“She was battling for you.”
“That’s not the way to do it,” he said, rubbing his temples.
“Nicole wants to save the marriage.”
Jay opened his eyes and regarded his sister. “Would you stay married to someone like that?”
“You remember the secretary who worked for Dad in the late seventies?”
“Miss Sloves?” Bebe nodded. She had a throaty laugh and always acted pleased to see him when he visited the office as a gangly teenager. “What about her?” Bebe’s knowing look spilled the old secret. “You can’t be serious.” She slowly nodded.
Layers of certainty, conviction, and belief began to dissolve. Jay found himself searching for words to express inchoate thoughts. His father, who had coached him in youth basketball, who had passed him the Torah at his bar mitzvah, had been prowling around Manhattan unpeeling his secretary? It was inconceivable. “How do you know?”
“Mom told me years ago. She almost left him, but she didn’t.”
The news caused a tectonic shift in Jay’s perception. The ground swayed. Foundations adjusted, recalibrated. For his entire life, he had modeled himself on his father, held him up as a shining example of how to be a man in the world, prostrated at the feet of his exemplary life when all the time, in this most basic measurement of goodness, Bingo was an imposter, a failure. But as much of a punch to the solar plexus that this represented, in some indeterminate way that he could only begin to discern, it was a relief.
When Bebe left the office, Jay lay on the sofa and thought about his father and how he had behaved in the wake of this dalliance. He reviewed family dinners, Sundays watching football, skiing and sailing vacations, business meetings, shows, charity events they’d attended, endless conversations shared about topics distant and local, and there was nothing he could remember that hinted at Bingo carrying on with his secretary. So, did Jay have to reexamine his perception of his father, adjust his place in the pantheon? Did he have to demote him?
It was with all of this still reverberating that Franklin appeared. Jay did not want to deal with his cousin, who was standing at the foot of the sofa looking down at him over his gelatinous belly.
“Your wife caused quite a scene last night,” Franklin said, satisfaction mixed with the outrage he was impelled to convey.
“I heard. As you know, I can’t control her.”
“Someone needs to. She’s an embarrassment.”
His cousin’s presence further agitated Jay, who rose from the sofa and lumbered to his desk where he flopped into the chair. He thought about the text he had received last night from Nicole: Franklin hacked my phone. He’s the leaker. What had led her to that conclusion? Could it possibly be true? It was certainly of a piece with Franklin’s surreptitious financial maneuvers.
“What did you want to talk about?”
“You’ve got a lot on your plate,” Franklin said. “For your own well-being, I think maybe you shouldn’t come to work until things cool down.”
Here was the Franklin he knew, blunt, artless. Bebe had said nearly the exact words, but her intent was far different.
“Did you hear what happened to me on Saturday night?”
“It was all over the sports page.”
“But you didn’t call or text to see if I was all right?”
Franklin ignored the question. “Fans, Christ, they’re fuckin’ fickle! You okay?”
“Yes,” Jay said. “Thanks for your concern.”
Never before had he felt vulnerable to Franklin. The dynamics of their relationship had been set years earlier and had remained static. Jay believed that Franklin had come to accept the structure of the company and was satisfied with his role. For his cousin to use the current situation to try and maneuver him out of the way seemed entirely out of character. But that appeared to be what was going on. He second-guessed telling Doomer to delay bringing legal action.
“What do you know about that tape?”
Franklin regarded him uncertainly. “What do you mean?”
“Was I not clear? Do you know anything about how that tape got out there?”
“Only what I read,” Franklin said.
“You’re sure?”
“What are you asking me? It’s awful. It’s a crock of politically correct bullshit what’s happening to you. I’ll tell you something, Jay, I never liked Nicole. She was beneath you. Between you and me, if I had walked in on Marcy schtupping some guy, I would’ve killed them both.”
“Yes, I’m sure that’s what you would have done.” Jay had not checked with the hospital since yesterday. He made a mental note to do that when he finished with his cousin.
“Crime of passion,” Franklin said. “People understand.” He made a brisk motion with his hand as if to wave away culpability.
“About the tape?”
“I sympathize, believe me. I do.”
“Did you leak it?”
Jay saw Franklin’s slack body stiffen, the planes of his face become rigid.
“What? No! Me? Wha—?” Franklin shook his head vigorously. “No, no, no. Why would you say that?”
“You know nothing about it?”
“Jay, come on! Are you fucking kidding me?”
“I’m going to tell you one thing, and then we’re done.” Jay paused to let the weight of what he was about to impart sink in. It appeared Franklin might say something but his only response came from his shoulders, driven upward by the tension he was unable to conceal. “If I find out you had anything to do with the leaking of that tape, I will cut your legs off. Between that and what else you’ve been up to, I’ll have you so tied up in court you’ll be afraid to leave your house without calling your lawyer to see if it’s allowed.”
“I had nothing to do with it.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Why not?”
“Because I know what’s going on in Asia,” Jay said.
“What are you talking about?”
“Let’s not get into that now. Did you or did you not hack my wife’s phone and leak that tape?”
“Did I hack her phone? I can barely work a fucking blender.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Hand to God, Jay.” Like a Boy Scout taking an oath, he held his hand up.
“Hand to God? Now I know you’re bullshitting.”
“You don’t trust me? Go fuck yourself.”
“Go fuck myself?”
“You got what you deserved,” Franklin said. “You’re an arrogant schmuck, and you always were.”
He left the office, barreling through the door and slamming it behind him. The room was silent as a cave. Absent Franklin’s sulfurous presence, it felt strangely empty. Jay still had no idea if Nicole’s accusation was valid, or if she had been drunk texting. He had assumed it was the latter. After having confronted Franklin, he was unimpressed with his denial. There was a risk in trying to ascertain guilt. If Franklin was culpable, the ramifications for the future of the business were profound. But a rupture in their relationship was inevitable anyway. It was going to happen as soon as Jay informed Franklin of the lawsuit he intended to file.
An unfamiliar sensation overcame him, and his heart began to tom-tom. He cursed to himself. Was this a heart attack? Unbelievable. Franklin will have finished the job. He remembered that a coronary event was often accompanied by pain radiating down the arm. Was it the left or the right? He didn’t feel pain in either one. He willed himself to relax and took several deep breaths, letting the air run slowly out of his nose, which he was able to do since the swelling had decreased. A minute later his heart rate ceased its campaign of terror.
When Jay reached Dr. Bannister, the surgeon informed him there had been some hopeful signs since they had last spoken. Something about brain waves that Jay did not have the bandwidth to absorb but had encouraged
the doctor. He called Doomer and inquired about the situation with the league. Doomer reported that the commissioner was intransigent. The league was insisting that he sell the team. In desperation, Jay pulled up the list of NBA owners on his computer. He knew them all from league meetings and considered himself friends with several of them. Of the twenty-eight calls his secretary placed, she managed to reach five of the owners. Jay jumped on the phone with each. He wheedled and inveigled. He recounted his history and reminded them of his sterling reputation. They listened dutifully. But of these five men, all of whom expressed sorrow at his predicament and conveyed their sincere sympathies, none would speak on his behalf in public. Too sensitive, was the consensus.
Bastards, Jay thought.
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
Late that afternoon, the television crew arrived at the apartment to set up. Bobby Tackman paced and offered silken words of encouragement as Jay sat in a chair with a bib over his shirt having makeup applied by a quiet young woman with a nose ring and a tattoo of a peace sign on her forearm. She treated him professionally, which he took to be a positive sign.
Jay was in the kitchen nursing a glass of whiskey when Anderson Cooper arrived and said hello before conferring with the producer, a fussy man in a snug suit who seemed barely out of his teens. Jay freshened his drink and as the whiskey slid into his bloodstream he began to feel its effects. Nervousness receded. It occurred to Jay that in many ways he had been preparing for this his entire life. Always he had chosen to rein in his personality, content to let the light shine on Bingo. This self-abnegation had begun when he was young and continued until his father’s passing. But now circumstances required Jay to step on stage, and he was ready.
Tackman continued his magpie chatter, but Jay was no longer listening. He visualized himself conversing sagely with Anderson Cooper about the scars of American history, the travails of black people, and “the deep well of empathy I’ve drawn from my whole life.” He pictured the easygoing host nodding sympathetically. He imagined viewers across America, around the globe, and all of them coming to see the untarnished quality of his soul. Church Scott (that traitor!) didn’t know what was in his heart? Jay would show the world. He took another sip of whiskey.
“Ten minutes,” a production assistant said.
Jay slipped on his suit jacket. Tackman looked him over. The consultant did not like the picture.
“You need to lose the suit. Put a sweater on.”
“I always wear a suit in public.”
“Millions of people are going to watch this and you’re going to remind them of their boss. A sweater makes you more relatable.”
In his bedroom Jay selected a gray cashmere number with a V-neck. As he pulled it over his head, the soft material masking his face, he felt dizzy so he sat on the bed. To steady himself he took several deep breaths. His balance returned and he felt a surge of energy. He wanted to talk, get a few things off his chest.
In the living room, Jay sat in a director’s chair next to Anderson Cooper, who was checking notes on a clipboard. A sound technician pinned a microphone to him. The television lights were warm, but he was not uncomfortable. Behind one of the two cameras, Tackman stood next to the producer and gave a thumbs-up. A voice said, “Rolling,” and Anderson Cooper introduced Harold Jay Gladstone as a real estate executive and NBA franchise owner to the millions of viewers who would be watching the interview later that evening.
“Please call me Jay,” he said.
“All right,” Anderson Cooper said. Then: “Are you a racist?”
Man, Jay thought, right out of the gate. But he was ready.
“I am not a racist. I made a terrible mistake and I’m here to apologize to all the people I’ve hurt. I don’t know how I could say such disrespectful words. I’m so sorry.”
“Who, specifically, do you want to apologize to?”
Jay was ready:
“There are so many people, starting with D’Angelo Maxwell.” Here Jay paused. Acknowledging this first seemed like the wisest course. He wanted the first apology to resonate like a bell. “I feel terrible about what happened to him. I wish I could undo it. When he recovers I will do everything in my power to make it up to him. He’s doing better, you know. I talked to the doctor this morning, and he’s improving.” Again, Jay paused. He wanted to allow any helpful information time to register. “And I hurt my wife, Nicole. She didn’t need this. I blew up her life.”
“You seem remarkably forgiving about her behavior. What about what she did? She had relations with a player and you caught them.”
Anderson Cooper was not pulling punches. Jay pressed on.
“Yes, I did. I did. But this isn’t about her.”
He congratulated himself on the magnanimity he displayed. So far, he was hewing to the Tackman plan. This was easier than expected.
“Did you know you were being recorded?”
“Of course not. I did a terrible thing and I want to explain. I’m not sure how to say this because for a man in my position, well, everything can be misinterpreted.”
Anderson Cooper wanted some elaboration, but Jay just looked at him. He was having trouble accessing this part of what he had reviewed with Tackman. All he could remember was the apologizing he was supposed to do, and he had already done that. His mind went back to the previous night and the car that stopped in front of his house. By the time the police officer arrived at the house, it was gone. Now he wasn’t even sure a car had been there at all. The sweater was making him hot. What did Anderson Cooper want him to say?
“I think you better ask me another question.”
“You said ‘Why is everyone in this family having sex with black people.’ What did that mean?”
“That’s the question you’re going to ask now?” Jay was trying to be light, amusing. Cooper was stone-faced. “Don’t you want to work up to it?”
“It would help if you answered it. What did that mean?”
“What did that mean? It meant what I said.”
“Everyone in this family?” Jay did not respond. “Would you elaborate?”
Jay paused for a long time. The television lights were getting hotter. His lower back was swampy. He could feel Tackman’s eyes willing him to take control. To steady himself, Jay locked into Anderson Cooper’s unwavering gaze. “I have a daughter who I love very much. She’s an intelligent young person who is in a phase of life where she is experimenting. Her girlfriend is a black woman, which is fine. Nothing wrong with that. So, there’s my daughter and my wife. The word ‘everyone’ was hyperbole, something perhaps you can understand, under the circumstances.”
Anderson Cooper wanted more but Jay decided that he had said enough on the subject. He leaned back and waited for the next question. But before it arrived, Jay wanted to make another point:
“My daughter’s friend happens to be very anti-Israel and she expressed that opinion at our Seder where she was a guest. So, I admit, I may have had some residual bad feeling. But, look, I’m not saying that excuses anything.”
“What do the political opinions of your daughter’s girlfriend have to do with what occurred?”
“We had a rainbow Passover this year, black people, white people, a thing of beauty. The next day I flew to South Africa where I’m doing a major project. When I arrived home, I said a few unfortunate words that, believe me, I’ll regret for the rest of my life. That’s not how I talk. You can ask anyone who knows me. I don’t talk about people. I talk about ideas. May I tell you what I’m doing in South Africa?”
“Let’s stay on this subject for now. Who do you think released the tape?”
“I can’t say on television, but I believe I know the person’s identity and he’s someone who for his own personal reasons does not wish me well.”
Although Jay was tempted to go into more detail, he chose not to.
“When you first heard the tap
e, did you remember making that statement?”
“I’ve said all I have to say about those words.”
“All right, let’s talk about you.”
“I’m responsible. I have twenty-nine partners in the league. They’re an incredible group of men. I want to apologize to my partners and the commissioner. This mess lands on his desk and I caused it and I’m sorry. Stupid words. Foolish. A man gets upset, says things he shouldn’t say. I was jealous.”
Revisiting the experience was making Jay increasingly uneasy. His mouth was dry. He wanted a glass of water.
“The league wants you out.”
“The media wants me out.”
“And the league. I’ve had sources tell me—”
“Look, I put the league in a difficult position. My partners there are understandably angry. I have a lot of respect for the commissioner and he’s frustrated. But let me ask you—is what I did so terrible that it merits banishment? Is it fair that I should lose a business that I’ve been devoted to, that I love, because of a few words that are being misinterpreted? No one who knows me will tell you I’m a racist. No one. My family has been in the real estate business for generations. Years ago, not every landlord would rent to black people. There are prominent real estate families in New York City—I’m thinking of one in particular—that would not rent to minorities. That was never the Gladstone way. Back in the 1930s, when my father was on his high school prom committee, he refused to hold the event at a hotel where they were going to make the black kids use the service entrance.”
“What does that have to do with—”
“I’m telling you. I’m not saying Bingo Gladstone was Abraham Lincoln, but what I am saying is that I was raised in a liberal tradition, my parents taught me that God created everyone equal, and that’s how I’ve always lived my life.”
The Hazards of Good Fortune Page 49
