Mike laughs.
“This is bogus, right?” I ask. “It’s not a crime to copy a painting, right?”
“Copying a painting isn’t a crime, in and of itself. It’s what you do with the copy afterward that matters. Or what you and someone else plan to do with it afterward. Knowledge. Intent.”
“Aiden hired me to copy a copy. I painted it on an old canvas he gave me, based on a high-quality copy of After the Bath that belonged to a friend of his, that he also gave me. When I finished, he paid me and took both canvases away.”
Mike lifts one hand off the wheel. “That’s all I need to know for now.”
“But you’ve got to understand that—”
“I’ll decide what’s important for me to understand,” Mike interrupts.
This, too, I remember from cop shows. Lawyers like to presume their clients are innocent.
“I am innocent,” I tell him. “I didn’t have anything to do with what happened after the painting was gone. I had no idea what—”
“We’ll talk about the details after the arraignment,” Mike says, as he pulls up to my building. “I won’t be making any arguments against the charges tomorrow, so we’ll have a few days to go over everything after that. The probable cause hearing is where we can call the evidence into question, try to convince the judge that the prosecutor’s case isn’t strong enough. So that’s what we’ll gear up for.”
“You mean there’s not enough evidence?” I grasp for any good news. “That they’ll drop the charges before anything even starts?”
He throws the car into park and turns to look at me. “I didn’t say that.” His voice is stern. “What I said is that we won’t know anything until probable cause.”
“Oh,” I say, deflated.
“But you never know,” he adds. “Every case is different, and frankly, from what I’ve seen so far, their evidence is weak.” He holds up a hand as my face lights up. “But that doesn’t mean there isn’t more evidence. We just need to see how it all comes down. Give it a few days. Now go—”
“A few days?” I interrupt. “We don’t have a few days.”
“—get a good night’s sleep and try not to worry,” he continues, as if I haven’t spoken. “I’ll meet you at eight-thirty in the lobby of the courthouse. Outside the metal detectors.”
“I don’t know how to thank you.” I reach over and touch his shoulder. “You’re, you’re, well, you’re just the best.”
“Boston Municipal Court. Government Center. Twenty-four New Chardon Street.”
“Got it.” I start to climb out of the car, then turn back. “You think the media’s got wind of this already?”
“Arrests and arraignments are public information,” Mike says. “Anything involving the Gardner heist is likely to get picked up.”
WHEN I WAKE up in the morning, I don’t turn on the television or check the Internet, as I usually do. Arrests and arraignments are public information. I’m just not ready to go there. I’ve always been the type of person who needs to know all, who would want to know if I had the bad gene, even the date of my death, if it were possible. But here I sit, in a virtual news blackout of my own making, pretending that if I don’t know about it, it isn’t happening.
I pour myself a cup of coffee and check to make sure my phone is charged in case Mike needs to reach me. I’m on my second cup when it rings. At barely seven o’clock, this can’t be good. When I see it’s Kristi, I know it isn’t.
“They closed down Markel G,” she says, without preamble.
I don’t have to ask who “they” is.
“Claire? Are you there?”
“On, on,” I croak. “On what grounds?”
“The door’s padlocked. FBI. Something about misuse of funds.”
I close my eyes against the pain.
“Are you okay?” She pauses. “After what, ah, after what happened yesterday?”
So it’s out. Everyone knows. I’m not surprised, just horrified. “As good as can be expected.”
“If there’s anything I, we, can do, just let us know. Chantal and I just feel terrible. It’s, well, you know, it’s just not fair.”
“Thanks, Kristi. I appreciate that.” Tears roll down my cheeks. “I’ll be in touch.”
As soon as I put down the phone, it rings again. Mike. He’s already at his office. “Hey,” I say with all the false cheer I can muster.
“I’m coming to pick you up,” he says. “I’ll be in front of your place at eight.”
“You don’t need to do that,” I say, thinking what a nice guy he is. “Thanks, but I can take the T. It’s not a problem.”
“It’s the media. I don’t want you walking in there on your own.”
I take a moment to process this.
“Claire?”
“I’ll be on the sidewalk.”
As I dress, I remind myself that I’m not in jail, not locked up in a cell, and Aiden has at least a few more days. Mike said we should be out in an hour. I’ll still have the whole day.
When I reach the sidewalk, I blink at the brightness; about four inches of snow covers the ground. It doesn’t seem possible that my walk through the gray and stinging snow was only yesterday. Now the sky’s a fierce, clear blue, and the sun shoots sparks of light from every surface. It’s quieter, prettier, less gritty than yesterday. But it’s also terrifically cold. So short a time. Such great changes. I close my eyes against the glare and pull my collar up against the wind. I think about the joy I felt at the sight of Nighttime T in the window of Markel G. That, too, was only yesterday.
The honk of a horn breaks my reverie. It’s Mike, of course, and his face is grim.
“What do they know?” I ask, as soon as I’m inside.
He doesn’t ask why I’m not up-to-date on the events, just looks at me with an expression of knowing sympathy. “Well, obviously, about your arrest and arraignment. At about the time we were down at headquarters, the Gardner announced their After the Bath is a forgery. And later in the evening, all the major media outlets were reporting that Markel G had been closed down by the feds.”
An official forgery. More reason for the Gardner to push to find the painting. A ray of hope. But more reason for Lyons to be suspicious of me.
“Is it true?” Mike asks. “About the gallery?”
I can only nod.
“I’m sorry, Claire.” He touches my knee. “Tough break.”
I look down at my hands.
“And there’s one more thing …”
I close my eyes. “What?”
“It’s not major, just the judge. We got Zwerdling. In public, she’s referred to as the witch. In private, as something that rhymes with it.”
“Does that really matter? I thought you said the arraignment was pretty straightforward?”
“It is. As long as the prosecutor doesn’t ask to revisit your O.R. status.”
My stomach takes a nosedive. “They could send me back to jail?”
“Hardly ever happens,” he assures me.
I search his face. I want to believe him, desperately want to believe him, but I can’t be sure if he’s telling me the truth or telling me the truth he thinks I need to hear.
“The main issue now is getting into the courthouse,” Mike says, moving on. “It’s not going to be pretty, which is why I want to be with you. We have to walk up the main stairs, but there’ll be cops there to clear the way for us. Still, reporters are going to be yelling questions at us, thrusting microphones in our faces, taking pictures. Do you think you can handle that?”
“I’ve been through this before, remember?” I say, with much more bravado than I feel.
He takes his eyes off the road. “Not even close.”
I raise my chin. “I can handle it.”
He gives me a searching look, decides to let it go, and says, “One of my associates is meeting us there. Emma. Emma Yales. She’ll be on one side of you, I’ll be on the other. Stare straight ahead, don’t make eye contact, and keep walki
ng. Don’t say a word to anyone. No one. No matter what they say to you. And no matter how pissed off you get. Okay?”
“Okay.” Shit.
“Emma and I will take care of anything that might come up. But it’s unlikely.”
“Why are they making this into such a big deal?” I ask, hoping he’ll tell me it’s not. “It seems like a bit of media overkill, doesn’t it?”
“December’s a slow news month” is his answer. “And fortunately or unfortunately, you’re a beautiful woman with a past.”
Forty-six
We sit in Mike’s car in the parking lot behind the courthouse with the heat blasting. We’re early, waiting for Emma to show so she can protect my left flank as I walk the media gauntlet.
“So it’s like I said before,” Mike explains. “The arraignment’s totally procedural. A preliminary step. More like setting up a doctor’s appointment rather than actually being examined.”
“So I don’t have to take my clothes off until probable cause?” I ask.
Mike laughs. “Pretty much exactly right. Never heard it put quite like that before, but, yeah.” He grins at me. “Glad your sense of humor’s still intact. It’s a good thing to have around.”
A knock on the window.
Mike climbs from the car. “Emma,” he says, smiling and shaking her hand with both of his.
I follow, and he introduces us. Emma is buff and black, with a do-not-tread-on-me aura emanating from every pore. I’m glad she’s on my side.
In silence, we walk along the side of the building. When we turn the corner, I come to a complete stop. Mike and Emma each grab one of my arms and try to propel me forward. I don’t budge.
“It’s better to get it over with,” Mike says. “Faster the better.”
“We’ve got your back.” Emma gives my arm a squeeze.
But my feet are cemented to the sidewalk. Dozens of reporters, photographers, videographers, and hangers-on line both sides of the steps, held back by yellow police tape and strategically placed cops. Vans with bold graphics and satellite dishes clutter the street. Not even close, Mike said when I told him I’d been through this before. He wasn’t kidding.
“Take three deep breaths,” Mike says. “Then we’re going in.”
I do as he says, and before I know it, I’m at the bottom of the stairs and climbing; Mike and Emma have their elbows out, clearly not afraid to use them. Despite the bright sunlight, camera flashes spark at the edges of my vision. A sea of voices call out.
“Where are the rest of the paintings?”
“Who’s behind the heist?”
“Are the paintings safe? Have any of them been destroyed?”
“How does it feel to have painted something good enough to dupe the Gardner?”
“Does this mean you’re not a pretender?”
I stumble on a step, but Mike and Emma hold on tight. “Keep moving, Claire,” Mike murmurs. “Almost there.”
But we’re not almost there. We’re barely a quarter of the way up.
“Where’s the original? Does Aiden Markel have it?”
“What about Whitey Bulger? Have you spoken with him since his arrest?”
I’d laugh at this last question if I weren’t so freaked out. How connected do these people think I am?
“Claire,” a woman calls in a friendly voice. “What do you think they’re going to find in the basement of the Gardner?”
I turn to her. “Degas’ original.”
She shoves a microphone at me. “Who put it there?”
Mike yanks me away before I can answer. “I told you not to say anything,” he growls under his breath.
“But that’s what’s going to help us,” I argue. “Finding the original’s the way out of this mess.”
“What’s going to help us is for you to shut the fuck up.”
I’m so dumbfounded that he’s spoken to me this way that I shut the fuck up. Jake’s Mike would never raise his voice, never use the f word, and never be rude. I stare at my feet and climb.
We finally step through the front door, and Mike points toward the metal detector on the far left. “We’ll meet you on the other side,” he says, as if speaking to an annoying child who’s pushed him too far. Which, I suppose, is an apt description.
“Sorry,” I say, as soon as we’re cleared. “My bad.”
But he doesn’t smile and forgive me as I expect him to. Instead, he spears me with his gaze and says, “You’ve got to understand that we’re no longer friends. Or not friends in the present circumstances. I’m the lawyer and you’re the client—the defendant is how you’ll be referred to in this courthouse—and it’s important that you do everything, and I mean everything, I say. If you don’t like my advice, you should think about getting a different lawyer.”
“MS. ROTH,” JUDGE Zwerdling says sternly, looking at me over tortoise-shell reading glasses. “You have been charged with four crimes against the Commonwealth. I’m going to read each one out to you, and you will respond with your plea: guilty or not guilty. Is that clear?”
I glance at the prosecutor sitting at his desk across from us, then at Mike, who’s standing next to me. Mike nods.
“Forgery,” she intones.
Mike told me to say just “not guilty,” nothing more nothing less, to maintain eye contact, and to think about how innocent I am. I was sure I could do this, but now I look down at my shaky hands, and heat rushes to my cheeks. My mouth is so dry, I don’t think I can speak. I must look like a guilty mess.
“Forgery.” This time it’s louder, more harsh.
“Not guilty,” I say, but my voice comes out a whisper.
“Speak louder, Ms. Roth.”
I clasp my hands behind my back in a losing attempt to still them. “Not guilty.”
“Transportation of stolen goods.”
“Not guilty.” I square my shoulders and look at her.
Mike leans in. “Good. Better.”
“Sale of stolen goods.”
“Not guilty,” I say, with more force as the charges get more and more absurd.
“Conspiracy to commit fraud.”
I do everything I can to maintain eye contact, to show her I’m not afraid of the charge. “Not guilty.”
Judge Zwerdling looks at me, then at the papers in front of her. She reads through some files, frowns. She turns to the prosecutor, who’s shuffling files at his table.
“Mr. Oden, is there anything you want to add.”
“Yes, your honor.” Oden steps forward, holding a sheaf of papers in his right hand. He’s clearly quite young, but his wispy hair has receded to behind his ears, and he’s flabby and pale and has the look of a fish. I dislike him immediately.
“The government believes that Ms. Roth is a danger to the people of the Commonwealth and a flight risk,” he says. “We make a motion to revoke O.R. status in lieu of bail to be set at $100,000.”
I grab Mike’s arm. “Jail? Me back?” is all I can manage to get out.
“Stay cool,” he whispers, but the look he exchanges with Emma is anything but.
“But $100,000?” I hiss in his ear. “I don’t have $100,000.”
“On what do you base this motion, Mr. Oden?”
“Ms. Roth has admitted to painting a forgery of a priceless painting by Edgar Degas that was stolen from the Gardner Museum in 1990. It is such a good forgery that experts believe she copied it from the original Degas taken in the heist. This would put her in direct contact and collusion with the thieves, making her both a danger and a flight risk.”
I can’t believe I’m hearing this. My worst nightmare. The absolute worst outcome.
“May I speak, your honor?” Mike asks. When the judge grants permission, Mike says, “There is absolutely no basis to the contention that Ms. Roth had the stolen Degas in her custody. Not only is there no evidence to place it in her possession, but the thought of anyone being able to attest to this fact is absurd. The painting hasn’t been seen by anyone in over twenty years.”
“Do you have any proof of this claim, Mr. Oden?”
“There is also another concern, your honor. The painting that Ms. Roth does admit forging was found in the hands of Ashok Patel, a man suspected of trafficking in stolen artworks. Now, we know for a fact that that painting was in her possession and that it ended up in his. So it follows that she is also involved in criminal trafficking. It is also quite interesting that her own artwork is to be displayed at the Newbury Street gallery Markel G, owned by Aiden Markel, who, incidentally, has been arrested for selling this very same painting to Patel. The coincidences here are as large as the profits involved in such crimes, and her access to a large amount of cash is definitely a risk factor.”
“Again,” Mike says, “there is absolutely no evidence supporting Ms. Roth’s purported involvement with art thieves and traffickers. The logic is completely circular and erroneous. There is no evidence that Mr. Markel is guilty of the crime with which he is charged, and there is absolutely no evidence that Ms. Roth was involved with his business dealings. Should every artist represented by Markel G be locked up in jail? This is complete fantasy on the part of the—”
“I’m not as sure of that as you appear to be,” Zwerdling interrupts. “She did admit to painting the forgery, and it was confiscated by the FBI soon after she claims to have finished it. There very well might be a connection there.”
“Ms. Roth has never admitted to painting a forgery,” Mike corrects. “She has admitted to painting a copy of a copy. There is a large difference here, and it is this difference that makes Mr. Oden’s argument moot.”
“Go on,” the judge says.
“The only reason the painting was confiscated in the first place,” Mike continues, “is because the authorities assumed it was a real Degas, a stolen masterpiece. It has now been determined not to be a masterpiece, not to have been painted by Degas, and not to have been stolen. If it had been known to be a copy painted by Claire Roth, it never would have been seized, and the men now in jail for its sale, possession, and suspected trafficking would not have been arrested. Nor would Ms. Roth.”
“Even if what Mr. Dannow says was true,” Oden interjects, “which it isn’t, the government also contends that as this case has a very real bearing on a much more serious crime, the multimillion-dollar Gardner heist, we need to be assured that any evidence pertaining to the second case is preserved.”
The Art Forger Page 28
