by Meryl Gordon
In hindsight, Philip concedes that the language in the affidavit was harsh but argues, "If we weren't effective, things were going to be really bad for my grandmother." In reality, there were two elements to Philip Marshall's guardianship lawsuit. The Marshalls were indeed inexcusably tightfisted and the household was poorly run; basic hygienic tasks such as walking the dachshunds were ignored, and maintenance of the apartment was neglected. But Salzman's petition went further by giving the impression that Brooke Astor was living in squalor that endangered her health. Philip's hurried financial investigation was designed merely as an ironic contrast, demonstrating that his father and Charlene were skimping on Brooke's care while living off her money. But the Watergate-era dictum—Follow the money—would prove irresistible to the district attorney's office. What began as a sideshow—Tony's fiscal stewardship—would prove to be the main event.
The guardianship petition would have provoked an ugly fight whether conducted in the hushed offices of $700-an-hour lawyers or in a judge's chambers. But once the family feud hit the newspapers, what gave it such a long-lasting and lurid quality was the colorful language of the petition. The frame for the story became "elder abuse," a phrase that Philip, as the petitioner, never used but that Salzman included on the first page of his own cover letter.
At 4 P.M. on July 21, 2006, the phone rang in the Times Square law office of Susan Robbins. The forty-nine-year-old Robbins, an outspoken former social worker, was well known in the city's courthouses for her impassioned advocacy on behalf of nonprofit social service agencies that served as guardians for elderly and incapacitated clients. On that sleepy Friday afternoon, the lawyer was intrigued by the request from Ann Gardner, the law clerk for Judge John Stackhouse: would she agree to be the court evaluator for a new client without knowing in advance who that client was? "I knew it was something weird or out of the ordinary," Robbins recalls. "I said, 'I'll do it.'" And that was how Brooke Astor acquired a lawyer far different in background and style from, say, the Harvard-Yale norm at Sullivan & Cromwell.
Robbins, who is single, lives by chance in Astor Court, an Upper West Side building with a courtyard that Vincent Astor constructed in 1916. Even though she did not follow the society pages, she remembered reading about Brooke Astor's remarkable one hundredth birthday party. A graduate of Cardozo Law School, Robbins, the daughter of a music publisher, already had a full caseload. There was a sexual harassment case, a quadriplegic with housing problems, a mentally ill young woman whose caretaker grandmother had died, and a schizophrenic man afflicted with a brain tumor and warring doctors. "You can take the girl out of social work," her father constantly teased, "but you can't take the social work out of the girl."
Against the backdrop of her normally earnest but unglamorous battles, these new court papers were riveting. The words "elder abuse" and "Brooke Astor" in a guardianship lawsuit gave Robbins a jolt. A curvaceous woman who wears her hair in an old-fashioned bun and pairs serious suits with sexy scoop-necked tops, Robbins is a smoker. This news required a calming Marlboro.
Over the next few days, her role changed from neutral evaluator to Mrs. Astor's court-appointed lawyer, with the daunting task of attempting to find out what Mrs. Astor herself wanted. The 104-year-old could scarcely communicate, uttering mostly incoherent words, and suffered from tremors. She had a painful tumor on her leg and had been diagnosed with a chronic form of leukemia. Indeed, with all that was afflicting her, it was a tribute to her iron will that Mrs. Astor did not just let go.
Three days earlier, the conspirators had held a final meeting at Ira Salzman's Empire State Building office. Philip Marshall participated by speakerphone, Annette de la Renta was there in person, and David Rockefeller sent as his emissary Fraser Seitel, the veteran communications consultant who had handled the press at Chase Manhattan Bank and now had his own firm. Salzman outlined the steps he planned to take to file the lawsuit while keeping it confidential. "I thought it would be taken care of privately," Annette recalls. But Seitel warned that a lawsuit involving a woman as famous as Brooke Astor would be virtually impossible to keep under wraps, regardless of what legal precautions were taken. Philip was heard to say, "I'm worried that this will be on Page Six if it's not sealed," referring to the New York Post's fearsome gossip column. Salzman replied in words that would prove prophetic: "No, Philip, you don't understand. It will be on page one."
11. Blue-Blood Battle
UNAWARE OF WHAT was happening in New York, Tony and Charlene Marshall were enjoying a late July weekend at Cove End and the last peace of mind they would have for years to come. Annette de la Renta relaxed with her husband and her many dogs at her country retreat in Kent, Connecticut. The situation was about to go thermonuclear, but even the instigators of the guardianship lawsuit were still expecting a closed-door battle. If the protagonists had caught a whiff of where they were all heading, they might have taken a breath, a nap, or a tranquilizer, since "the Astor affair" was about to fulfill every aspect of New York's obsession with the foibles of the upper class.
The elements were irresistible, from the iconic 104-year-old victim to the roster of Social Register names to the easy-to-grasp presumed motive—greed. It was not a trip to rehab or a political sex scandal, but the continuing story featured that time-honored puller of heartstrings, an old woman in distress, as well as an unlikely trio of heroes trying to rescue her from the clutches of briefcase-wielding men in suits. An avaricious son and a scheming daughter-in-law provided classic stock-company villains. It was the kind of story that could only be missed if you were touring the Amazon rain forest in a dugout canoe and your satellite phone was on the blink. From Shanghai to Sydney to the banks of the Seine, the Astor docudrama was destined to be a global event.
On Sunday night, June 23, 2006, at Brooke Astor's apartment, when Marta Grabowska left and the nurses changed shifts at seven o'clock, the departing staffers believed that all was well with the lady of the house. "She was perfectly fine," insists Grabowska. The day nurse, Beverly Thomson, seconds that view. "I worked with Mrs. Astor that Sunday. She didn't talk much—she'd nod her head to say 'Thank you,'" recalls Thomson. "When I left, she was okay. But when I got home, I got a call from Minnette, who said, 'Beverly, we're losing her.'"
Either Brooke Astor had suddenly taken a turn for the worse or the two staffers had missed the warning signs. Minnette Christie, the night nurse, says that she became concerned as soon as she checked on Mrs. Astor. "I thought she had fluid in her lungs," says Christie. "I thought she had pneumonia. But I'm not a doctor—I'm not supposed to diagnose." Alone with her patient, Christie called Dr. Pritchett and reached his answering service. When the physician covering for him called back, he asked about Mrs. Astor's vital signs and then advised the nurse to monitor her patient closely. Christie phoned several nurses for backup help before reaching Pearline Noble, who raced over. Late that night the two caregivers became so worried that they called an ambulance to take Mrs. Astor to the nearest medical facility, Lenox Hill Hospital. In the emergency room, she was diagnosed with pneumonia. "For a person of one hundred and four, pneumonia can easily be fatal," explains Dr. Sandra Gelbard, her doctor at Lenox Hill, who signed a do-not-resuscitate order. "I was not going to put in a breathing machine or shock her heart or use aggressive measures. But I was going to treat her."
Christie and Noble had accompanied Mrs. Astor to the hospital, and Christie used her own credit card to guarantee that Mrs. Astor got a private room on the VIP floor. In normal circumstances, Mrs. Astor's nurses would immediately have contacted Tony Marshall, but since they, unlike Tony, knew that the guardianship lawsuit had been filed forty-eight hours earlier, they telephoned Philip instead. (Tony got the news several hours later from Dr. Pritchett.) As soon as Annette heard, she drove into the city and went straight to Lenox Hill to keep an all-night vigil. On Monday morning, when Susan Robbins learned the whereabouts of her new client, the lawyer decided to delay making contact, reasoning that "very elderly people who go into the hospit
al do not usually come out." But once again, contrary to expectations, Brooke Astor gradually responded to antibiotics and rallied.
Tony and Charlene arrived at Lenox Hill after 10 P.M. on Monday, having been told earlier in the day by Philip about the guardianship lawsuit. In Mrs. Astor's hushed room, they immediately ran into two of their accusers, Pearline Noble and Beverly Thomson, who had given signed affidavits to Ira Salzman. "Mrs. Marshall burst in and he followed behind," says Noble. She added that Charlene angrily asked, "What have I done to you? Why did you do this to me?" While Charlene glared, Tony worriedly focused on his mother's health, inquiring with concern about what the doctor had said and whether she would be all right.
For two days the outside world did not know that Mrs. Astor was in the hospital, although she was registered under her own name. But once the Daily News broke the page-one story on Wednesday, July 26, about the lawsuit—dubbed the "Battle of N.Y. Blue Bloods!"—the hospital was besieged. "This was like nothing I've ever experienced," says Dr. Gelbard, a thirty-five-year-old New York native. "I'm unlisted, but the press got my beeper number. You have to answer your beeper, because it could be an emergency." Gelbard had been consulting on all medical decisions with Annette de la Renta, since Judge Stackhouse had named her Brooke's temporary guardian. The doctor, however, never spoke with Tony Marshall. "He was at the hospital," she says, "but I wasn't there when he was there."
Security guards stood watch over Mrs. Astor's hospital room—which had mahogany walls and hotel-style amenities—as if it were a branch of Harry Winston. "The whole floor was blocked off," Dr. Gelbard recalls, "but the press was still trying to break into the room." With rumors that the newspapers were offering $75,000 for a picture of Mrs. Astor, the nurses covered the windows for privacy, blocking out the sunlight. One reporter managed to get onto the floor by claiming to be the son of another patient, but he was escorted out once he neared Mrs. Astor's room. The Daily News ran a follow-up story quoting an unnamed hospital staffer as claiming, "She weighs seventy-three pounds and she's completely emaciated and bony." Among the authorized visitors granted safe passage to the suite was Chris Ely, who had not been allowed to see her for a year.
Philip Marshall, who had driven to New York after the nurses called him, visited daily, often at the same time as Annette. But reporters initially raced to his home in Massachusetts after the Daily News story broke. His wife's trepidation over the lawsuit was fully justified by the family's first exposure to the paparazzi. "Winslow went out to mow the lawn, and someone jumped out of a car and started snapping pictures," Nan Starr says. "He ran back in the house, white-faced." Soon the reporters knocked on her door. From the other side of the screen, Nan icily informed them that her husband was not home. But an hour later, after she calmed down, she took freshly baked banana bread and bottled water to the photographers and reporters camped outside on this sweltering day. "The mediator side of me kicked in, and I realized they were just doing their job," she says, adding shrewdly that she hoped her gesture would convey "that we are regular folks." When the press corps decamped several days later, they left a fruit basket and a note of apology. It was a small but telling predictor that Philip and Nan would hold the upper hand in the bitter public relations war.
But for Tony and Charlene—blindsided by the charges, shocked by the betrayal of Philip and erstwhile friends such as David Rockefeller—every day brought a new indignity. Overnight the Marshalls had gone from being proper Upper East Siders, welcome in any exclusive club in town, to Public Enemies. They had to endure headlines like this July 29 gem from the New York Post: "'EVIL' SON SEES ASTOR IN THE HOSPITAL." Everyone close to the Marshalls was hounded for comment by the press. The homebound Marshalls, who often held hands and cried during this ordeal, complained to friends about being stalked by reporters, receiving malicious late-night phone calls and about Justice Stackhouse's highhanded action in cutting off Tony's salary (for managing Brooke's money) without even holding a hearing over the allegations. Loyal friends expressed incredulity. "I thought, oh my God, how could anyone say this?" says Moises Kaufman, the director of I Am My Own Wife.
Clinging to his honorific, Ambassador Anthony D. Marshall issued a statement saying that he was "shocked and deeply hurt" by the "completely untrue" allegations and insisting that he authorized $2.5 million a year to pay for Mrs. Astor's care. "My mother has a staff of eight with instructions to provide her with whatever she needs and whatever they think she should have," he wrote. Tony portrayed himself as a victim, and as outraged that Philip and his conspirators had not spoken to him before racing into court: "I am very troubled that allegations like these would first be made in a court petition, instead of discussing any concerns with me directly." Stressing that he was more invested in his mother's health than these interlopers were, he added, "I love my mother and no one cares more about her than I do. Her well-being, her comfort, and her dignity mean everything to me." But public opinion was at flood tide against him. When the Daily News reported on Tony's statement, the newspaper punctuated it with the sarcastic headline "I AM SON KIND OF WONDERFUL."
Locked out of his office at 405 Park Avenue by Judge Stackhouse and unable to retrieve receipts and paperwork attesting to bills paid on his mother's behalf, Tony was at a disadvantage in defending himself. This was war, and the Marshalls needed legal gladiators. Initially they hired Harvey Corn, of Greenfield, Stein & Senior, a respected former clerk to a surrogate court judge with an estate law practice. To supplement Corn's avuncular approach, the Marshalls brought in Kenneth Warner, an aggressive litigator whom they had met through Richenthal. Warner threw himself into the case as Tony's legal spokesman by lashing out at every perceived foe, from reporters covering the case to Susan Robbins, with no-holds-barred ferocity. A crisis management firm run by Warner's brother-in-law, George Sard, was hired to do damage control. It was a Sisyphean task, and as a result the Marshalls ended up working with four different PR firms during the next sixteen months.
While the Marshalls were losing every spin cycle in the newspapers, the lawyers quietly tried to work out a settlement offstage. Harvey Corn went to see Ira Salzman to assess the likelihood of a quick resolution. "In these family fights, everyone gets dirty, legal expenses get run up," Corn explains. "I tried to see if we could resolve it right away." The negotiations fell apart, however, after Corn and Salzman mutually broached the possibility of making Annette and Tony coguardians. Upon being told of the tentative plan, Annette flatly refused. Annoyed that Salzman would even float such an idea, she hired her own lawyer, Paul Saunders, a partner at Cravath, Swaine & Moore, who had been recommended by Henry Kissinger. An urbane Harvard-trained lawyer whose expertise was international litigation, Saunders was more at home negotiating border disputes than refereeing a family squabble. "He was the class of the field," says a staffer for Justice Stackhouse. Susan Robbins joined with Annette in turning down the coguardianship proposal, based on her growing concerns about Tony Marshall's conduct. As she told Salzman in an incredulous tone, "Are you kidding? Tony can never be a guardian."
At Holly Hill on Friday, July 28, Chris Ely was eagerly readying the house for Mrs. Astor's return, patrolling the stone mansion to make sure that everything was in perfect order. The butler, who had been rehired by Annette, had also started taking inventory of missing property, from a chinchilla blanket to a set of breakfast china to a large painting of a dog that had been the centerpiece of a grouping of similar art in the hallway stairwell. Mrs. Astor's guardian had also rehired Brooke's French chef, Daniel Sucur, and his wife, Liliane. The pillows were fluffed, the kitchen was restocked, and the house was about to become a home again.
That rainy evening Susan Robbins finally felt it was time to go to Lenox Hill Hospital to meet her new client. She discovered that the place resembled an armed camp. "There was a guard in the hallway and a guard at her room," recalls Robbins. "Mrs. Astor was sleeping. She had been really sick. If she hadn't come to the hospital, she probably wouldn't be with us. She was ve
ry, very thin." Robbins stayed for three hours, talking to Dr. Gelbard and the nurses until her client woke up for dinner. "The cases that I've been on before when people are out of it, you can't talk to them," Robbins says. "But she was sitting up. She has beautiful blue eyes. She did try and talk a little bit. I thought there was recognition."
Robbins also got an earful from Mrs. Astor's private-duty nurses. "The staff really hated Charlene," said Robbins. "Charlene had come into the hospital, and she was really pissed off that the nurses had given these affidavits." For their part, the nurses complained that Mrs. Marshall had been disruptive and intimidating.
The next morning, at the start of an elaborately choreographed getaway, the nurses dressed Mrs. Astor up in a wig, makeup, sunglasses, and a large hat, as if she were a publicity-shy Greta Garbo in need of a dignified disguise. Then they helped her into a wheelchair, spirited her out the back entrance of Lenox Hill, and put her in a waiting ambulance. Destination: Holly Hill. "She was stable to go," says Dr. Gelbard. "I didn't know whether she would live for three weeks, three months, or a year."
No one had the courtesy to tell Tony Marshall that his mother had been discharged from the hospital. When he and Charlene showed up at Lenox Hill later in the day, they discovered that Brooke's room was empty, and no one would tell them her whereabouts. Tony repeatedly asked, "What do you mean, she's not here?" He was stung to see that the only flowers left in the room were a vase of pink roses that he had brought to his mother.
