The Hazards of Good Fortune

by Seth Greenland

  The victim? Jay had not thought of Dag in that context until now—a misfortune had befallen him for which he (Dag) bore some responsibility. The two were colleagues. “Victim” seemed too impersonal, although that was what he was. Jay was the perpetrator. That simple realization set off sparks.

  “What are the initial charges?” the judge asked.

  “We’ve got driving while intoxicated, felony assault, reckless endangerment in the first degree—” Pagano stopped as if he had still more to say.

  Hearing the litany intoned by the deputy DA one after the other only added to Jay’s already brimming distress. The judge asked if those were the extent of the charges. Again, Pagano hesitated. Was he finished? Whether the man was trying to collect his thoughts or pausing for effect, Jay did not know.

  “For now,” Pagano said.

  The difference between the first and second degree in the universe of reckless endangerment was lost on Jay, although he sensed the one they intended to charge him with was worse. Doomer asked permission to approach the bench, and the judge beckoned both counsels forward.

  “Thank you, Your Honor. As I’m sure Mr.—” Herman Doomer looked at the opposing counsel. “Forgive me, sir, I can’t recall your name.”

  “Pagano,” the deputy said, failing to hide his pique.

  “So it is.” Doomer offered a courtly nod before turning his attention back to Judge Rice with a conspicuous display of forbearance. “As I’m sure my esteemed colleague Mr. Pagano understands, in the State of New York, the charge of reckless endangerment in the first degree demands that the prosecution prove depraved indifference to human life. Depraved indifference, Your Honor. My client, Harold Jay Gladstone, I hardly need to say, is a business leader of great distinction, a celebrated professional sports team owner, a husband, a father, and the kind of citizen any polis”—yes, he said polis—“would be lucky to call its own.”

  Under other circumstances, Jay might have taken quiet satisfaction in hearing this recitation, but he only wanted the arraignment to be over.

  “We all know he’s an exemplary citizen, Mr. Doomer,” the judge said. “Please come to the point.”

  Doomer took the interruption in stride and did not react, something Jay appreciated. He did not want his attorney to alienate the judge.

  “Of course, Jay Gladstone has no prior criminal record. So, to associate the word ‘depraved’ with an individual of my client’s stature is nonsensical. Last night, what occurred was a car accident in which Mr. Gladstone suffered a serious injury. It was not felony assault much less reckless endangerment in the first degree, or the second degree, or any degree at all. Further, there are no breathalyzer results, so the DUI is not provable. Mr. Gladstone will willingly surrender his driver’s license for one year as New York State law demands. Your Honor, I hereby move that the court dismiss all charges.”

  The judge grinned at Doomer, one professional to another. The spiel he had just delivered on his client’s behalf was a corker.

  “Denied.”

  Pagano tried to suppress a rogue smile.

  “Mr. Pagano,” the judge said, “I assume, given the seriousness of the charges, the district attorney’s office intends to convene a grand jury.”

  “We do, Your Honor.”

  “All right, then. We’ll reconvene when the grand jury weighs in. In the matter of bail, what does the State request?”

  Without hesitation, Pagano said, “The State requests bail be set at one million dollars.”

  A close observer would have noticed Herman Doomer’s right eyebrow ascend slightly before returning to its usual place on his creased forehead. As for Jay, the figure seemed unduly high, the high that augured further and more challenging difficulties.

  “Your Honor,” Doomer said evenly, “Mr. Gladstone is not a flight risk, which appears to be what counsel is suggesting. Further, although my client is an individual of means and could raise the amount of money counsel has requested without undue hardship, we submit that a bail figure of that size is prejudicial to the potential jury pool in the event that this case ever goes to trial, since it implies a level of gravity which the charges do not merit.”

  The judge looked at the prosecutor.

  “We disagree,” Pagano said. “Just because a citizen of the defendant’s stature is in court doesn’t mean he gets treated differently than anyone else.”

  “Mr. Pagano—” the judge said.

  The deputy DA held his hand up, indicating a desire to speak. “Your Honor, may I?” Judge Rice nodded. “As you know, someone convicted of reckless endangerment in the first degree faces a prison sentence of up to seven years, and the state submits that anyone facing that kind of prison time is a potential flight risk.

  The judge asked Pagano if he was finished and the deputy district attorney said he was. Jay watched as the judge made a note on his pad. He used a fountain pen, and from this Jay extrapolated that the court might be sympathetic to him.

  “Bail is set at one million dollars and the defendant is ordered to immediately surrender his passport.”

  Jay turned to Doomer who, with a subtle downward motion of his hand, indicated that he should not react. He asked Jay where his passport was.

  “It’s with my wallet and belt.”

  A Court Officer was dispatched to retrieve the item, and it was returned to Jay who handed it to the lawyer who passed it to the judge. Doomer leaned toward Jay and whispered that he had arranged for the two of them to wait in an empty office while the bail logistics were being worked out. Along with another court officer, he led his client out of the courtroom where they were met by a pair of bruisers, white and black, clad in dark suits. Jay did not recognize them. When Jay looked questioningly at Doomer, the lawyer explained that he had taken the precaution of hiring private security guards for the day. As reporters approached, the bodyguards politely but firmly requested the media keep their distance.

  The court officer led the party down a hallway to an empty office and closed the door behind them, one guard remaining inside. The other was dispatched to procure for Jay a more appropriate shirt so he could finally get rid of the one gifted to him by the Bedford Police Department.

  The room, painted sea green, held a desk and several chairs. The walls were bare. It was the first space in the county courthouse Jay had occupied that had a window. He looked down to the sidewalk below and saw several television trucks parked at the curb. Jay contacted his banker. A vending machine candy bar appeared. While they waited, Doomer called the hospital to get an update on Dag’s condition. When the results were not immediate, Jay asked for the phone.

  “This is Jay Gladstone,” he said, with the casual assurance of someone who merely needed to invoke that name to make doors fly open, “and I’d like to speak to whoever runs the hospital.” The person on the other end informed Jay that she would have to take a message. “Tell them to return my call,” was the best he could do. Fighting the urge to yell, and sensing whatever other demands he might make would remain unmet, he handed the phone back to Doomer. It pained Jay for the lawyer to see his impotence.

  “We should be able to beat this, right?”

  “Ted Kennedy walked away from Chappaquiddick,” Doomer said. “There were no charges, and someone died. You haven’t killed anyone.”

  The history lesson comforted Jay, as did thoughts of Ted Kennedy’s subsequent distinguished legislative career. Americans mourned when he passed from the scene. All of this allowed Jay to believe everything was going to work out.

  When Jay appeared in front of the courthouse, the media surrounded him. Beyond them in the distance was the familiar sight of Boris standing sentinel next to the kind of black SUV seen in motorcades transporting world leaders. The members of the press were loud and insistent, full of brass and the class resentment that arises when a specimen like Jay Gladstone finds himself in front of a courthouse afte
r just having been arraigned. Doomer put his hand on Jay’s arm, indicating he should remain in place. He wanted nothing more than to sprint to the car, but Jay was not paying the attorney in order to ignore his advice.

  The reporters shouted:

  “What happened last night, Jay?”

  “Jay, Jay, over here!”

  “Was someone else in the car beside you and Dag?”

  “Mr. Gladstone!”

  “Is your nose broken?”

  “Hey, Prince Jay!”

  “Where were you and Dag going when the accident occurred?”

  “Will you take a plea deal?”

  “Jay, Jay, Jay, look this way!”

  The shutters of cameras rapidly clicked, video cameras shot footage that would be played and replayed on the evening news, reporters continued to call out questions that sounded like commands, and, perhaps most jarring to Jay, ordinary citizens held up cell phone cameras to record the circus, until Herman Doomer indicated he intended to speak and their collective attention shifted to his unruffled presence.

  “My client will not be making a statement this morning,” he said. The horde erupted again, and Doomer waited for the questions to subside. “What we can say at this time is that our primary focus is on the health of D’Angelo Maxwell, and we wish him a speedy recovery as I’m sure all of you do as well. He’s not only a terrific basketball player but he’s also a leader engaged in projects with Mr. Gladstone for the betterment of the community”—Jay was not aware of any projects the two of them were doing together but marveled at Doomer’s ability to shade the truth in service of his client—“and we all want to see him engaged in that work again and back on the court helping the team win an NBA title. As for Mr. Gladstone’s legal situation, we will fight to have these charges dismissed, and if the case winds up going to trial, which I don’t think is going to happen, we will prevail. Thank you, that’s all for today.”

  The questions rained down once more, but now Doomer propelled Jay toward the car.

  Christine Lupo stood at her office window and observed the Gladstone motorcade. It was a challenge to hide from her colleagues the glee she felt at the opportunity fate had delivered. To show anything other than pure professionalism would have been improper, not to say morbid. She had already reviewed the police reports, the court papers, and the memo Pagano generated outlining potential case strategy. Watching the SUV carrying Jay Gladstone retreat toward the Bronx River Parkway was a satisfying conclusion to the overture.

  She turned to face the large man on the couch. In a gray suit, one leg folded over the other, squinting at the screen of his smart phone, Harry Van Pelt was the bureau chief of the Local Criminal Courts and Grand Juries Division. He was the man tasked with prosecuting the tens of thousands of criminal cases originating in the city, town, and village courts of Westchester County. Van Pelt was, nominally, going to decide the charges Jay Gladstone would ultimately face and in what court they would try him. Seated in a chair, Lou Pagano consumed yogurt from a small container with a plastic spoon and watched his boss.

  “So?” she said. On days like this one, when Christine was in warrior queen mode, she liked to, rather than ask a question, offer a prompt to see what would come out of the mouths of her foot soldiers.

  “Going to be hard for them to make the playoffs with Dag out,” Pagano offered.

  “Christ, Lou, the guy’s in the hospital,” Van Pelt said. “Too soon.”

  “Do we know his condition?” the DA asked.

  “The Internet’s all over the place,” Van Pelt said, rechecking his phone. He was on a prominent sports website where there were already several stories reporting and parsing the Maxwell/Gladstone saga. “He’ll make a full recovery; he’s near death—bottom line is no one knows jack. No way to say what Gladstone’s indictment might be at this point. Second-degree reckless endangerment—”

  “We said we were filing first degree this morning,” Pagano interrupted.

  “Yeah, I know,” Van Pelt said. “But we don’t know if the grand jury’s gonna support that. So you got second-degree reckless endangerment potentially all the way up to who knows. I’m not saying this is gonna happen, I hope to Christ it doesn’t, but Dag croaks and you got manslaughter.”

  “Maybe murder,” Pagano said.

  “Murder?” Christine echoed. “Why murder?”

  “We don’t know the circumstances yet, do we?” Pagano said, spooning a bite of yogurt into his mouth.

  The DA perched on the edge of the desk. “We have no idea what his condition is?”

  “The doctor hasn’t made a statement,” Van Pelt said. “We know he’s got a head injury.”

  “Poor guy could be a cucumber,” Pagano said.

  Christine’s desk phone buzzed. Stuart Berger, a town judge in Bedford, was on line two. A barely perceptible smile crossed the DA’s lips, one that a conductor might flash when the violins arrive on cue. She picked up the receiver.

  “Hello, Stuart,” she crooned like he was a long-lost relative. “I heard it was a pretty wild night up there.” She listened as the judge explained the value of showing that justice was local and to his request that the Gladstone prosecution take place in his Town of Bedford courtroom. The district attorney nodded. “Yes, yes, of course,” she said. “Justice is most definitely local, Stuart. But, listen, here’s the thing: There’s going to be a certain amount of attention focused on this trial and, of course, there are going to be security concerns that I’m not sure you’re equipped to handle up there, which is no reflection on your operation. So, I will take your request under advisement, and my office will let you know when we decide how this is going to play out, all right?” Placing the phone back on the cradle, she said, “That little twerp thought he was going to try this case?”

  Pagano and Van Pelt shook their heads in wonder. Didn’t Judge Stuart Berger watch television? The State of New York v. Harold Jay Gladstone was going to be District Attorney Lupo’s show.

  When the meeting ended, Christine called Press Relations. She wanted to alert the media that in the matter of Jay Gladstone, a grand jury would be impaneled and its verdict scrupulously adhered to. Then she placed another call, this one to Franklin Gladstone. He sounded happy to hear from her. The DA quickly ascertained that Franklin was aware of what had befallen his relative.

  “I’m calling to let you know that your cousin’s case is under my purview. I can’t tell you what’s going to happen, of course, but I hope it won’t change the relationship that you and I have established.”

  Franklin thanked her for calling and told her there was no need to worry about that. It would not change anything. Christine signed off, relieved. Then she picked the iPod up from her desk where it lay next to Pagano’s report on this morning’s proceedings, quickly made her selection, and placed it on the dock. The DA sat in her chair and leaned back. Eyes closed, fingers entwined on her lap, she savored the opening notes of the Bayreuth Festival Orchestra’s version of Der Ring des Nibelungen, luxuriating on a cloud of Wagnerian bliss and imagining her picture adorning the homepage of the New York Times.

  In the courthouse media area a few hours later, Christine stood in front of the television crews and print hacks. There were around sixty people in the room. Flanked by an American flag, the flag of the State of New York, and her deputy Lou Pagano, the district attorney stared at the bank of cameras.

  “When I am asked to adjudicate a matter as important as this one,” she began, “the responsibility weighs on me heavily. Since the shooting of John Eagle occurred, I have thought of little else. He was a hardworking man who wrestled with mental illness, and he deserves, both in life and in death, our attention. No one will deny that his killing was a tragedy. That the state failed him on some level, there can be no doubt. Police Officer Russell Plesko was responding to a routine call when he showed up at the scene. He attempted to talk with Mr. Eagle, a
nd unfortunately, the situation escalated. From having reviewed extensive interviews with witnesses, I will tell you that the officer followed correct police procedure. One of the factors that made this decision so difficult was that Mr. Eagle was unarmed. In trying to balance both of these lives, one now tragically lost, I have strived for fairness and impartiality. It has not been easy. On the matter of the shooting of John Eagle, I have decided not to convene a grand jury. There will be no charges filed, and my office now considers the matter closed.”

  A barrage of questions followed, and for twenty-five minutes Christine answered them. Reporters asked why she didn’t trust the grand jury process. They asked if her office was in the tank for the Police Department. They asked if she thought there would be a political benefit to her decision or a backlash. The DA answered all of them in a forthright, measured tone, said, of course, she trusted the process, supported both the police and the public, and weren’t they essentially the same thing: people. A reporter from a local cable news channel asked her about Jay Gladstone.

  “Jay Gladstone,” she said, “will be treated like any other citizen.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  After Jay fled the courthouse, he went to his Manhattan apartment on East End Avenue. Increasingly frantic about Dag’s condition, the phone calls he made during the drive left him unable to ascertain what it was. The doctors were silent, and nothing had leaked. Why did no one make a statement? Tell the world Dag is sitting up in bed, talking, eating—something! Of course, no statement meant that he, most likely, was not dead and that was cause for celebration.

  The uniformed doorman saluted him with a touch of the cap and the usual, “Mr. Gladstone, sir.” In the discreet manner of those who serve the ultra-wealthy, the man did not acknowledge Jay’s battered appearance. At the elevator bank, Jay pressed the button and glanced over his shoulder to check if someone was approaching from behind. He wanted to avoid any interactions. Since it was the middle of the day, most of the tenants—they included a former Secretary of the Treasury, several CEOs, and a Saudi prince—were at offices where they pulled the invisible strings that moved the world, and Jay hoped that when the elevator arrived, it would be empty. An interminable fifteen seconds later the door opened, and a well-dressed older woman emerged. Mrs. Wessel, 16B, the wife of a Wall Street gorilla. Jay offered what he hoped was a smile tight enough to forestall any inquiries about what had occurred last night. She looked up at him with heavily made-up eyes.