by Adam Mitzner
The bluntness of his father’s words momentarily throws Jonathan. It’s as if his father, who had made so little sense over the past month, had reached down deep to dispense with some fatherly advice that actually was sound. But was it? Could Jonathan actually be a better man?
William Caine shuts his eyes, as if he’s trying to vanish. When he opens them again, he smiles at his son, his reaction no different than if he was seeing him for the first time today.
There’s more Jonathan wants to say, but that feels greedy. His father looks tired.
He kisses his father on the top of his head and says, “Thanks, Dad.”
20
The Monday after New Year’s, Jonathan takes the bus into New York City, leaving the Bentley in the driveway of his father’s house. He hasn’t taken this hour-long ride since the summer after his first year of college, when he commuted into the city for an unpaid internship. The reason is the same now as it was then—he doesn’t want to pay the thirty dollars for parking. He’s been hoarding every penny ever since his Amex card was declined.
After arriving at the Port Authority, Jonathan navigates the subway downtown because a twenty-dollar cab ride is also a nonstarter. His destination, the Equitable Building, is three blocks east of the World Trade Center site, and a block north of Wall Street. The landmarked thirty-eight-story neoclassical structure maintains its prewar grandeur with a sand-colored, marble entrance that stretches the length of a city block, and a thirty-foot-high coffered ceiling. Nevertheless, it’s now considered a second-tier address, occupied largely by government agencies.
Jonathan stops at the security desk and momentarily forgets the name of Alex Miller’s law firm. He pulls the business card Alex gave him at the reunion out of his wallet.
“I’m going to Peikes Selva & Schwarz,” Jonathan says.
“Fourth floor,” the guard tells him.
Of course, Jonathan thinks. A floor without a view.
Jonathan meanders around different pathways on the fourth floor until he finally finds Suite 414, which has the name PEIKES SELVA & SCHWARZ on the door in cheap gold letters. Jonathan can’t remember the last time he was at any place of business that didn’t occupy an entire floor.
The receptionist is a pretty, twentysomething Asian woman with stick-straight shiny black hair and an easy smile. Jonathan gives her his name and tells her he’s here to see Alex Miller. She tells him to have a seat in the reception area, which is little more than two fabric-covered armchairs beside her.
“Mr. Miller,” she says into the phone. “Jonathan Caine is here to see you.”
A minute later, Alex Miller appears. He’s wearing a navy suit, blue striped shirt, and no tie.
“Jonathan, hey, good to see you!” he says, shaking Jonathan’s hand. Then he turns to the receptionist. “Julie, I’ve known this guy since high school.”
Julie smiles politely. At her age, Jonathan assumes she still sees her high school friends all the time.
“Mr. Miller, I’m sorry,” Julie says, “but Mr. Selva is in the conference room. He didn’t reserve it, but . . .”
Jonathan recalls all too well the petty power plays that are a mainstay of corporate life. Back when he wore a suit and tie, he was usually the one taking conference rooms without a reservation, and if someone at Harper Sawyer ever did it to him, there would have been hell to pay.
Alex doesn’t seem the least bit upset by the boss pulling rank, however. He turns to Jonathan and says with a smile, “Why don’t we just meet in my office, then?”
He leads Jonathan down a short hallway and directs him into an office two from the corner. Jonathan’s first impression is that Alex Miller’s office is small. Very small, in fact. Barely large enough so that the door doesn’t hit the one guest chair that’s opposite a modest, built-in desk. Nothing at all like the kingdom that James Jefferson practiced out of, which was large enough to hold not only a baronial-size desk but also a sofa and sitting area.
“I’m glad you called me,” Alex says as he settles into the chair behind his desk. “Although I have to say that your cloak-and-dagger attitude on the phone gave me some cause for concern.”
“Sorry about that, but I didn’t want to say anything on the phone. I don’t know, paranoia, I guess. I take it that you already know that I was fired from Harper Sawyer, right?”
“Yeah. I read about it in the legal press. That’s why I said what I did at the reunion.”
“Well, you’d think that was the worst of it, losing your job, but I guess it can always get worse. The other day, I got this hand-delivered to me.”
Jonathan reaches into his inside coat pocket and pulls out the grand jury subpoena. He hands it to Alex without further explanation.
Alex says “Oh” as he begins to read. When he’s finished scanning the document, he lifts his eyes back to Jonathan. “Okay, then. And your testimony is scheduled for January twenty-ninth.”
“So . . . what does it all mean?”
“The truth?” He doesn’t wait for Jonathan to confirm he’s seeking veracity. “It’s not good. A grand jury subpoena is something of a life-altering event, I’m afraid.”
Jonathan, of course, had realized that being subpoenaed to testify under oath before a federal grand jury wasn’t cause for celebration. Nevertheless, hearing Alex confirm that this was not good hits him hard.
“Should I go on the lam now?” Jonathan says, through a pained smile.
“Well, it’s not that dire,” Alex says with what appears to be an equally strained expression. “All types of people get grand jury subpoenas. Some are victims or just witnesses to a crime. Others are people who the government thinks might have engaged in criminal conduct. They use the term subject for those folks. And, once the government has a present intention to indict someone, they use the designation target.”
“Any way to know which one I am? Witness, subject, or target?”
“Sure. I can call the assistant US attorney—you’ll hear the acronym AUSA as the jargon—and ask him or her.” Alex looks down at the subpoena. “Um, I guess him. This guy named Elliot Felig.”
“And he’ll tell you?”
“Yeah, but don’t expect too much insight from a phone call. Most prosecutors divide the world into two types of people: those who might be indicted and those who have been indicted. And based on the very little I’ve read about your situation, I’m fairly certain that I’m going to hear the word subject, and that’s only because they know if they tell me that you’re a target, then I’m going to advise you to shut down. I’d also bet real money that the AUSA is going to ask me if we’ll save the grand jury the time and submit to a voluntary interview.”
“After I got tossed from Harper Sawyer, they hired a guy named James Jefferson to represent me. That is, until I refused to cooperate with them, and then they cut him loose. But while he was being paid, Jefferson told me that I’d be crazy to talk to anyone, anywhere, about anything.”
“I know Jefferson. He’s a good lawyer. And he gave you sound advice, especially in the pre–grand jury phase of this investigation. The choice is a bit starker now, though. The only way you get out of a grand jury subpoena is to invoke your Fifth Amendment right against self-incrimination—”
“And if I do that, they immediately conclude I’m guilty.”
“Right. But, on the bright side . . . they probably already think that.”
Needless to say, Jonathan does not see that as a silver lining. In fact, his circumstances seem as dark as he can fathom.
“Okay. So how does this work?” Jonathan asks.
He means, how does he defend himself? How does he stay out of jail?
Alex apparently understands all that subtext, because without further prompt, he says, “First we talk about a retainer amount, and then we discuss the facts. After I’m up to speed, I devise a defense strategy, and then, if you agree, you sign off on it.”
“Well, that first part . . . the retainer, uh, that’s going to be a problem for me. Har
per Sawyer froze everything I have, and my soon-to-be-ex-wife has everything else.”
“I’m sorry . . . about your wife.”
“Thanks. I guess this was a ride she didn’t want to take. You know, the way up was fine, but the crash . . . Anyway, she’s living in our co-op, which is worth about ten million, but I suspect that’s going to be a foreclosure, as I don’t see her making the mortgage or maintenance payments. And I have about twenty-five million frozen at Harper Sawyer. If that gets unfrozen, I’ll be able to pay whatever I owe you.”
Alex has been around the block enough to know that Jonathan’s blowing smoke. They both know that Harper Sawyer is never going to unfreeze the money, and no court is going to allow Jonathan to access millions so long as there’s any possibility that he’s caused billions in damages.
Alex gets up and walks over to close his door. “Let’s start again,” he says as he makes his way back to the desk. “I’m not worried about the fee. Don’t get me wrong, I’d like to get paid, but right now there isn’t going to be much time devoted to this, and so I’m happy to try to help you out a little. If it becomes more serious . . . an indictment, for example, or a civil suit against you by Harper Sawyer, or their investors, then my partners are certainly going to have a problem with my doing this pro bono. But until then, I can keep them at bay. So let me reach out to the AUSA. I’ll tell him that I’m representing you, and ask him what’s going on, and then we’ll take it from there.”
“Thanks, man. Really.”
Alex nods. “I’m reasonably certain that this investigation is focused on you, and so even if they say you’re a subject only, not a target, you still need to be in full lockdown mode. And that means it’s my strong advice that you refuse the request for an interview and empower me to inform them that you’ll invoke your Fifth Amendment rights if called to testify before the grand jury. If that makes them look at you harder, so be it. It’s still a lot better than telling them something they don’t know.”
Jonathan nods that he understands. But what he grasps more than anything else is that this is yet another beginning of the end for him.
“For how long will I be in lockdown mode?”
Alex hesitates, as if he’s only now formulating the answer to the question he must have known was coming. “The short answer is that the government could bring an indictment tomorrow . . . or the last day before the statute of limitations runs—which in a securities fraud action is six years from the stated date of the fraud. Or, God willing, they may never indict. Prosecutors hate these cases because there is a lot of complicated trading that they need to explain to the jury, and the”—Alex air quotes—“victims are people who can afford the loss and are reluctant witnesses because they’d rather not have the bad press that lets their clients know that they were defrauded. No offense.”
“None taken,” Jonathan says. “But Christ, six years?”
“Yeah, I hear you. It’s a long time. And I know you’re thinking that the wait is going to be a living hell, but it’s actually the opposite. Every day you’re out of jail—even if it’s with this hanging over you like the sword of Damocles—is a gift, because you’re free. So my advice to you is to go live your life. Pretend like this”—Alex waves the subpoena—“never happened.”
“Could you do that?” Jonathan asks. “Live your life like this isn’t hanging over you?”
“Me? No, I’d be scared shitless,” Alex says with a grin. “But that’s why I’m a risk-averse lawyer. I always thought you guys who were masters of the universe weren’t scared of anything.”
* * *
Jonathan had given fleeting thought to arriving without warning, just to see Natasha in her natural, postmarriage state. It would have been easy enough to do. Even though he hadn’t set foot in the building since the Saturday after Thanksgiving, none of the doormen, all of whom Jonathan had always tipped lavishly, would deny him entry to his own home. But in the end, he decided that type of surprise might be worse for him than for Natasha. The way his luck was going these days, he’d find her in bed with someone, or she’d shoot him, thinking he was a prowler. So he called to tell her that he was in the neighborhood and was going to stop by to get a few things.
It didn’t occur to him until after he got off the phone that his warning might cause Natasha to make herself scarce. She didn’t say that she was going out, but she was probably so surprised to hear from him that she didn’t know quite what to say.
If Natasha is here, she doesn’t rush to greet him at the elevator when the doors open to the penthouse apartment he’d called home for the last three years. Then again, she didn’t do that even when they were living together.
“Hello?” Jonathan calls out from the entry foyer. “Anybody home?”
There’s no answer back. He’s already made it to the living room before he sees her.
Natasha’s sitting in front of the fireplace, but she’s not reading or listening to music. Her only activity appears to be staring into the flames. Jonathan has the strong suspicion that she staged her appearance in just that way. Her clothing also strikes him as something of a costume. Black yoga pants that are as tight as Jonathan can imagine clothing can be, and a formfitting white tank top, with a lightweight cardigan over it, so she doesn’t look completely obscene.
She stands and makes her way over to Jonathan, at which time she does not kiss him hello but does explain her attire. “I was on my way to the gym when you called, and so I pushed back my session with Stefan an hour, but I’m going to need to leave in about twenty minutes, so . . .”
Jonathan doesn’t know what offends him more: that Natasha is still seeing her personal trainer or that she’s treating her husband like he’s the cable guy, unwilling to leave him unmonitored in her home—the home he bought—for fear that he’ll steal something.
“So nice to see you too, honey,” Jonathan says.
“C’mon, Jonathan, you’re not here to see me. And even if you are, you don’t find it nice. You’re here . . . actually, why the hell are you here?”
“Like I said on the phone, to pick up some things.”
“Well, you’re in luck, because I haven’t thrown your stuff out yet. But since you’re here now to . . . pick up some things . . . I’m giving you fair warning that I’m getting rid of everything you don’t take with you today.”
“Ah. Finding the three thousand square feet here a little cramped, are we?”
“With you standing in it, yeah, I sure am.”
Jonathan takes a step back. Then he allows his lungs to fill and attempts to start anew.
“Natasha, look, I didn’t come here to fight, and so I’m not so sure why you’re ready for battle. I just came by to grab a few more pairs of underwear and some other stuff, because, as you know, when I left, I took virtually nothing with me.”
Natasha shakes her head in disgust. “Jonathan, I haven’t heard one word from you since the day you left. Don’t get me wrong, I wasn’t expecting it, but I don’t know why you’d think I have any interest in seeing you now.”
“I hope I don’t have to remind you that after you told me to leave my house—which left me homeless at the same time I was also penniless, by the way—you handed me your divorce lawyer’s business card and mentioned that I should have my lawyer call him so that we didn’t have to talk to each other.”
“And have you done that?” she says, now making direct eye contact, with a look of anger flashing across her face.
“Have I done what?”
“Had your lawyer call my lawyer?”
Jonathan can’t believe just how much in her own universe Natasha lives. Does she not understand what he’s going through? Not even care?
“Natasha, I don’t have the money to hire a divorce lawyer. I don’t know what you’re living on these days, but my criminal defense attorney is working for free, goddammit. Don’t you get that? I don’t know what the hell you’re paying Stefan with, but I’m pretty sure a divorce lawyer is going to want money. And
I don’t have a fucking nickel to my name.”
“And whose fault is that?”
“I suppose the same person who earned the money in the first place. Do you have any clue who that might be? I’ll give you a hint. It sure as shit wasn’t you.”
Neither of them say anything, their body language doing all the talking. Natasha with her arms folded across her breasts, and Jonathan with both hands balled into fists.
“This is why I didn’t want to talk, Jonathan,” she finally says. “I knew nothing good would come of it. I don’t want to hear how awful your life is because you’re meeting with lawyers and worried about money because, guess what? Me, too. You don’t think I’m wondering what’s going to happen to me? The only difference between your circumstances and mine is that you at least know it’s your own goddamn fault.”
This time Jonathan doesn’t let any silence persist between them. “You know something? Fuck you, Natasha. Fuck you. I’m done. I’m not going to take anything. I don’t want a single thing that reminds me of the phony life I had with you. Nothing.”
He storms back to the foyer. She follows him there, but he’s pressing the elevator button before he hears her voice again.
“Phony? And who’s the bigger phony?! You are! You always were!” she shouts at his back. “Good, get the hell out of here! All your precious things are going straight into the garbage the second you leave. I don’t want a goddamn reminder that I was ever married to you, either!”
He considers correcting her by snidely pointing out that she’s only going to be giving his belongings away, and that everything she owns would always be a reminder of their marriage. He even hears himself asking whether that means she’ll be moving out of the apartment, too, but realizes that this comeback is all in his head.
The elevator doors open, and Jonathan steps inside. Once there, he turns back toward the apartment and places his hand over the side of the door to prevent it from closing, to allow him one last look at Natasha.
