Had she reined herself in too much to be Mrs. Jay Gladstone?
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Around the time Jay dropped behind the wheel of the Mercedes and tore out of his Bedford driveway, Christine Lupo lay in bed reading the third in a series of popular mystery novels about a Dublin coroner. He had an estranged wife, a heroin-addicted son, and a drinking problem sparked by the first two circumstances. He loved Guinness stout and Roquefort cheese, and suffered from gout and mild depression. Still, he nabbed the criminals in the first two books and Christine expected the third to resolve with some clarity and hope. As far as she was concerned, for all of his hardships, the coroner’s professional life was far easier than hers.
Dressed in a flannel nightgown, she fingered the small gold cross hanging from a thin chain around her neck. It was pleasant to be alone. The implosion of her marriage was troubling from a logistical perspective, but she was relieved to be done with Dominic Lupo. The discovery of infidelity will make a person question everything they believe to be true and for Christine—who craved certainty—that was unbearable. She noticed the time on the digital clock on the nightstand. Closing the book, she got out of bed and padded across the upstairs hallway to check on her kids, who slept in adjacent bedrooms. Lucia was already asleep, and Dominic Jr. was in bed listening to music on headphones. He had his father’s thin face and dark hair and wore a black T-shirt that said Thank God I’m An Atheist in bold white lettering. She was not amused. For the oldest child of a Republican gubernatorial candidate to be seen wearing it would cause problems upstate and on Long Island.
“Where did you get that T-shirt?”
He took off the headphones in a way that conveyed to his mother he was not pleased with being interrupted. She repeated the question.
“The Internet.”
“Don’t wear it outside the house,” she ordered.
“Why?”
“Because I’m telling you.”
“Yeah, whatever.”
“Don’t whatever me, Dom. I mean it.”
Under his breath, he said, “Fascist,” still loud enough for his mother to hear.
“What did you say?”
Emboldened: “I said you’re a fascist.”
“What do you know about fascists?”
“They’re against freedom.”
“Anything else?”
“That’s all I know.”
“Obviously, because you got a ‘C’ in history.” She hadn’t meant to insult him like that but, just like his father, this kid could get under her skin. He was upset about the divorce. She needed to give him a break, but it was hard given how he was looking at her. Like she was his enemy.
“Can you just leave me out of your life? I didn’t ask you to run for office, and I’ll wear this fuckin’ T-shirt if I want, and I’ll get you one for your birthday.”
Her charitable impulse vaporized. That kind of impudence would not be tolerated, but given that Dominic Jr. had already expressed a preference for living with his father she didn’t want to make the situation worse. What she said: “Ha ha.”
Believing he had bested his mother, the boy shifted his attention to the Katy Perry poster taped to the wall opposite his bed.
Christine, who was constitutionally unable to let her son off the hook, ordered him to remove the T-shirt and hand it to her. He resisted but when she said “Dominic, if you don’t want to be grounded, take off that goddamn T-shirt and hand it over,” it was clear that resistance was futile. He peeled the T-shirt off and hurled it in her direction. She picked it up off the floor.
“It cost twenty-five bucks!”
“You should spend your money more wisely.”
Ordinarily, she would have asked if he had completed his homework but her son had been accepted at two colleges that week, so she just said goodnight. He grunted at her and slipped the headphones back on. Christine worried that the boy blamed the failure of the marriage on her, and since she and her husband had mutually agreed to withhold the circumstances from their children, she decided that there was no option but to endure the current situation and hope for its resolution at some indeterminate future date.
Back in her bedroom, she considered reading another chapter of the novel. She enjoyed books like this because they presented evil and then punished it, unlike her job where compromise was usually the order of the day. Criminals in her world were found not guilty at trial, others plea bargained their sentences down and barely paid the price for their crimes. If a mystery novel was ambivalent on the subject of right and wrong, if it trafficked in the belief that the police and the criminals had something in common, if it was in any way morally ambivalent, she wanted to throw it across the room. To have a story tied up in a bow was a great comfort.
Just after four, Christine’s cell phone vibrated. The phone buzzed for nearly thirty seconds before the DA woke up and grabbed it. Her deputy, Lou Pagano, apologized for awakening her. He had received a call from the night shift felony ADA informing him police arrested Jay Gladstone in Bedford, arraignment at the County Courthouse in a few hours. Since the defendant was a public figure, whose presence in the courtroom was guaranteed to generate considerable attention, did she have any special instructions? Christine was only a casual sports fan—she knew what a contemporary New York politician needed to know for small talk (Yankees in playoffs, Jets struggling, Knicks hopeful)—and was aware of Jay Gladstone more from his role as a real estate magnate than as a team owner. But even in a sleep-addled state, it did not escape her that the police shooting incident had occurred at Gladstone Village. As the most consequential citizen to ever enter her domain, his would be the most high-profile prosecution since a private school headmistress murdered a prominent doctor back in the early 1980s, a case that had fascinated a gawping nation and spawned several quickie books and a made-for-television movie.
She sat up in bed. “What’s he being charged with?”
Pagano recited the facts as best he knew them at that point. Christine was already energized by the prospect of having someone as prominent as Jay Gladstone in one of her courtrooms, but when Pagano informed her that the injured party was the NBA All-Star D’Angelo Maxwell, she nearly gasped. Only vaguely aware of him as an individual, the phrase “All-Star” illuminated his celebrity status as if with klieg lights.
D’Angelo Maxwell’s race did not escape Christine’s attention either.
Jangling like a tambourine, she was unable to get back to sleep. Her driver would not pick her up for several hours. How would she fill the time? She grabbed a notepad and jotted down a few thoughts, but found it difficult to focus. She needed to be lucid to get anything useful done. But what an opening this was! No one would ever misjudge her if she were able to put someone like Jay Gladstone behind bars. Not that insufferable head of the police union, or that foul-mouthed criminal who had cursed her in public, and certainly not a political opponent. She wanted to go to the office immediately, but that was impossible. She glanced around the bedroom and saw her son’s T-shirt. She had tossed it on a chair earlier intending to dispose of it in the morning. Now she grabbed it and headed downstairs.
Dominic Sr. liked to barbecue during the summer months. He cooked the usual sausages and peppers, burgers and chicken, the occasional ribeye steaks. Last year he had purchased a new gas grill, and it sat forlornly on the patio, unused since the previous autumn. Christine was about to change that. She had thrown a jacket over her nightgown. The night was a sea of stars. No lights were on at the neighbors’ houses. She lifted the metal cover and placed the T-shirt on the grill.
While the DA was doing this, she pondered her options. The universe was serving her Jay Gladstone on a platter. Only the severity of the charges against him remained to be determined. Were they sufficiently grave, it might grant her maneuverability in the John Eagle case. Because the victim was black, the Gladstone indictment would give her cov
er for not convening a grand jury in the cop shooting. It was the most elegant juridical jiujitsu imaginable. She knew what happened when a famous person was on trial. It was the legal equivalent of a jet engine, sucking up all other cases in its wake.
Briefly, her mind alighted on the morality of this idea. She certainly didn’t want D’Angelo Maxwell to die. Grievous bodily harm would serve her purposes, too. She didn’t want that either; recognized it would be ghoulish to wish for anything remotely close. But she couldn’t help it if Jay Gladstone ran a famous athlete over with his car. It was a nasty situation. If she could wrest a single positive consequence from something so awful, was that inherently wrong? Did she possess the capacity to engineer something so audacious? If she had the nerve, it would be a masterstroke.
Christine baptized the T-shirt with lighter fluid, struck a match, and ignited it. The flames curled up and illuminated her face, already flushed with anticipation and possibility. The T-shirt burned easily, the fibers blackening like a marshmallow. In the morning, she would show her son the ashes.
THE ACE, W.A.C.E. AM
NEW YORK SPORTS TALK RADIO
WITH SAL D’AMICO AND THE SPORTSCHICK
SAL: The story right now, Sportschick, and all anyone is talking about is D’Angelo Maxwell and Prince Jay Gladstone.
SPORTSCHICK: All we know is there was a car accident up in Westchester County and Jay Gladstone got arrested.
SAL: An ambulance took both of them to the hospital. It’s all over the Internet. A terrible accident, we have no idea why Gladstone was arrested, and we hope both of them are okay. Our thoughts and prayers are with the families.
SPORTSCHICK: Jay Gladstone is a stand-up guy. I interviewed him last year, and he’s a real gentleman.
SAL: Old school.
SPORTSCHICK: I like Dag, too. Treats the media with respect.
SAL: Very bright guy. Very personable. Both of them major figures in the world of sports, one in the hospital, the other one in serious legal trouble.
SPORTSCHICK: We wish the two of them a speedy recovery.
SAL: Definitely. Fellas, get well soon! And let’s also mention what this means for the team. The timing of this from a basketball standpoint could not have been worse. The ball club is currently only one game out of the playoffs, and now their best player is in intensive care. If they make the playoffs, will he be back in time?
SPORTSCHICK: We don’t even know if he’s gonna play again.
SAL: You’re right. Forget the playoffs. Hey, we’re not even thinking playoffs. We still don’t know the extent of his injuries. We just hope he’s okay. So, what went down last night?
SPORTSCHICK: Let’s be clear to the listeners that we don’t have any special knowledge here on the ACE. We’re speculating.
SAL: So, speculate.
SPORTSCHICK: First of all, who was driving? Do we even know?
SAL: Let’s back up. The accident happened in Bedford, which is where Jay Gladstone lives. What was Dag Maxwell doing in Bedford?
SPORTSCHICK: Visiting?
SAL: You think they socialize?
SPORTSCHICK: Why not?
SAL: Lemme tell you why not. Jay Gladstone does not socialize with his players. Very few owners do that.
SPORTSCHICK: All right, who do you think was driving?
SAL: I’m gonna say Dag was driving. It’s a one-car accident on a country road. Dag wraps the car around a tree.
SPORTSCHICK: No chance Gladstone was driving?
SAL: Are you—what? No! It’s a one-car accident! Jay Gladstone is the most controlled, level headed, passion-free guy in New York sports today and any caller who wants to tell me his team is in New Jersey—put a cork in it. I know. It’s still New York sports, okay? Gladstone’s in his fifties, the man is not a drag racer. The man does not crash his car unless he’s under the influence and no one’s seen a blood alcohol report.
SPORTSCHICK: So it was Dag?
SAL: Most definitely.
SPORTSCHICK: Definitely?
SAL: Likely.
SPORTSCHICK: Wanna know what I think?
SAL: Lemme guess, you disagree?
SPORTSCHICK: I think Gladstone was driving. Dag in the passenger seat. He was up there visiting.
SAL: What, playing pinochle?
SPORTSCHICK: Pinochle? Sal, what are we, in 1962?
SAL: Everyone knows you’re younger than me. Don’t rub it in.
SPORTSCHICK: Maybe they’re playing video games.
SAL: They don’t socialize! You got a young black guy and an old white guy. What are they gonna talk about?
SPORTSCHICK: Money!
SAL: Get outta here!
SPORTSCHICK: Wouldja lemme finish?
SAL: I’m not stopping you.
SPORTSCHICK: Gladstone is driving—the wife is home, right?
SAL: The wife!
SPORTSCHICK: Gladstone’s at the wheel of the car and they’re going somewhere.
SAL: Where are they going in the middle of the night? You think Gladstone is taking Dag to the train?
SPORTSCHICK: Maybe a strip club.
SAL: In northern Westchester? You ever been there? All they have is trees.
SPORTSCHICK: Okay, I don’t know where they were going. I’m just saying, why would Dag be driving Gladstone somewhere? Gladstone’s the one who lives there.
SAL: Maybe the wife was driving.
SPORTSCHICK: The wife wasn’t in the car.
SAL: Hear me out. The wife is driving, she wrecks the car, and one of the guys takes the fall.
SPORTSCHICK: You see that in a movie?
SAL: What if I did?
SPORTSCHICK: Takes the fall for what, Sal? If she was driving, and that’s a pretty big if—
SAL: Hey, we’re in the realm of speculation.
SPORTSCHICK: If she was driving and she cracks the car up, no fatalities, why is anyone taking the fall? So her insurance rates don’t go up?
SAL: I don’t know. But I’m telling you, there’s a story here that’s gonna come out. Should we take a call?
SPORTSCHICK: Maybe someone can explain it.
SAL: Tommy from Queens, you’re on the Ace, W.A.C.E.
TOMMY: How you guys doing?
SPORTSCHICK: What do you think happened, Tommy?
TOMMY: Personally, I think Dag wanted to get paid.
SAL: It’s business, Tommy. He shouldn’t get paid?
TOMMY: The team didn’t want to back up the money truck, Dag gets pissed off, Gladstone runs him over.
SAL: You’re saying it was on purpose?
TOMMY: People do things you never thought they could do.
SPORTSCHICK: Instead of trading him, the owner runs over the player?
TOMMY: It’s a theory. Let’s face it, Dag hasn’t lived up to expectations, he’s asking for the moon, Gladstone gets mad, and bing-bang-boom!
SAL: He takes a shot at his number one asset with his car?
TOMMY: I’m not saying it was rational. Guy gets angry; he does a stupid thing. Wouldn’t be the first time. I’ll tell you this: If that’s what happened, Gladstone’s gonna get away with it.
SAL: Why?
TOMMY: Because he’s rich.
SPORTSCHICK: Guy’s got a point, Sal.
SAL: First of all, no way Gladstone was driving the car. What sports owner—football, baseball, hockey, or basketball—is going to run over his number one asset with a car? Especially a by-the-book guy like Jay Gladstone. Tommy, don’t take this the wrong way, your theory is bonkers. Let’s take another call.
CHAPTER THIRTY
In Franklin and Marcy Gladstone’s Long Island kitchen, the coffee was brewing, and the television on the white marble countertop was tuned to the morning news. An African-American female correspondent was reporting on an event President Obama
had attended at the Waldorf the previous evening. Dressed in a terrycloth robe, Franklin Gladstone stood in front of the open refrigerator, a look of consternation stamped on his face. He was holding a nearly empty carton of orange juice and watching the TV out of one eye. For much of the night, sleep had eluded him.
He called out, “Carmen, where are you?”
There was no sign of the live-in housekeeper. This situation did not improve his already dyspeptic mood. It exasperated Franklin to hear yet another news report about Obama, whose re-election he fervently opposed, and the orange juice situation further irritated him. Three times he had awakened the previous night, twice to urinate, and one time because who knows why? He had a lot on his mind. It could have been his daughter who was failing trigonometry; it could have been business, what did it matter? He had not slept well since the night of the Seder when Jay told him he wanted to audit the books of the Asian operation.
“Carmen!” Louder. “I told you not to let the orange juice run out!”
Where was that woman? Usually, she was bustling around the kitchen at this time of day preparing his breakfast, half a grapefruit cut twelve ways for easy scooping of the chunks, and a slice of wheat toast, dry. Grapefruit and wheat toast? It was torture. To Marcy, he kvetched: The terrorists at Guantanamo eat better! Franklin used to love to consume marbled steaks, French cheeses, rich desserts. But since his cardiologist told him might drop dead if he didn’t lower his cholesterol, he had grown to dread meals. Poured the ounce of juice that remained into a glass, drank it down, and threw the carton in the garbage can under the sink. Cursed under his breath and served himself some coffee with nonfat milk. Did he have to manage the maid, too? He would tell Marcy to talk to Carmen.
As he emptied the third packet of artificial sweetener into his cup, he heard the anchorman say the name Jay Gladstone and Franklin wearily turned his head toward the television. Out of orange juice, no sign of the maid, and again Jay was getting more attention he didn’t deserve. If this was the kind of day it was going to be, he might as well go back to bed.
The Hazards of Good Fortune Page 31
