by Adam Mitzner
“Second floor,” the nurse says.
“I shouldn’t be more than ten minutes. I’m just going to go down there, get some coffee, and come straight back. Here’s my cell number.” Jonathan reaches over and grabs a pen and a pad off the desk. “If the doctor shows up, please call me and hold her here. I’ve been waiting all night to talk to her, so please, please don’t let her leave.”
The nurse smiles at Jonathan, almost as if she’s taking pity on how pathetic he sounds. “The earliest Dr. Goldman will get here is eight, and she usually arrives closer to nine. But if for some reason she comes earlier, I won’t let her leave. Promise.”
Jonathan thanks her and heads to the second floor. The Lakeview cafeteria is decorated for the holiday, complete with a large tree covered in ornaments and a four-foot-high menorah beside it. Cardboard cutouts of Santa and reindeer adorn the walls side by side with Jewish stars. The overall effect, at least to Jonathan’s mind, is that the displays make the place even more depressing.
The cafeteria sign proclaims that they proudly brew Starbucks coffee, and just the thought of caffeine perks Jonathan up. In addition to the largest coffee available, he buys an almond croissant that actually doesn’t look half-bad.
True to his word, he’s gone less than ten minutes. Upon his return to the ICU, the redheaded nurse assures him that the doctor hasn’t shown up yet. Jonathan tells her that he’s going to be in the family lounge and asks her to come find him when the doctor arrives.
Back in the lounge, Jonathan has the crushing need to call someone. To share that his father is near death, to share the experience so he knows it’s real, and feel less alone.
Jackie is whom he’d really like to call, but at this hour she’s likely in bed next to Rick. He could call Amy, but she’s either asleep or in a frenzy getting the kids out the door for school. Besides, he still has nothing to report, which means he’ll spend most of the conversation trying to comfort her. Better to call his sister after he speaks to the doctor, when he has some information to impart. The only other person in his life is Natasha, but she’s the last person Jonathan wants to speak to.
He honestly doesn’t remember when he stopped having friends. There were guys in college and, later, business school whom he kept in touch with for a while, and then work colleagues became what passed as his social acquaintances.
The reality is that for the past few years, Haresh Venagopul has been Jonathan’s best and only friend. Jonathan knows that this is a call he simply should not make. He has that same feeling that goes through your mind right before drunk-dialing an ex. And just like most people do when confronted with the warning, he ignores it.
Harper Sawyer disconnected Jonathan’s company cell phone when they kicked him to the curb, which means that Haresh won’t recognize the new phone number. Jonathan’s reasonably sure that if caller ID revealed his identity, Haresh would let the call go to voice mail.
Instead, Haresh answers on the second ring.
“Haresh,” Jonathan says.
It takes a few seconds for his former colleague to place the voice. “Jonathan . . . ?”
“Surprised?”
“I am, actually. You know that they told me I can’t talk to you. No one here can. In fact, I’m sure my phones are tapped, just in case you called.”
“I know, and I’m sorry you’re in that position, Haresh. And, truthfully, I wouldn’t have called if it weren’t important. And it’s not about the fund or the investigation.”
Jonathan laughs to himself at the irony of his last statement. He’s calling about something important, not that other trifling stuff like the twenty-five million of his assets that Harper Sawyer has frozen or whether he’s going to go to jail, which until a few weeks ago Jonathan had viewed as the most important things there were, much more so than mere life and death.
“The thing is . . .” Jonathan continues, “I’m sitting here in a hospital in East Carlisle, New Jersey—that’s where I’m from, and my father is in the ICU. You remember my mom died in March? Anyway, my father’s been out of it for a while, dementia of some type, and I’ve been living at his place so I can spend time with him. I’m waiting for the doctor to get here and give me a sense of what’s actually going on, and I felt like . . . I don’t know, that I just wanted to tell someone about it. So . . . I didn’t feel so goddamn alone.”
The silence is long enough that Jonathan actually checks his phone to see whether Haresh hung up somewhere during his speech. But the call is still connected.
“Hey, I’m sorry,” Haresh says, sounding sincere. “I really am. I . . . I didn’t know.”
“Thanks, man. It’s actually a little tougher than I thought it’d be. He’s been sick for a while, but the thought that he’s going to be gone soon . . . maybe today, and that’s it. Forever.”
“Is Natasha with you?”
“No . . . oh, that’s a whole other story.”
Jonathan considers whether to confide in Haresh about his marital woes, but decides better of it. The purpose of this call is not to prove how far he’s fallen since being canned by Harper Sawyer.
“You gotta stay strong, Jonathan. I know you’ve hit a rough patch, and your dad . . . that’s tough even if everything in your life was going great. I wish . . . I wish I could say something to help. Or better yet, I wish I could come out there and hang out a little . . . but I’m afraid I just can’t.”
Jonathan knows that Haresh can’t do or say anything helpful without risking his job, maybe even prison. Even this phone call will likely be construed by Komaroff & Co. as Haresh giving aid and comfort to the enemy.
“Thanks, Haresh. I didn’t expect you to come visit. I totally get what must be going on there with you. I . . . um . . . I really just wanted to tell someone. I’ve always liked and admired you. Not sure if I told you that enough when we were working together.” Jonathan clears his throat, trying to shake away any chance that he’ll choke up. “Okay. I gotta go see some doctors and I imagine I ruined your day, on account that you’re now going to spend it with Legal. But it’s real good talking to you, Haresh.”
“You too, Jonathan. Stay strong, okay?”
* * *
Jonathan is sitting beside his father’s bed when Dr. Goldman finally enters the ICU. She’s African American, and he assumes that very few people aren’t surprised by that, given her surname. Like Whoopi Goldberg, he muses. She’s also younger than Jonathan had expected, probably not more than a few years out of med school.
Dr. Goldman spends about fifteen seconds at each of the first three beds, doing little more than glancing at the clipboard that hangs off the footboard. She does the same thing at William Caine’s bedside, but after reading his chart, she looks at her patient, and then at Jonathan.
“You the son?” she asks.
“Yes. I’m Jonathan Caine. How is he?”
She scrunches her face, as if she stepped on something that’s hurt her foot. “His pressure is very depressed, which has put him in a semi-comatose state.”
“Why did this happen?”
Dr. Goldman’s facial expression doesn’t change. “A patient’s blood pressure dropping means that blood isn’t moving through the veins at a normal rate. That can occur for any number of reasons, and with an elderly patient who’s already in poor health, like your father, it could truly be at least ten different causes. As a result, I’m less concerned with understanding why this happened than with how to increase the blood flow so that his condition improves.”
“Okay, how do you do that, then?”
“We’re still in the process of ruling out various things. Hopefully his BP will come back to normal on its own in a few days, but you should prepare yourself that he’s going to be like this for the next day or two, at least.”
“But eventually he’ll get back to . . . I know he’s not normal, but the way he was before, right?”
“We’re just going to have to wait and see.”
Jonathan is struck by two questions at once. “What’s t
he best-case scenario?” he asks first.
“That he’s more or less like he was right before this episode, but for shorter periods. So, whatever his cognitive state was last week—and I understand that wasn’t great, either—but the hope is that he returns to that level. He’s likely going to need more rest in between his periods of alertness, however. And before you ask, the worst-case scenario would be that he doesn’t really improve from how he is now.”
That wasn’t Jonathan’s other question.
“How long can he live this way?” Jonathan asks.
“It’s hard to tell. And I hate to answer that question because most family members believe that I have some type of crystal ball, and then they’re very upset if I’m wrong, which I quite often am. But, if you’re asking for my best medical opinion, and you’re willing to understand the margin of error involved in this type of analysis, I would say that, short of a superseding event, I don’t think he’s in any immediate danger.”
* * *
After the doctor leaves, Jonathan calls Amy to tell her the news. She says “Thank God” when Jonathan tells her that Dr. Goldman didn’t believe their father’s death was imminent. Then she adds, “Thank you so much for staying with him, Jonathan. I’m sure it meant a lot to Dad.”
“He never opened his eyes, Amy.”
There’s a pregnant pause. Jonathan assumes the silence is because his sister is weighing her next words.
“Can I ask you something, Johnny?”
“Sure,” he says tentatively.
“Why are you so angry at him?” she asks.
She asks this without betraying any judgment. As if it was a perfectly valid question, the answer to which she’s long wondered about.
“I’m not angry at him, Amy. I just don’t . . . care as much as you do.”
“In a way, that’s almost worse. Being indifferent about your father. And I just don’t get it. I mean, if you guys had some huge falling-out over . . . I don’t know, money or something, or if he didn’t like Natasha—which he didn’t, by the way, but he never told you that, I bet—then I might be able to understand. But you kind of just gave up on him. Like you gave up on all of us. I know you don’t think you need your family, Johnny, but we’re good to have.”
“Why?” Jonathan asks. He’s surprised he’s been so blunt with Amy, but his sleep deficit has brought it out.
“Why? Because . . . because family loves you forever. Stands by your side no matter what. Because we have a shared history. What do you even mean, why?”
“I didn’t mean it that way, Amy,” he says, although he very much did mean it that way. “I’m just exhausted. I was up all night with him, like you asked, and that should at least earn me some slack from you.”
“Okay,” she says. “I’ll let you deal with whatever is going on between you and Dad on your own. I just hope that you figure it out while he’s still here. For both your sakes.”
Jonathan is thankful that it will end there, because he knows that the truth is that she was right. He did give up on their father. And not just because of Phillip Levinson. Jonathan had long ago recognized that the whole episode at the barbecue was a symptom, not the cause of their estrangement. It was his father’s weakness that Jonathan despised. The weakness that allowed Phillip Levinson to encroach on his best friend’s marriage in the first place. The weakness that, to Jonathan’s mind, made his father a failure.
To avoid a similar fate, Jonathan was determined never to be weak. He would be a rich and powerful master of the universe, so that no one could take what was his.
And, of course, the irony is now staring him right in the face. He’s allowed others to take everything. Even his failure of a father owns a home, had a wife who loved him, has children who are caring for him. What does Jonathan have? Nothing. Which makes Jonathan Caine the weakest man alive.
15
October
In the investment-banking world, suspended without pay is a purgatory that only leads to hell. Jonathan knew he’d be fired soon enough, but Harper Sawyer would dangle the possibility of reinstatement, or at least the possibility of unfreezing his accounts, to squeeze whatever they could from him before they finally cut him loose.
The first step in that dance came a week after security had escorted Jonathan out of Vincent Komaroff’s office, in the form of a call from James Jefferson.
Jefferson identifies himself as an attorney whom Harper Sawyer has retained to represent Jonathan free of charge. Considering that his assets are frozen, Jonathan knows he’s looking a gift horse in the mouth, but he’s obviously more than a bit suspicious of this arrangement.
“Why would I want those guys picking my lawyer?” Jonathan asks.
“You heard me say free of charge, didn’t you?” Jefferson replies with a tone that indicates Jonathan wasn’t the person to pose the question. “That’s why. And believe me, I don’t come cheap to them. A thousand bucks an hour, to be exact. So, at the very least, why don’t you meet with me for an hour and cost your former employer a grand?”
A few days later, Jonathan is sitting in a well-appointed conference room near the top of a Midtown Manhattan skyscraper. Jefferson reminds Jonathan a little of a drill sergeant. A no-nonsense guy who doesn’t suffer fools lightly.
“Here’s how it works,” Jefferson begins. “If you decide to hire me, I’ll represent you and nobody else but you. I do not represent Harper Sawyer, and I have never represented Harper Sawyer in any capacity whatsoever. They’re paying me to represent you to the best of my ability because they’ve made the calculation—the correct one, in my opinion—that they, meaning the good people at Harper Sawyer, are better served if you are well represented, at least at this stage of the process.
“Our relationship is covered by the attorney-client privilege,” Jefferson continues. “That means that anything you say to me will never be shared outside this room without your consent. Doesn’t matter what it’s about. You stole from Harper Sawyer. Sure, whatever. You engaged in the worst form of securities fraud this side of Charles Ponzi. Oh my, how could you? You’re the mastermind behind 9/11, you goddamn traitor. I don’t care. It’s our secret. Unless you instruct me to disclose it, I take it with me to the grave.”
Jonathan allows Jefferson to give his little speech, but as soon as he’s finished, Jonathan says, “So what’s the catch?”
Jefferson doesn’t miss a beat. “The catch is that Harper Sawyer expects that you will instruct me to share our attorney-client communications with them. That’s what they get out of it—knowing what you’re going to do before you do it. Don’t get me wrong. They’re definitely going to claim you acted alone here, Mr. Rogue Trader. Like the London Whale and the guy in Singapore. But that doesn’t mean they don’t fear the firm being hit with a failure-to-supervise charge. Or worse, that you’re going to claim you told the higher-ups all about it, and they looked the other way, hoping you could trade your way out of it.”
Against his initial impulses, Jonathan actually likes Jefferson. He seems like a straight shooter, if you overlook the fact that his entire professional life is built on the dubious premise of being wholly independent from the people who actually pay him.
“Well, that’s going to be a problem because there’s nothing I’d like to do more than hurt them. Bad. I’ll say whatever it takes to get those bastards to unfreeze my twenty-five million.”
“That right there is the other reason that Harper Sawyer thinks it’s a good idea to have me represent you,” Jefferson says with a smile. “They know, human nature being what it is, that your greatest impulse will be to hurt them. Might even cloud your judgment about your own self-preservation. My job is to protect you, not hurt them. And the two don’t align here. Don’t get me wrong. I know the value of a buck, especially when you’re unemployed and your assets are frozen, but you need to understand that money is worthless in prison. And admitting you engaged in securities fraud in the hope that Harper Sawyer pays some kind of fine that’s chump change t
o them anyway is the surest way to wind up spending some time as an involuntary guest of the federal government.”
Jonathan feels sufficiently chastened. Jefferson’s right. He needs to get his priorities straight.
“So how do I stay out of jail?” Jonathan asks.
“First, by hiring me, and then once you do, by doing exactly what I tell you to do.”
* * *
When he comes home on Halloween, Jonathan’s greeted by a nearly six-foot-tall Cinderella, the bodice of the costume straining to contain Natasha’s ample bosom. It’s only then that he remembers they have a benefit masquerade party to attend.
“There’s a Prince Charming costume lying on our bed,” Natasha tells him.
Jonathan knows that Batman would be a far better choice for him, given that he’s been living a double life that would make even the Caped Crusader proud. It’s now been six weeks since he was fired, and Natasha still doesn’t have the first clue that the world as she knows it is over.
The surprising thirty grand his Lange & Söhne timepiece fetched and the twenty thousand he moved to Citibank on the day President Alexeyev died were enough so that the ATM continues to spit out fifties whenever Natasha inserts her bank card. As long as that continues and her American Express card isn’t declined, or the bank padlocks their penthouse, Jonathan is determined that she remain in that blissful state of ignorance.
The other part of the deception was laughably easy to pull off. Natasha never called Jonathan at work, as it was Jonathan’s inviolate policy not to take personal calls at the office, long ago telling her if she had anything that couldn’t wait, she should text. Fortunately, she didn’t think twice when he told her he’d lost his cell phone—which had been paid for by Harper Sawyer back when they employed him—and had to get a new number.
The only part of the charade that was any challenge for Jonathan was deciding where to spend his days. Sitting in Jefferson’s conference room going over his old trading records occupied some of his time, but that still left a lot of hours with nothing for him to do and no place for him to be. Jonathan’s been passing the time in movie theaters and museums, and drinking scotch at hotel bars, where he figured there was less of a chance he’d run into someone either he or Natasha knew.
