by Ragen, Naomi
Their hearts sank. “How can they prove something that isn’t true! What if that prosecutor is just trying to make a name for himself?” Abigail demanded.
“Look, there is always theoretically the possibility of a ‘rogue’ prosecutor, who wants an indictment or an arrest to make himself look good. But in my experience, that possibility could not arise in a situation such as this. Sensitive cases like these have oversight from a variety of different stakeholders, including FBI headquarters overseeing the local FBI field office, and Department of Justice headquarters overseeing the local U.S. Attorney’s Office. This is all in addition to the oversight performed by the management chain in the local U.S. Attorney’s Office . . . No U.S. Attorney wants his Assistant to bring a case that will blow up in their faces, causing them embarrassment and humiliation if the government loses . . .”
“What you are saying? That they have proof? A witness? Do you have any idea who they are going to bring?” Adam asked.
“So far, I know about one. Christopher Dorset, the person Adam says introduced him to Van. Attorney Dorset is claiming the opposite. They have an affidavit from him that says Adam not only introduced him to Van, but also asked him if he wanted to help bring in additional investors. He claims Adam explained the whole operation to him, how the transfers were made and to whom. He says Adam offered him huge fees to bring in other clients.”
“He’s lying!” Adam shouted.
“That’s what we have to prove, Adam. I won’t sugarcoat it. It won’t be easy. Dorset, Hurling. They are all very high-profile.”
“And I’m just a stupid, gullible little accountant from Boston. But what about Gregory Van, the fund operator who made the actual money transfers? Surely, if anyone knows the truth, it’s him!”
“Interpol is still looking for him, but it’s by no means certain he’ll ever be found. He could be holed up indefinitely in Saudi Arabia or Syria or Iran. And another thing—this case has become a political football. The State Department is anxious to show the British government that British help in Afghanistan and Iraq is appreciated. In turn, we have to cooperate fully in prosecuting any terror funders from our side.”
Adam’s face went white. “What is it you’re trying to tell me, Marvin?”
“Look, I know you both don’t want to hear this again, but as your lawyer, it’s my duty to tell you that it would be in your best interest to plea-bargain. They have a strong case. A trial is much too risky for you. As I keep telling you, it’s not really Adam they want. They have bigger fish to fry. They’ll be lenient.”
Abigail saw the blood rush to Adam’s face. “Let me get this straight, Marvin. You want me to admit I knowingly transferred a client’s money to fund terrorism? Admit that I introduced Gregory Van to Christopher Dorset, when the opposite is true? Admit that all the horrible lies they have been spreading all over the world about me have some kernel of truth in them?!”
“I understand how you feel, but we can’t afford to be emotional about this, Adam. Look at what you’re facing if you lose! You’ll be behind bars for life! And financially, your family will be wiped out forever. If we plea-bargain, maybe we could get them to satisfy themselves with a few years in jail or even to waive any prison time at all—although I’ll be honest, that doesn’t look likely. And financially, perhaps we could get them to agree to limit fines to just the amount you got in fees for doing these transactions, not the principal.”
“We can’t afford to be emotional, Marvin? There is no we here. Just me. And if I plead guilty, my family, my life, will be destroyed, not yours.”
“Yes, of course.” Marvin looked uncomfortable. “Certainly, it’s up to you. But if you lose, the penalties will be staggering.”
Adam grasped his lawyer’s shoulder. “Which is why, Marvin, we have to win. I don’t care what it costs. I’m innocent, Marvin, I swear to you. Please believe me.”
“I do, Adam. Of course I do. But as your lawyer, it’s my ethical responsibility to explain to you—to both of you—what you are up against. Do you understand?”
“Yes. We understand. Thank you,” Adam said.
Abigail didn’t contradict him, but her mind was in turmoil. Adam was innocent. She believed that with all her heart. But it was equally true that his decisions and actions, however innocent the intention, had gotten them entangled in this horrible nightmare. His endless ambition, she thought bitterly.
She tried to bury that knowledge. She had to support him, to take care of him, to protect him. She slipped her hand through his, squeezing it hard. This was her role in life. What other choice did she have?
17
On the ride home, they held hands in the back of the taxi, engulfed by a thick, exhausted silence. It was like coming back from a funeral, Abigail thought, except that there would be no friends and family bringing plates of food with sympathetic smiles, no condolence calls as they sat in stupefied grief, overwhelmed by loss. There would be only their beautiful silent house to welcome them in its comforting arms.
No one had shoveled the walk, she realized in shock, remembering that all these things were now their responsibility since their housekeeper and gardeners had been let go.
“Hold on to me,” Adam said. They clutched each other, slipping and sliding over the treacherously icy stone walkway. Broken branches littered the fallen snow, and the paint on the banister was peeling.
They tried not to see.
Adam reached up to the mailbox. Bills, catalogues, more bills, then something else.
“It’s a letter. From Israel.”
It had been three weeks since they’d heard anything.
They didn’t bother taking off their coats, hurrying into the living room, tearing open the envelope. Adam carefully unfolded the sheets of yellow, lined paper. The edges were roughly torn, as if hurriedly snatched from a notebook. The words too seemed hasty, scrawled and crowded together as if it had all spilled out in a rush. Nothing about it reminded him of their meticulous daughter.
Dear Mom and Dad,
I am sitting here writing by the light of a single candle so as not to waken my room (tent?)mates. Believe it or not, outside, the desert air is fragrant with the scent of flowers. This place is a little miracle, full of fertility and growth where you’d least expect it.
We haven’t found anything of importance to the world yet. But everything we find is precious to us: vegetable and fruit pits and bits of metals. They are the clues left behind by the ancient people of Israel who built this place, revealing what they ate, and how they lived.
I have to say, I am not crazy about archaeology. It tells you too much about houses, tools, food, plants, and climate, and too little about who people were, what they thought or believed. It is just a job I’m doing really, unskilled labor I undertook for a roof over my head and all the chicken cutlets and tiny cut-up tomatoes and cucumbers I can eat. Truthfully, I would have left here long ago if not for Rav Natan . . .
“Rav?” Abigail repeated softly with horror, already imagining her daughter forced into uncontrolled childbearing to a black-coated-Talmud-scholar wannabe, living on handouts in poverty-stricken superstitious ignorance . . .
“Don’t jump to conclusions, Abigail. This is Kayla, our Kayla, we are talking about.” Adam raised his voice, as if to shout down his own fears.
Rav Natan, and of course, Daniel. But before I go into any details, I want to apologize to you both. I realize now just how much I’ve hurt you by abandoning you in your hour of need. It was a great avera . . .
“Daniel? Avera?” Abigail grabbed the letter shaking her head. “My God!”
“Let me just finish this, will you?” Adam said through clenched teeth.
He was pretty much at his limit, she saw, frightened.
“I’m sorry. Go on.”
A great sin. The beginning of all spiritual growth starts with gratitude toward those who gave you life. First God, then your parents. But please try to understand that I did these things not out of, God forbid, disrespe
ct, but simply to save myself. I felt as if I were drowning and had no choice but to swim to shore. The way I chose to do this was, I admit, reckless and inconsiderate and no doubt caused you much pain. I’m sorry for that, truly. But I hope you will be happy for me when I tell you that I have found a safe shore, a solid piece of earth. Sometimes, it even feels as if it’s for the first time, as if all my life I have been floating in some amniotic sac, waiting to emerge into responsibility and clarity. What a foolish, selfish, indulgent life I’ve lived until now! If not for everything that has happened, I would have probably stayed that way, never having a shot at a real life.
I am newly born, really.
Adam put down the letter and wiped his forehead. Abigail helped him slide his arms out of his coat, then took off her own, folding them beside her on the couch.
The people around me are going through the same metamorphosis. They are all special people from such different backgrounds. I know—Mom and Dad—you’d like them. Together, we are learning so much about life and God and the universe, and where we all fit in, our role in the world as human beings. We’re a colony of caterpillars turning into butterflies!
Abigail shook her head slowly from side to side. A sudden sharp pain cut through her elbow, radiating up her arm. She massaged it secretly, not wanting Adam to notice.
I’m so sorry that you and Dad are suffering, but for myself, I am grateful for this intervention by the universe. Yes, it was devastating and embarrassing—all the newspaper stories, the way people looked at me in the offices where I was supposed to interview for the high-paying jobs that were my due. I remember learning that everything that happens to us is somehow for the best, but until now I found that hard to believe. Now I know this is really true. I see the fog I have lived in all my life lifting, the way it lifts over the mountaintops just as the sun breaks through.
Rav Natan teaches that all our lives are a song we sing to God. No matter how low we fall, that song goes on simply because we are alive. Life itself is the song. And no man’s song is like another’s.
Anyhow, I just wanted you to know that I am alive and singing.
And now the hard part, the part you are probably guessing and dreading, although you shouldn’t be. You should be happy for me, your daughter, who has finally found joy in her life.
Well, there is no easy way to tell this, so I’ll just blurt it out:
I am not coming back. My song is here. There was no song in my old life, only silence, because I was living someone else’s life. I could never get her tune right, her lyrics were never natural in my mouth. For so long, I thought misery was just inevitable, part of the road to eventual happiness and success. Now I understand that I was on a bad road. And as the Ladino proverb says: “A bad road cannot lead to a good place.”
Thank God, that is over.
I’m sorry about the tuition fees for Harvard. I hope you can get them to refund at least part of it. And I’m sorry I took part of the money in my tuition account for my trip and expenses. I know you will be needing it. I want you to know I consider it a loan, and I fully intend to pay it back.
As for Seth, we have been in touch a number of times. But I’ll be honest with you: The fact is, I’ve met someone else, someone like me, bitten by tragedy, emerging from his own fog. I will deal with Seth in my own way, so please don’t get involved.
I don’t want you to think that you and the ordeal you are both going through haven’t been constantly on my mind. Dad, I know you are innocent of what you’re accused of, that there is an explanation for everything that happened. I just hope we can find it in time. But whatever happens, you will never lose my love and respect or that of the people who really know you. And I know that is what you care about most.
All my love,
Kayla
P.S. Cell-phone reception here is erratic. So write to me at this address:
Kayla Samuels
Metzuke Madragot
Dead Sea, Israel
Adam sat without moving, the letter crumpling in his hand. Then he reached for the phone.
“She said she doesn’t have reception . . .”
“I’m not calling her. I’m calling our travel agent.”
“What? You can’t go anywhere!”
“No, but you can. And must. Abby, go and bring her back. Bring my daughter back to me. It’s my fault this happened to her. Please, if you love me . . .”
“No, NO, NO! How can I leave you alone when you are fighting for your life? It’s too much; too much, I’m telling you! You heard what the prosecutor said: ‘Fled the country’! If I go running after her, too, then that awful man will have further proof of his theory! It could get you thrown into jail, convicted!” She shook her head adamantly. “I’m not budging.”
His shoulders shook with shocking violence as he rocked back and forth. Like an infant whose sobs are too deep to voice, it took a moment for his strangled cries to emerge. Shockingly, he got down on his knees, taking her hands and kissing them. “Kayla. Our baby. Our beautiful little girl . . . Our Kayla. She has always given us such nachas. She would have been so happy. Gotten her degree. Gotten married to Seth. I’ve ruined everything for her. EVERYTHING! And she doesn’t say a word of blame or reproach. She should be shouting at me! She should hate me! Instead, she’s begun to hate herself, to abandon everything she’s worked so hard for. We can’t let this happen. Please, my love. Please.”
She shook her head, her heart stiff, unforgiving.
It was bad enough that Kayla had abandoned them in their darkest hour. Bad enough that she’d stolen their money when they were hemorrhaging money and squandered it on running away. But on top of that, to write such a letter . . . There was no song in my old life, only silence. After all they’d done for her! It was like a knife in Abigail’s heart. But even that was not the worst.
She looked at her husband. What all the public humiliations, all the accusations, the snub of friends, the draining of their resources, the ruination of his life’s work, had failed to do their own daughter had accomplished, finally bringing him to his knees, his heart cracked wide open.
“Don’t,” Abigail soothed, stroking his greying head. “Don’t, my love. My love.”
“Please, Abigail. Please. For me. Please.”
18
She caught the 7:50 P.M. JetBlue flight from Logan to JFK, and from there ran to catch the connecting El Al flight to Ben Gurion Airport. By the time she boarded the flight to Israel, she had ridden the roller coaster through fear, anger, exasperation, and impatience—and was simply numb. Or so she told herself until she realized, to her horror, that she’d been assigned a window seat and that she’d have to climb over two big men spilling over the center and aisle seats to get there. Getting to the bathroom was going to be impossible. She felt a panic attack coming on as she tried and failed to reconcile herself to the world’s worst eleven and a half hours in the air. Then, suddenly, the linebacker cramped in the middle seat called over a stewardess.
“Is the plane full?”
She shook her blond curls and smiled at the big handsome lug. “No, it isn’t.”
He smiled back flirtatiously. “So, is it okay if I change seats?”
She smiled again and nodded. To Abigail’s amazement, he picked himself up and disappeared into the back of the aircraft, never to return. The other man soon followed suit.
Three seats to myself! she exulted in disbelief. That meant she could stretch out and lie down, even sleep. It meant no swollen ankles, no distended bladder. She hoped it was a portent of things to come, that even the worst scenarios could be turned around in the blink of an eye.
She strapped herself in, anticipating takeoff and the steep climb upward that would eventually result in the freedom to pull back the armrests and stretch out full length. In the meantime, desperate for sleep, she closed her eyes and tried to relax. The outraged shrieks of a distraught infant made that impossible. She opened her eyes, annoyed. The baby was only two rows ahead, flailing to get out
of its mother’s arms. What bad luck! But it was such a young infant, she saw with sudden pity. As tired as she was, her grandmotherly heart went out to it and its tired and frantic young mother.
She remembered those days. Exhausting, she thought, closing her eyes again. And here I am, once again pushing myself to the limit to help one of my kids. When did it end, motherhood? When could you retire?
If it just wasn’t such a waste of time! What good would she be once she got to Kayla? When had her darling, spoiled daughter ever listened to her advice about anything?
She tried hard to place her free-floating resentment in specific settings that would justify it. Kayla kicking a plastic lawn chair and actually breaking it, in a fit of temper because Abigail had complained that she’d used up all Abigail’s shampoo. Kayla picking out several pairs of expensive colored contact lenses and having the optometrist send them the bill. But the more Abigail tried to nurse her anger, the more her mind was crowded with opposing images: Kayla announcing her engagement to Seth. Kayla in black robes, valedictorian of her high-school graduation. Kayla breaking the news that she’d been chosen as youth ambassador and would be touring the Netherlands. And further back: Kayla, at two or three, watching a woman in the park nursing her baby.
“What is she doing?” Kayla had asked.
“She’s nursing. Giving her baby milk.”
“I also want milk,” Kayla had demanded.
