In the kitchen she poured a tumbler full of scotch and grabbed a sleeve of saltines from the box. For months, she had pulled her Gristedes food orders from childhood lists. Oreos. Campbell’s tomato soup. Ingredients for tuna noodle casserole. Phoebe had turned from the Silver Palate Cookbook to Betty Crocker.
She stuffed saltines in her mouth to absorb the scotch, alternating alcohol and crackers until she emptied the glass.
Drunk, but steady—proud of her crafty move with the saltines—she lurched into the bedroom. First she stripped the linens and threw them into the laundry room. Then she took Jake’s pillows, redolent of his scent, and stuffed them in a trash bag.
Luz had warned her against “divesting” of anything, reminding her of the papers she signed promising not to sell or remove “goods, tangible or otherwise.” She tried to imagine someone wanting pillows reeking of Jacob Pierce.
After rolling a suitcase to the bedroom, she threw Jake’s clothes on the bare mattress. She swept everything off the top of his dresser. Ties—she grabbed his millions of fucking ties—ripped them off the mechanized rack. Shirts, handmade, stitched with stolen money; armfuls went on the pile. Suits. Pants. Thick, absorbent robes. Silk pajamas. Cashmere socks. Pair after pair; a fortune used just to cover his feet.
She threw them in one suitcase and then another and then two more, and then shoved them into his study with the trash bag of pillows. His Lee Child, James Patterson, and Brad Thor books piled on the nightstand, she tossed to the floor, lusting for a huge torch with which to light them.
In the kitchen, she pitched boxes of Sugar Wafers, bags of M&M’s. The rye bread Jake liked, the Ritz crackers he crumbled into soup, the Philadelphia cream cheese he smeared on bagels, the orange juice he drank: she threw all his favorites into the trash bag and lugged the overloaded plastic to the garbage chute.
She looked around the family room for evidence. A crystal bowl of nuts Phoebe first emptied and then, holding it between her fingers as though it were toxic, flung into a study, grateful for the sound of shattering.
Phoebe needed breakage, to throw and heave and pound, and the goddamned FBI wouldn’t let her touch a thing. They hated her. They all hated her, Jake’s handmaiden.
She circled the den, prowling Jake’s cage until she came to his earphones dangling by a chair—his favorite, overstuffed and built for comfort with a matching ottoman—plugged in to music as he read. Drawn and unable to stop, she sat in Jake’s indentation and jammed his headphones on her ears, adjusting the band before they slipped off.
She went back three songs in the playlist Kate helped him set up—his last Father’s Day present. She threw back her head, Jake’s soft charcoal sweater against her hair. Waves of the past washed in, beginning with Harry Connick Jr. singing “It Had to Be You.” Each time Connick’s version of the song, their songs, played, he’d croon along, his awful voice leaving her breathless with laughter.
Phoebe’s heart caught, and tears poured down at the first sounds of “Let’s Stay Together.” Jake holding her tight at Solomon’s wedding, dancing to the Al Green song, her hand on his broad shoulder, the feel of the wool suit, the scent of his starched white shirt, his smooth cheek when she reached up to stroke him.
Fuck you, Jake.
Fuckyoufuckyoufuckyou.
CHAPTER 33
Phoebe
August 2009
Phoebe wandered the halls of the penthouse one last time, as agents tracked her every move. They’d been in and out of the apartment for weeks, tagging every item to enter in a master list so that she wouldn’t take off with what was now property of the US government.
She’d become inured to the insanity of what they’d tagged, wondering who’d bid in the planned auction of all things Pierce. Of course, the rare Vacheron Constantin watches, some more than a hundred years old, and her Van Cleef & Arpels diamond earrings, worth over seventy-five thousand—and so heavy she rarely wore them—would bring salivating buyers. But Jake’s boxer shorts and her yoga pants? Her colander?
Phoebe steeled herself against the humiliation of having her life displayed in a hotel ballroom where people judged her by cloth and jewels. All she wanted were a few things from her mother, her grandmothers—things not bought with blood money—for Katie, for her granddaughters, but no. They wouldn’t let her choose anything from before Jake’s crimes. Even the 10K gold ring worn to a sliver of gleaming metal by her great-grandmother’s fingers was added to their list of items for sale. She begged to keep the red Pyrex mixing bowl from her mother’s set—Deb had the blue one. The bowl was no collectible. Fork scrapes marked a thousand beaten eggs. But apparently someone might want to pay for the privilege of owning the homely bowl. Like everything else, by order of the feds, she’d leave it behind.
The feds thought everything the Pierces owned was valuable enough to auction off. She tried to imagine what pleasure or revenge someone could derive from Jake’s underwear or her kitchen appliances. Their infamy must be far larger than she imagined if owning her mother’s bowl provided cachet.
Today she’d leave with a small cloth suitcase so old it lacked wheels, filled with the few things her lawyer had won in the battle for bras and belts. Some jeans. A few sweaters. A lined raincoat. Harriet Joyner, the woman Gideon chose as Phoebe’s counsel, fought harder than Phoebe thought she deserved. She sat in Harriet’s office, nodding as the steel cable of a woman drew up paperwork that paid no attention to Phoebe’s innocence, guilt, or desire to divest herself of anything related to Jake’s crimes, including all the money he’d put into accounts in her name.
“It’s your last chance to come out with a penny,” Harriet had drilled into her. “I don’t care what the world says. You worked, you started a business, and you raised a family. You never had a clue what Jake did. You were another one of his victims.”
Harriet came from Brooklyn, middle class, same as Phoebe, although her version of growing up Brooklyn was as a black girl in the Canarsie neighborhood. The connection united them enough for Harriet to still Phoebe’s objections with a glance. After fighting for the whole enchilada, knowing the end product would be a fraction of her request, if anything, Harriet had shocked the legal community with a million-dollar deal. This number, which to the average person sounded like an unimaginable fortune, would be considerably shrunk by the time Phoebe paid Harriet and gave half to Deb.
In the end, she might have a quarter million, which she’d leave untouched, hoping she could bring in seven thousand to eight thousand dollars a year in interest while she lived on Social Security. She’d be more secure than most retirees in the country, though a pauper by previous standards.
And then there was the theory of relativity. No more having to report expenses over a hundred dollars. Her minders from the feds had previously turned down her requests to subscribe to the New York Times. Basic cable was all she was allowed. Her prescriptions for Ambien and Xanax were scrutinized, but in the end, Harriet fought for her right to have the pills while Phoebe remained under federal control. Now it was over. She could fill morphine prescriptions if she so pleased. If she walked out with nothing but her jeans and raincoat, freedom was hers, if only from the government’s oversight. However, Jake still swung from her neck like the millstone he’d become.
Phoebe removed from the fridge curling pictures held with magnets, grateful that Harriet secured her personal photo albums, starting with her three granddaughters, none of whom she’d seen since November, nine months before. Then she leaned her fingers on her antidote for tears, the decidedly different item on the refrigerator: rules from the Federal Bureau of Prisons.
Dress Code
Wear clothing that is appropriate for a large gathering of men, women, and young children. Wearing inappropriate clothing (such as provocative or revealing clothes) may result in your being denied visitation.
The following items are not permitted:
revealing shorts
sundresses
halter tops
ba
thing suits
see-through garments of any type
crop tops
low-cut blouses or dresses
leotards
spandex
miniskirts
backless tops
hats or caps
sleeveless garments
skirts two inches or more above the knee
dresses or skirts with a high-cut split in the back, front, or side
clothing that looks like inmate clothing (khaki or green military-type clothing)
Visiting Duration
By law, an inmate gets at least four hours of visiting time per month but usually the prison can provide more. However, the Warden can restrict the length of visits or the number of people who can visit at once, to avoid overcrowding in the visiting room.
General Behavior
Because many people are usually visiting, it is important visits are quiet, orderly, and dignified. The visiting room officer can require you to leave if either you or the inmate is not acting appropriately.
Physical Contact
In most cases, handshakes, hugs, and kisses (in good taste) are allowed at the beginning and end of a visit. Staff may limit contact for security reasons (to prevent people from trying to introduce contraband) and to keep the visiting area orderly. The Federal Bureau of Prisons does not permit conjugal visits.
Phoebe folded the list and tucked it into her jeans pocket.
The world wanted her to suffer, and she would. Punishment felt deserved. Why the hell should she benefit in any way, including the amount Harriet managed?
A good girl to the end, Phoebe locked the door as she left, knowing the men and women in FBI jackets would change the locks within the hour. She pressed the elevator button and then traveled down, hefting the suitcase her mother had carried so long ago.
Manny hugged her with undeserved warmth.
“You’ve been so good to me,” she said, as she leaned her head into his shoulder. “Why?”
“They pushed you down so far that it’s impossible not to give you a hand up.”
Shit. How did she not see him before? How many people did her ascension blind her to? “I’m sorry for whatever asshole stuff Jake or I did.”
Manny dropped his mask enough for Phoebe to see the person, not the doorman. “Nobody wants to see us, Mrs. Pierce. Hell, we work for tips; we hide deep. Now you have no more money to give, and I have nothing to lose with you, but honestly, you were never an asshole with me. There’s that.”
“That’s quite a gift.” She kissed him on the cheek, inhaling his warm cologne. “You saved me more than anyone, and I did nothing to earn it. Thank you.”
For the last time, she walked out the labyrinth leading to the rusty gate at the back. One lone paparazzi smoking a cigarette spotted and followed her as she headed toward the street a few blocks away, where Helen waited to drive her away. Determined to get out of Manhattan without being tailed, she flagged a cab, knowing a photograph would read something along the lines of “Phoebe’s Still Riding.”
Dollars ticked as she rode the short distance to the rendezvous spot Helen had chosen, a longer trip by car than by walking, not unusual in New York.
“There,” she said to the driver. “The silver Camry.”
He slid into the illegal space behind Helen’s car. Phoebe’s wallet held five hundred dollars, the last amount approved by the faceless FBI budget master—apparently the sum on which a person could begin a new life.
She handed the driver a twenty for the eight-dollar ride, waiting for her change, multiplying by twenty percent and then some for the tip. After a moment of receiving nothing, she leaned forward and angled her head into an inquisitive pose.
“Yeah?” The driver’s mustache moved under his drinker’s nose, as he chomped on an unlit cigar.
“My change?”
“Really, Mrs. Pierce?” He drew her name out as though sharing a dirty joke.
Phoebe glanced at his identification. “Yes. Really, Mr. Kane.”
“Ya know, you and your husband got plenty to make good on, but he’s locked up. And you’re here.” The scratched plastic shield separating them muted his voice. “So you can start with twelve bucks for me and go from there.”
Rage blindsided her. Months of waiting in the background, handmaiden to the most despised man in Manhattan, added to months of the press painting her as a money-grubbing accomplice to Jake’s crimes, balled up in a white flash toward this vile man.
“Give me my money.” Phoebe’s frenzy of anger built till she thought it would consume her. She could barely control her impulse to scream as an elevator of hatred traveled up her chest.
She bit her lip and forced herself to look outside, calm herself. Window boxes filled with bright red geraniums decorated the white town house behind Helen’s car.
This man.
This prick.
He thinks he knows me.
They all think they know me.
They think they know my life.
She took out her phone, switched it to camera mode, and, zooming in, she snapped a picture of his hack license.
“Hey? Whaddya doing?”
“Keeping tabs and keeping track, Mr. Kane.”
Slamming the door shut as she left the taxi, she stepped out into the August heat.
She’d lived like a mole since December and now, like a mole, she blinked, trying to take in the idea of living in the sun.
CHAPTER 34
Phoebe
Living in Poughkeepsie, New York, was so far outside anything Phoebe ever planned, that waking each morning still surprised her four months after moving there. The moment she opened her eyes, she’d look around in confusion, straining to orient herself to her new surroundings.
Poughkeepsie provided anonymity while remaining just a two-hour train ride to New York City. Her apartment complex boasted a quiet drug trade, a pool rumored to open a few weeks each summer, and carpeting that appeared to be made of recycled plastic supermarket bags.
A view of the Hudson River afforded a bit of pleasure, but otherwise her cramped one-bedroom’s only advantage was cheap rent and neighbors who didn’t give a shit.
• • •
Phoebe readied to see Kate. Already swathed in winter layers for the ten-block walk to the restaurant where they’d meet, she wrapped on a final touch—a scratchy but warm scarf—and then glanced in the entry mirror.
She’d hung the mirror a few weeks ago, thinking its red oval frame would detract from the two locks and chain on the black metal door and chipped mushroom-colored paint. Instead, the vivid shade played up the dinginess like fuchsia lipstick on a toothless woman. Few of her improvements made a difference in her melancholy of estrangement.
But today was different. Elation rose with a yeasty delight at seeing Kate for the first time since Jake’s confession.
She peered in the mirror more closely. The color of her hat should have been named is-this-navy-or-black?—the shade, endemic to companies who skimped on using adequate and proper dye, could flatter nobody. Her longer hair required fewer cuts. She also changed her appearance by pulling it back and up. Not becoming, but the style served her purpose: invisibility. People barely noticed women her age anyway—with her hair, she guaranteed it. When she truly needed to hide, Phoebe wore brown contact lenses. Today she applied two coats of mascara and kept her eyes blue.
Phoebe slipped on sunglasses and left the house. The street where she lived might appear threatening through her daughter’s eyes. Industrial lineage haunted the area, bringing to mind thoughts of shadowed murder and leg breakings.
• • •
Poughkeepsie Slices provided decent pizza, red leather booths, and a beer and wine license.
Kate waited in the back of the restaurant.
Phoebe rushed over, cognizant of not drowning her daughter in need and love, but not able to hold much back. She drank her in, absorbing her through her eyes.
“Baby.” She held out her arms. After hesitatin
g, Kate fell into her. Phoebe enveloped her daughter, whose familiar scents overwhelmed Phoebe with sadness at the extraordinary length of time without seeing her and the joy at finally being together.
Kate’s hair no longer framed her face in perfect waves but hung lank and dry, pulled back by the sunglasses pushed on top of her head. In a year, Kate had passed from thin to scrawny. A burgundy sweater drooped in folds over her angles. Her cheekbones had sharpened to knife-edges.
They held hands across the table, taking comfort in touch before talk. Phoebe’s chipped nails matched Kate’s. Without manicures, facials, and all the other niceties they’d previously had on tap, the polished veneer of the moneyed lucky melted away mighty fast.
“How are you doing?” Phoebe dove in, needing to start somewhere. “Amelia? Zach?”
“Amelia’s almost fine, but she misses Grandma and Grandpa. Most of this goes over her head. Zach and I are holding on. He’s putting up with a lot.”
“You offer plenty. Don’t downplay your worth.”
“Look at me!” Kate wiggled her fingers as she outlined her body. “Not just me. You too. We’re mother-daughter ‘after’ portraits, except our makeovers went in the wrong direction.”
“Nothing like a scam to bring you from Saks to Target.”
“What’s to worry about, I guess? That we look like shit when the paparazzi catch us?” Kate noted. “I can actually feel schadenfreude hitting me as I walk down the street. It’s a physical thwack.”
“Your father’s locked away. We’re the only punching bags available.”
“Missy Ross turns the other way when she sees me. Literally, Mom, she turns her head as though I carry a stench.”
“Missy is hardly one to talk. She has the morals of a rat. Isn’t she the one who slept with three of her personal trainers?” Falling back into this mother-daughter rhythm with Kate provided balm so unfamiliar it just about knocked Phoebe over. Reconnection wouldn’t all be this easy, but she drank the moment’s available comfort.
The Widow of Wall Street Page 27
