Young Wives

by Olivia Goldsmith

  Michelle had told no one about the money, not even Jada. The very idea of it terrified her. She had it hidden now in the Lexus but she knew if she was found with it she would be implicated in the drug dealing itself. And if it was stolen, or if she lost it, all of their plans would be threatened. She was haunted. Each night she woke up half a dozen times to check that the Lexus was safely parked and undisturbed. She almost asked Angie to park her old wreck on the street and let Michelle park in Angie’s spot closer to the apartment, but she was afraid that if—for any reason—the police found the car on Angie’s property, it would ruin her friend. They were all taking risks for one another, but it ought to be risks they agreed to.

  The blood money was an awful burden. Michelle just wanted to get rid of it.

  “I have compelling evidence,” she told Michael, without going any further. “Make the appointment.” She didn’t like Mr. Douglas and it was going to be humiliating to see him again, to admit that he had been right and she had been foolish. It would be worse yet to be virtually assigning her husband to a prison term. But Michelle knew it had to be done. “Tell him I have evidence,” she said, but she didn’t respond to the question in Angie’s eyes.

  Michael merely nodded. “Is there some kind of deal that you want cut?” Michael asked. “If there is, tell me now. The only way you’ll get it is before you produce evidence.”

  “I’ll give him evidence. I’ll testify only if I have to. The only thing I want is to be allowed to leave town, to leave the county, right away, and not return until the trial date. I’ll give him my address, but I want it to be kept secret. I want full custody of the children and I want to change my name. I want protection when I return for the trial. That’s it.”

  “I don’t think there’ll be a problem with any of that,” Michael said. “Douglas can’t guarantee custody, but if your husband—”

  “My future former husband,” Michelle corrected.

  “Well, if Frank Russo is imprisoned, you’ll get custody. I can assure you of that, and I’ll handle your case personally. It’s a modest request. You can actually get much more from Douglas.”

  Michelle shook her head. “This isn’t about barter,” she said. “And I’m not doing this to punish my husband. I just want to make things clean.”

  When they met this time, the district attorney was just a little more civil, probably because Michael had warned him to be. But Douglas’s attitude was as arrogant as before, and his office just as spotless. Michelle wondered who polished all of the plaques and trophies that were on display, because each one glistened and not a single fingerprint defaced any of them.

  Only Douglas himself was defaced. His shiny head still had his combed-over eight strands of hair. “Well, we meet again, Mrs. Russo. Mr. Rice assures me that today you won’t be wasting our time,” he said.

  Michelle clutched her bag on her lap. This was her last moment for second thoughts, the last chance she had to possibly stop her husband from going to prison, to stop her children’s father from becoming a jailbird. Against the brown leather of her purse, her hands were wet with sweat. She doubted that anybody in her Irish family had ever cooperated with the police for any reason. Well, what had that got them? Poverty and alcoholism for ten generations!

  She went face-to-face with Douglas, forcing herself to look straight into his eyes. They were surprisingly blue, but small and buried very deeply in the flesh around his cheekbones. She could save Frank, she told herself, but she couldn’t save her family, not unless she did this. And Frank was guilty.

  “Well, Mrs. Russo?” Douglas asked. “What have you got?”

  “I found something,” Michelle said. “I found something that your officers missed.”

  Douglas made a face of disbelief, his lips pouted, his chin lowered. “We did a very thorough search of your house, Mrs. Russo.”

  “Well, you didn’t find this,” Michelle said. She took out the bundle of money and put it on the buffed coffee table between them. Michael Rice leaned forward.

  “Drugs?” he murmured. Michelle didn’t even bother to shake her head. Douglas stood up, and without even touching the bundle, went to the desk and punched in a number on his phone.

  “I possibly have new physical evidence here,” he said. “I need an officer, a stenographer, and a court clerk immediately.” He turned around and sat back down in his chair. “What’s in the package? Is it money?” Douglas asked. Michelle nodded. “So you opened it?” he asked. She nodded again. “Hundred-dollar bills?”

  Michelle nodded once more. “I didn’t look through all of them,” she said. “I didn’t know if I should even touch it. Fingerprints or whatever. You know, Frank threatened to involve me in this if I brought this to you. We have a tape of him doing that.”

  “So he knows you found it?”

  Michelle nodded again.

  “But he doesn’t know you’re turning it in.”

  “No.” There was a knock at the door and two men and a woman joined them.

  “Pick up Frank Russo. We have evidence,” Douglas told one of them. “This is Mrs. Russo. I’d like to take her statement.” The woman sat down and pulled out some kind of a machine. “I’d like to record it as well,” he added, and the uniformed officer brought out a recorder, plugged it in, and set the microphone on the table in front of her, while the other man left, ready to give the order to jail Frank. Poor Frank.

  Michael Rice spoke up. “I would like it to be understood that my client has been unaware, until this recent find, of any illegal activity on the part of Frank Russo, her husband. I would also like to make it clear that she gives this testimony and evidence voluntarily. In return she would ask the court for immunity, permission to relocate, and physical protection if required. There’s already a restraining order in place against the man.”

  When the DA nodded, Michael said, “I would like to hear a verbal response to that, Mr. Douglas, just for the record.”

  “I don’t foresee a problem with it,” the DA agreed aloud. “No charges have ever been pressed against Mrs. Russo.”

  They discussed preliminaries for a few more minutes, which allowed Michelle to space out. This was it, then—the end of her marriage. Michelle looked down at the purse on her lap. Having Angie process divorce papers and the rest of it meant nothing. Once this happened there would be no turning back. And Michelle didn’t want to turn back, not to a comfortable life built on lies. She clutched the bag to her. How many other lives had been ruined by money? So many that hers hardly mattered to anyone but her.

  When Michelle looked up, Douglas and Michael Rice had finished and were both looking at her. “Are you ready?” Michael asked. Michelle nodded. She looked at the brown-paper-wrapped parcel on the DA’s sparkling coffee table.

  Douglas began his questioning. “This package in front of you is something that you’ve found, independently and on your own?”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “Mark it exhibit two for now,” he told the clerk. “And I’ve been told it contains money,” he said.

  She nodded. “Please state your answers verbally,” the stenographer requested.

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” Michelle said. “Yes, I found this money. It’s packages of hundred-dollar bills. At least that’s what I think it all is.”

  Douglas picked up the package and gave it to the court clerk. “Could you please count this?” he asked. Then he turned to Michelle. “Where did you find this money?” he said.

  “Under the carpet in the floor of the closet in my daughter’s room,” Michelle told him.

  “Didn’t our officers search your home, including the closet?” Douglas asked.

  “Yes,” Michelle agreed. “They wrecked my whole house.” For a moment, her lip trembled as she thought about it—about the way her house had been torn apart, as her life had been.

  She took a breath. “It was very well hidden. I didn’t find it right away,” she said. “You see, for days and days I was cleaning up the terrible mess they left.�
�� She told the entire story while the tape recorder rolled and the stenographer pecked away at her odd machine and the court clerk counted silently at the other side of the office.

  Douglas interrupted her a few times, but now that he was getting what he wanted, he was surprisingly cordial. “Could this money represent savings?” he asked.

  “No. I don’t think so. We have a savings account.”

  “And it’s money you didn’t know about?”

  “Yes. I mean, yes I didn’t know it was there.”

  The questioning went on. Michael patted her hand once or twice, but Michelle felt confident, sure now that she was doing the right thing. It took more than two hours, and Douglas repeated some questions over and over, but Michael would remind him he’d already been there, and Michelle kept it simple, giving short answers as Michael had advised. She told them the truth, leaving out only the parts she had to—like the entire safety deposit box episode. Finally she was done. She felt like a limp rag by then.

  “Mrs. Russo. I want to thank you for this,” Douglas said, doing a fairly good impersonation of a human being. “You did the right thing. I know it couldn’t have been easy for you.” The clerk came over with the money, now wrapped in plastic bags. He handed a piece of paper to Douglas.

  “Well, that’s it,” Douglas said. “The evidence we needed. I’ll have to ask you to sign for it.” He looked at Michelle. “Do you think there might be any more?” he asked.

  “I didn’t find any other hiding places in the house. But you can certainly look,” she said, telling the truth. “Who knows?” And then they all rose, shook hands, and left the office.

  62

  In which Rice gets mushy

  Angie had to make seventeen calls that morning to get permission for Jada to have her weekend visitation changed from Saturday to Sunday, in addition to permission to take the children to church. “My God,” she complained to Bill after she’d finally gotten call-backs, returned other calls, faxed the documentation, received receipt of the documentation back, spoken to the court clerk, spoken to the judge’s secretary, and finally confirmed it all with the supervisor of the Department of Social Welfare, “think what it would take if I was trying to get permission for them to be in a bump and grind show instead of just going to church.”

  “That would be no problem,” Bill said. “Parents make little girls do that all the time. It’s called kiddie beauty pageants.”

  Angie just shook her head. “Would you mind making copies of all of this? One for Mrs. Jackson, one for my file, and one for Mr. Jackson.”

  “Should I do one for Michael, Latoya, Janet, and Jesse while I’m at it?” Bill asked.

  “Boring,” Angie said.

  “Me? Boring?” Michael asked as he walked into the room.

  Bill, on his way out, passed him and raised his eyebrows. “You? The young—well, middle-aged—Lochinvar?”

  Michael raised his brows in disapproval. “Loose lips sink ships,” he said.

  “I haven’t said a word,” Angie protested. Michael raised his brows higher. Angie shook her head, assuring him of her innocence. “You know, Bill has a kind of genius for office gossip. It’s radar or something.”

  “He didn’t know about my separation and divorce,” Michael said dryly. “But he knows that we’re an item.”

  “I take your point, counselor,” Angie said rising. “But you only have two choices here. You can believe I’m lying to you or that I’m not.” She moved closer to him and put her hand on his shoulder, the edges of her fingers against his neck. “Which one is it going to be?”

  “Dinner,” Michael replied. “Lobster, I think And then we’ll explore this loose lips business.”

  Angie actually blushed.

  Dinner was great. Michael took her to an old house that had been converted into an inn. “Westchester is lousy with these joints,” he told her as they were seated at a table next to the fireplace. They talked a little bit about work, and about Angie’s mother, then Angie asked Michael a few questions about growing up. He’d been born in Minnesota. He was the oldest of three boys. The youngest had died of cancer just eleven months ago.

  “With that and the divorce, it must have been a tough year for you,” she said.

  He nodded, rotating the brandy snifter in his hand. “I’d have to agree with that,” he said. He looked into the glass. “Do you know that your eyes are exactly the same color as this Courvoisier?” he asked.

  Angie shook her head. In the low light Michael looked almost boyish. And she could tell that he really, really liked her. “You know, it wasn’t easy to let my wife leave. She’s moved back to Omaha. She’s got a teaching job at the university there and I let the kids go with her. I miss them a lot.”

  “I’m sure you do.”

  “What I’m trying to stay, Angie, is that it isn’t only women who suffer in a divorce. Men sometimes do, too.” He took another sip of his brandy. “I can’t wait to see my daughters. I only let them go because it was best for them.”

  “That’s being a good parent in difficult circumstances,” Angie said, thinking of Jada. Michael smiled at her.

  “Thanks,” he said, then reached out and took one of her corkscrew curls in his fingers. “How do you make it do that?” he asked, and Angie had to smile.

  “It just grows out of my head that way,” she said. “It drives me nuts.”

  “It drives me nuts, too,” he said and his voice was lower with insinuation.

  His voice, sexy and deep like that, made her hold her breath. Suddenly Angie remembered looking at the hundred golden streaks in Reid’s hair and asking him how he had gotten it like that. She let out her breath slowly. She wondered if, in every relationship, there was someone who adored and someone who was adored. She also wondered who had the better deal.

  She took Michael’s hand, gently untangling her hair from his grasp. It seemed to wake him out of his trance. “So, how many people are you living with now?” he asked. “Is it up to fifty yet? Do you have cats and turtles and hamsters, as well as girlfriends, dogs, and children? Do you have fiestas and grill goats on the holidays? Piñata parties? Chinese New Year? Do you sleep in shifts?”

  “There are only nineteen of us,” Angie joked. “That’s nothing. And we don’t do piñatas. We do Mardi Gras and the High Holy Days.” She paused. “I know you don’t approve of mixing business with social life, but—”

  “Hey, I’m in no position to talk,” he said, gesturing back and forth between them.

  “Well, anyway, Jada and Michelle will be moving out pretty soon. They’re getting on their feet.” She would have liked to tell him about Marblehead and the rest of their audacious plans, but Michael was a man who believed in the law. She didn’t think he would inform on them, but she was certain he would try to stop her from helping. Angie, though, had decided she would take the risk. She just wouldn’t share it with Michael.

  But when he wrapped her in her coat and helped her down the stairs outside the restaurant, she felt a pleasant tingling and hoped he’d invite her to his apartment for coffee. She also thought there might be other things she would enjoy sharing with Mr. Rice.

  63

  In which Jada sells out to Clinton

  “No. No! No!” Angie shouted. “Look, we’ve gotten this far. I am not going to let you go insane.” She glared at Jada. So did Michelle, if she could ever be described as glaring. They were in Angie’s kitchen, just finishing their third cups of coffee. They were all pretty hyper.

  “Honey, I have to agree with Angie. Everything else is all ready,” Michelle said to Jada. “Don’t mess it up. Your stuff is packed, the kids’ new things are all waiting to go. We’ve got it stowed in my car. You even have permission to take the kids to church. How can you do this now? Samuel should be here any minute.”

  Angie took a deep breath. “Jada, you know how hard it was for me to agree to help with the kids’ … disappearance. I just don’t think that there’s one more chance you can afford to take.”
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  Jada looked at her two friends. “I’m not asking you to do anything,” she said. “I’ll do it all by myself. But I’m going to do it.”

  “Jada, it’s illegal and maybe even dangerous,” Angie reminded her.

  “So is everything else I’m doing.”

  Angie got up from the dinette chair and looked at Michelle. “Your friend has finally gone completely crazy. I cannot listen to this any longer. I’m an officer of the court. I could be disbarred. And what about me? You two are going to be gone. But people might come around here, sniffing.”

  “What if they do?” Jada said. “It has nothing to do with you.”

  Angie made a hopeless gesture with her hands. She spilled some of the coffee on the counter. “Michelle, you talk to your irresponsible, vengeful, risk-taking friend. I have no patience.” She walked down the hall and slammed her bedroom door.

  Michelle looked at Jada, but Jada turned her head away. “She’s making sense and you’re not,” Michelle said.

  “Oh, don’t be taking sides with her. You don’t know what it was like to live in that house for all those years! Your house was perfect. My kitchen floor was still raw plywood. You know what it’s like to try and keep that clean. And the garage door rotting off its track. And the upstairs bathroom never finished. And the guest room only framed in. The overhead light in the dining room was a bare bulb in an orange plastic construction cage. Now he’s fixing that place up?” Jada stopped to take a breath. She put her hand on the counter, smearing Angie’s spilled coffee. She’d spent years in that house, constantly troubled by the unfinished state of it, resenting Clinton, and yet paying the monthly mortgage. “I would beg him. I would buy the wallboard. I would drag it into the house myself. I even offered to pay someone else to finish up. He wouldn’t let me. He was offended. You were living in House Beautiful, but I was always in a construction zone.”

  “Jada, calm down. Let’s remember what’s important. I’m leaving my whole house behind me. The carpets, the couches, the curtains. That’s not what’s important, Jada, and you know it.”