely to go away just because you forget about them for a few minutes.”

  Her father. In those days, whenever someone my age mentioned their father, I felt like crying. As if, now that all our parents were dying, mine was a whole generation in mourning, still shocked by the ridiculous truth that our parents could be taken away forever. I lifted her hand to my cheek and shut my eyes. And then her hand was gone, and I was a grown man again, not a child, even though while I was walking out the door my heart was in my mouth.

  2.

  Do you remember my assistant, Izzy? Michael Joseph Rafferty Jr.? Works for Hillary now? He was this kid who came to me straight out of Exeter, Princeton, Yale Law School; drives up to my single-room office in Saugerties when the rest of his class is out doing tequila shots and lines to celebrate their first jobs at Chase Manhattan, or Salomon Smith Barney, or Bear Stearns; asks to work for Jim Grant, unpaid. Friday afternoon, not hours after graduation.

  I say, You shitting me? You turn right around and don’t stop until you’ve got a forty-thousand-dollar-a-year entry-level job in New York.

  But this kid is not going anywhere.

  “Mr. Grant, there’s the strongest economy in thirty years in New York. I published in Yale Law Journal first year, and my starting offers, for your information, run into the low sixes. You think I’m turning that down on a whim?”

  “Don’t call me Mr. Grant. Go intern for Ron Kuby, then.”

  “No way. Case by case, you’re doing more interesting work up here than anyone in New York.” The kid was actually unpacking his briefcase as he spoke. “I’m staying right here.”

  And so he had. It had been two years now he’d been working for me, and we’d even expanded into a second funky little office in the horrible little suite above the Saugerties Center antique store, and he’d been so good I had to pay him a few bucks of Julia’s money, first, and now of Billy’s. Mikey. He’ll be at the parole board, and you’ll see him there—if you go. When I first paid him, it was in cash. For a moment he looked truly downcast, poor kid: this was far from what he had bargained for when he decided to go idealistic. Then he brightened up and said: “Hey, Mr. Grant, tell you what. Fire me, I’ll get unemployment and work off the books. I could go as high as the low five figures this year!”

  Now, coming upstairs at 9:15, I found Mikey and the kid from the Times, Ben Schulberg, sitting in his office, Mikey chatting merrily—as if the whole world were his friend—and the kid from the Times clearly noting every word.

  I kicked Mikey out and put the kid in the client’s chair on the other side of the desk, facing the morning sun. In the light, I had the time to see that my persecutor had a long face and aviator glasses that looked out of the seventies, nice looking without being anything that could be called handsome. It was, I saw right away, a face that inspired confidence, which is, depending on the circumstance, either a dangerous or an admirable quality for a reporter. Admirable when he’s after someone else; dangerous when he’s after you. He wore a white shirt, sleeves rolled up to show thin forearms, a badly tied tie, and khakis, and sat with his hands loosely clenched between his knees.

  “Mr. Grant, can you confirm that you were consulted by Sharon Solarz on the day of her arrest last week?”

  That was an easy one. I did not have to feign the bitterness in my answer. “Why should I? You already printed it.”

  “I printed that she met with a ‘public interest’ lawyer in Saugerties. Not that she met with you.”

  At that, I reached over to pick up the phone book from where I had it filed on the floor, then tossed it onto the surface of the desk so it slid over a few layers of paper and into his lap, carrying the papers with it.

  “There are thirty-nine lawyers in Saugerties. Thirty-eight do accidents, thirty-eight do deeds, thirty-eight do closings. Then there’s me. Now, who did you say she met with? Asshole.” That last word I improvised, though I admit that I had rehearsed the first ones after Billy called saying Ben was on his way. A short silence followed the question, while we glowered at each other. I, personally, felt I had made a point. So I pressed on.

  “So, Benny. Someone’s been leaking you information. Who?”

  The answer was automatic. “I protect sources, Mr. Grant. If you were a source, I’d protect you.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” I let my eye steal to some papers on the desk, then up again, like I was bored by him. “The difference is that your sources are violating the law by speaking to you. You understand, don’t you, that you’re being used?”

  “I suppose.” Ben answered carefully, and in his answer I saw that he had done his homework. “You mean that since Sharon Solarz’s arrest the FBI’s leaking information to the press in the hope of flushing Mimi Lurie and Jason Sinai out. Like they did with Kathleen Soliah from the Symbionese Liberation Army, feeding info to America’s Most Wanted. I’m sure that’s true. That’s not my problem, though. My job is to learn what I can, and it’s constitutionally guaranteed. So I’m planning to keep doing what I’m doing, Mr. Grant, and just so there’s no misunderstanding, this conversation is on the record now.”

  Leaning first downward into his briefcase, then forward, Ben placed a tape recorder on the desk and turned it on.

  “Don’t call me Mr. Grant,” I answered automatically, thinking, not many kids his age knew the FBI used the media in that way. Not many kids his age, I thought, knew who Mimi Lurie and Jason Sinai were. Looking back, I saw that the kid had a box of Marlboro Reds in his shirt pocket. Not many kids his age, I thought, smoked. Finally, I went on.

  “Well, here’s something on the record for you, Benny. The wire they had recording Billy Cusimano’s business was illegal. Get it? They gave up their whole marijuana case on Cusimano for this, and they know it—all they’ve done is issue a bench warrant for Cusimano for cultivating. I’ll have it thrown out of court next week. But Sharon Solarz is still in custody, and there’s no doubt at all that they developed an alternate chain of evidenc
e to defend that arrest in court.”

  Ben, listening hard, answered slowly. “Okay. They traded a marijuana dealer for one of the longest-standing federal fugitives in America. What’s wrong with that?”

  “From my point of view? Nothing. They’ve virtually freed my client. From the point of view of the American taxpayer? Plenty.”

  “And why’s that?”

  “Because if you believe that the greatest crimes should get the greatest weight of law enforcement, then you have to ask why they let a serious, known criminal free in order to arrest a minor accomplice in a quarter-century-old crime who’s probably been leading an exemplary life ever since.”

  Ben nodded understanding, and when he answered, I had the feeling that he had been in control of this conversation all along.

  “Is that all she is? I thought she was a dangerous accomplice in a violent armed robbery who had eluded the law for a quarter century.”

  “Sure, kid. That’s what they want to you think.”

  The kid went on without a break, his voice suddenly very tired. “But, of course, if I understood the context, I’d know that it was different.”

  I didn’t answer that one. A slippery little fellow, this. And frighteningly good at his job. I tried one more time to get in front of him.

  “Okey-doke, Benny. So I won’t tell you about the ’68 Democratic National Convention, I won’t tell you about Woodstock, and I won’t tell you about Kent State. Why don’t you fuck off now?”

  He smiled. A wide, intelligent smile. “You mind if I ask the question I actually came to ask? Or does your support of the Bill of Rights end when it’s you in the hot seat?”

  I couldn’t help but smile back. “Go ahead.”

  “So, why didn’t you represent Solarz?” Without asking, he lit a cigarette.

  Jesus. Thank God he was smoking, because it gave me something to do. I went over to the window and opened it. Then I walked back to Ben, took the cigarette out of his fingers, and threw it out the window. Then I returned to the desk.

  “I felt that Solarz deserves a defense that I can’t give her.”

  “How’s that?”

  I hesitated. “I’m not ready to answer that question at this time.”

  “No? How interesting. Well, do you believe she is guilty in the Bank of Michigan robbery?”

  “What I believe isn’t the issue.”

  “Um-hmm.” Ben seemed—seemed—satisfied with the answer. But he also seemed as if it wasn’t entirely what he cared about. “Tell me, Mr. Grant. How did Solarz know you?”

  “She didn’t. Only by reputation.”

  “Did you know who she was?”

  A tiny pause. “Sure.”

  “How?”

  “Doesn’t everyone?”

  “Really? How old are you?”

  The question surprised me. “Thirty-nine.”

  “Thirty-nine.” Ben calculated ostentatiously, eyes up at the ceiling. “Then the Bank of Michigan robbery took place when you were, what, seventeen?”

  “I guess.” I answered slowly.

  “And you remember it?”

  Now I raised a single eyebrow. “How old are you?”

  “Twenty-seven.”

  “Really? Well, let’s see. Iran-Contra happened when you were, what, fifteen? Ever hear of Oliver North?”

  “Mr. Grant. There’s a difference between a crime that was a pimple on the ass of the sixties and Oliver North’s constitutional crisis. I studied Iran-Contra in college.”

  “I don’t see that at all, Benny.” I made my voice sound very, very reasonable, rather than pissed off. “In the seventies, for the second time since 1776, white Americans defending the ideals of democracy took up arms against our government. That might have slipped by in your education. It didn’t in mine.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” I did not seem to have impressed him with the point. “Thomas Jefferson didn’t fund the revolution by writing home to Daddy and Mommy in Larchmont, and neither did John Brown. It didn’t slip by me at all.”

  “Well, if you want to argue the antiwar movement, I’m all yours.”

  Oddly, that seemed to be precisely what the boy wanted to argue. “What were you doing during it?”

  I narrowed my eyes, not at all sure I believed we were actually having this conversation. “Why is this your business?”

  “Why is it a secret?”

  “There’s no secret. I’m from Bakersfield, California. I went to the University of Chicago, Yale University Law School, and came up here to practice. The war ended in ’75, which was my freshman year of college.”

  I had the feeling that this guy knew, already, most of what he was hearing. “That’s when you met your wife?”

  “Yeah. I met Julia Montgomery at the U of C. She was there because of the Steppenwolf Theater. Her father had just been elected senator from New York State. He was very, very good to me. He helped me through my college, then law school. It was incredibly generous.”

  “He’s valued at seven billion dollars.” Ben’s voice went dry once again.

  “Today. Doubt that he had more than half of that, in those days.” I smiled, not my most, but perhaps my second most disarming smile. “It was still a wonderful thing to do. Changed my life.”

  “Though, of course, it did give his daughter’s foundation a perfect employee.”

  I shrugged. “If you want to put it that way, I can’t stop you. Myself, I loved him.”

  “Uh-huh. What about your own parents?”

  “My parents died in a car crash when I was a baby.”

  “Okay. Then Julia left you in 1994, and moved to her father’s place in England.”

  I paused. Then I shook my head. “I have no comment about my wife, about her life, about where she is now.”

  Now the boy let a little bit of dead air sit between us before asking, “Had any contact ever with Mimi Lurie?”

  “What?” My voice rose.

  “Mimi Lurie. Sharon Solarz’s partner.”

  “I know who she is. Of course I’ve had no contact with her.”

  “Jason Sinai?”

  “Nope.”

  “Any idea where they are?”

  “Oh, fuck off Benny, would you?”

  He smiled suddenly and switched topics.

  “What’s going to happen to Sharon Solarz?”

  “She’s going to be sentenced to many, many years in jail.”

  “And what do you think should happen?”

  “That’s up to the judge, isn’t it?”

  “Oh, come on, Mr. Grant. I know you think she’s some kind of hero.”

  “For participating in a bank robbery where a guard was killed? Come off it. I doubt even she thinks she’s a hero.”

  Now he shook his head, emphatically, and for the first time I had the feeling I was seeing him speak honestly. “Oh, I don’t believe that at all. A hell of a lot of people had a lot of sympathy for those guys, in the days. A hell of a lot of people’ll fall over themselves to prove they blew a joint with Weatherman in San Francisco when they were underground. Sharon, Mimi, Jason: good revolutionaries fooled by a bad person, that’s what people like you think.”

  I interrupted. “How do you know all this?”

  The question surprised him. “Why shouldn’t I?”

  “Kind of strange, a kid your age so interested in an event that was over twenty-five years ago.”

  “Hey, you’re the one with the bullshit about Weatherman and 1776.”

  “Yah.” I nodded. “Only, Sharon Solarz wasn’t in Weather. Not during the Bank of Michigan robbery, anyway.”

  “Weather, MDB, BLA.” Ben let contempt into his voice. “May 19th Collective. What’s the difference?”

  “All the difference in the world. No one in Weather has ever been convicted, so far, of killing anyone, for one thing—except themselves. Nor did they ever practice violence against people, only property.”

  “What about the Army Math bombing? Kids who blew up that lab at the University of
Wisconsin?”

  “Wasn’t Weather. Was independents. But that’s beside the point.”

  “Which is?”

  “Which is that you’re stereotyping me. You’re trying to associate me with a kind of radicalism I had nothing to do with. I’m a lefty lawyer today, sure, but I was a child in 1974—we already established that—and I was in the mainstream of American politics, not the revolutionary fringe. Please don’t interrupt.”

  Ben had been trying to talk, but now he stopped. “Moreover, you’re drawing me into an argument that’s not worth having. That was then. This is now. There are real battles to fight, now, today. There’s the RRA transfer station on Route 32. Do you know the Empire-Besicort recycling plant proposal in Saugerties calls for drawing ten million gallons of water out of the Esopus per day and raising its temperature a full degree? And all up and down this county there are people, in the system, with constitutional rights being stomped on. See, that’s what you have to understand. I don’t want to talk about the battles of thirty years ago, I want to talk about the battles of today. And that’s why I turned down Sharon Solarz. She needed a lawyer who did want to fight that fight, and that was Gilly Morrealle. Get it?”

  “I guess.”

  Standing now, suddenly, I walked to the door. “Enough. I’m due in court. Go away now, Benny. Mikey’ll see you out. Mikey”—As I walked out, I spoke in a stage voice to Mike—“come watch this man so he doesn’t steal any office supplies.”

  3.

  Outside, across the sun-flooded street, I waited for a moment in a doorway to see Benny leave. When at last he did, I called up to the office on my cell phone while I began to walk toward court.

  “Mikey, Jim. What did you and this Schulberg cat talk about?”

  “Talk about? When?” Mike sounded truly surprised by the question.

  “Before I came in this morning.”

  “Nothing. In particular.”

  “Mi-key.” I used my slow-speak-for-idiots voice. Come to think of it, I learned that voice from you, Iz. “Dad-ee. Did you or did you not buy Fig Newtons?” “Did he or did he not ask you any questions?”

  “Yes.” Mikey had gone defensive now, and committed himself to nothing more.