[Beneath 01.0] Beneath This Mask

by Meghan March

  It didn’t.

  Thirty-Eight

  Charlie

  There are experiences in life that make you question everything you thought you knew about yourself.

  Like watching your father be led away in handcuffs after learning that he allegedly committed the largest financial fraud in the history of the world.

  Like arriving in a new city, a fake ID in your pocket, and realizing the rest of your life would be built on a lie.

  Like meeting someone who made you want more than the half-life you’d thought would be enough.

  Like today. Today had made me question everything.

  My strength, my fortitude, my intelligence, my sanity.

  I sat huddled on a steel bench in “the bin” at Rikers Island, my body shuddering as the adrenaline seeped away. I brought my knees up and wrapped my arms around them. Tears tracked down my aching face to soak into the gray cotton of my jumpsuit. My left eye had already swelled shut.

  The last eighteen hours had taken me down the rabbit hole, and I was fairly certain I would never find my way back. And let me tell you, this rabbit hole was fucking scary.

  How did I find myself in solitary at Rikers? I’d like to say it’s a long story, but it really wasn’t. It was the result of the dangerous combination of my own arrogance and ignorance.

  I’d been so cocky and self-assured as I’d sat in the interrogation room at the FBI field office, making my demands before I’d deign to speak to them about what I knew. I could only imagine how stupid they’d thought I was.

  First lesson learned today: an immunity, or proffer, agreement didn’t mean shit. I’d confidently signed my name—my real name—across the bottom and told the FBI the locker number and combination where they could find the notebook, along with my backpack. Nine hours of questioning later, Childers had said we were done. I’d stood to leave, but the door had opened and two of New York’s Finest had walked in. When I looked questioningly at Childers, one of the officers had said: “You’re under arrest for conspiracy to commit grand larceny in the first degree.” He’d followed those chilling words with another recitation of my Miranda rights.

  Second lesson learned today: if the FBI wasn’t done questioning you, but didn’t want to let you go because they were afraid you’d run, they’d contact the district attorney and have state law charges filed against you. Childers was kind enough to explain this to me as the cold metal of the handcuffs closed around my wrists.

  Third lesson learned today: I didn’t deserve Simon. He’d once again proven he was too good for me. As the two NYPD officers were leading me through the lobby, a distinguished-looking man in a pricey tailored suit had stopped them.

  “My name is Andrew Ivers,” he’d said. “Simon Duchesne has arranged for me to represent you, Ms. Agoston. I apologize for not intercepting you on your way into the building this morning.”

  I’d wondered if I would have listened to him even if he had stopped me earlier. But it didn’t matter. What was done was done.

  Ivers had exchanged a few words with Childers and was up to speed within moments. He’d promised to be present at my arraignment.

  Yeah.

  My arraignment.

  It didn’t get any more real than that.

  After a short ride in the backseat of a police car, the officers hauled me into a precinct where I was booked—fingerprints, mug shot, the works. Then I was shuttled to Central Booking at the New York City Criminal Court for further processing. After being shoved into a holding cell with a dozen other women who, from the looks of them, were primarily hookers and crack addicts, I waited. And waited. A few hours later I was escorted into a courtroom that looked altogether too much like the one I had escaped from over a year before. The difference between then and now? I wasn’t leaving this room a free woman.

  The arraignment hadn’t lasted more than five minutes. Ivers and the prosecutor had spoken rapidly, firing words at the judge. I caught phrases like one-ninety-fifty and remand. It was yet another code I couldn’t crack. All too quickly, I was being led out of the courtroom, and Ivers had followed me into a small room. His explanation of what had just happened, and what was going to happen next, had scared the hell out of me.

  I’d been denied bail. Ivers had argued for an astronomical figure, but given the flight risk I presented, the judge had been resolute.

  Nothing Ivers could have said would have prepared me for the reality of being chained to the arm of another woman as the bus chugged toward Rikers and then, upon arrival, being stripped of my clothes and my dignity. But three things he’d said stuck with me. First, his phone number, not that I could make calls from the bin. Second, Simon had ordered him to do whatever he could to help me. And third, I only had to endure this hell for 144 hours. Then they either had to indict me or conduct a preliminary hearing in front of a judge. Six days. I could survive anything for six days. I hoped. The second bit of information was all that was holding me together at that moment. The knowledge that even though he knew everything, Simon hadn’t given up on me yet. Which meant I wasn’t giving up either.

  I wanted to smile at the thought of Simon, but my busted lip hurt too much. I rested my chin on my bent knees and tried to block out the woman screaming obscenities at me from where she was locked across the hall. It hadn’t taken more than twenty minutes for shit to unravel once I’d been escorted to the large bunkroom-type cell. I could still hear the ripple of whispers as my identity was passed from one inmate to the next. And then Bertha, as I’d dubbed her, had stepped up and told me that no skinny, rich, poser bitch was going to look sideways at her. I was still having a what the fuck are you talking about moment when her Mack truck of a fist had connected with my cheekbone. White spots had burst in my vision as she’d tackled me to the floor. The guards had been slow to pull her off me, and my scalp stung where she had ripped out a chunk of my hair. I’d gotten a few elbows in, but there was no question that I’d been the loser in that exchange.

  So we’d both been thrown in the bin. While it was considered harsh punishment, I was thankful to be by myself and felt relatively safe within these four gray concrete walls. If I was still in the bunkroom, I would’ve been afraid to close my eyes, regardless of the fatigue dragging me under. But in here, once I blocked out Bertha’s threats, I could let myself drift off to sleep. Only 142 more hours to go…

  Thirty-Nine

  Simon

  I stepped out of my mother’s hospital room to answer my buzzing phone.

  Ivers. I’d been waiting for him to call me all damn day.

  “Please tell me you have good news.”

  He cleared his throat, and my stomach dropped when he hesitated before speaking.

  “Mr. Duchesne, I would have called sooner, but I wanted to be able to give you a full picture of what we’re dealing with here.”

  “What does that even mean?”

  “Unfortunately, Ms. Agoston has been charged with conspiracy to commit grand larceny in the first degree, and was remanded into custody following her arraignment this evening.”

  My breath heaved out of my lungs like I’d been sucker-punched. I bent at the waist and tried to comprehend what the fuck Ivers was saying.

  “What do you mean, remanded into custody? She’s in jail?”

  “Yes, Mr. Duchesne. She’s at Rikers.”

  “What the fuck?” My hands shook, and my words echoed off the sterile white walls of the hallway. The charge nurse glared and made a cutting motion across her neck. For the second time today, I sank to the floor, weak-kneed. “Can’t you get her out?”

  “Mr. Duchesne, I pushed for the judge to set bail—even a ridiculous figure—and he refused. I have a meeting with Special Agent in Charge Childers tomorrow morning to discuss the information Ms. Agoston provided, and I’m hoping we can come to an agreement that will end with the state charges being dropped. We’ll do everything we can to get her out, as quickly as possible.”

  Jesus Christ. What a clusterfuck. I closed my eyes a
nd pictured Charlie in a prison jumpsuit. The dinner I’d choked down in the cafeteria threatened to come back up.

  Ivers waited patiently for me to respond.

  “Look, call me if anything changes. Day or night. Don’t wait next time. I don’t care if you don’t have the full picture or not. I want to know everything, as it happens.”

  “Of course.”

  I ended the call, dropped my head back against the wall, and squeezed my eyes shut. Charlie was in jail, and my mother was in a coma. In a matter of days, my life had morphed into a waking nightmare.

  My father shuffled out of my mother’s room and jerked his head toward the bench across the hall.

  “Sit with me?” he asked.

  I pulled myself together and joined him on the teal and yellow flowered cushion.

  My brain started firing again, and I thought about the connections my father still had. “Do you know anyone who’s close with the governor of New York?”

  His eyes widened. “What happened?”

  “They arrested her.” The words stuck in my throat, but I forced them out. “She’s … in jail. At Rikers. The judge denied bail.”

  My dad sat back and laced his fingers together on his lap.

  “Is there any chance you’re going to change your mind about running for my old seat?”

  I stared at him, not sure where this was going. “If you tell me that you’ll only get her out if I agree to run, then…”

  He unlaced his fingers, twisted toward me, and dropped a hand on my shoulder. “No, I wouldn’t force a choice like that on you. But the fact that you think I could makes it clear you don’t think all that highly of me right now. But that’s something for another day. My point is that if there was any chance you were going to change your mind, she would make an already difficult road impassable.”

  “I’m not changing my mind.”

  “Okay. So tell me—what are we up against?”

  His matter of fact acceptance, even after I’d insulted him, humbled me.

  I explained the situation, and once I’d finished, he rubbed a hand across his bristled jaw. “Shit.”

  “Yeah. I know.”

  “Do you want to go to New York?”

  My eyes snapped to his. “I can’t leave Mom. Not now. Not until we know…”

  He nodded. “I know. Well, I can’t make any calls right now, but I’ve got some ideas of whom I can contact in the morning. We’ll see what we can do to get her out. And barring that, whatever we can do to keep her safe on the inside.”

  Forty

  Charlie

  My six-inch thick steel cell door swung open, and the guard motioned for me to exit. I’d spent three days in segregation, and I was starting to lose my shit. I knew I should be happy that I’d been unmolested, but seventy-two hours by myself gave me too damn much time to think. I mostly thought about all of the places I should have run instead of New York. I’d been so naïve to think I could just show up, wave my magic notebook, and make everything better. Pride goeth and all that.

  He led me through the maze of hallways to a guard station. It took me a few minutes but I caught on to the fact that I was being processed for a transfer. Whether this was a good thing or a bad thing, I wasn’t certain. I saw the U.S. Marshals waiting for me on the other side of the door; I decided it was a bad thing.

  No one bothered to correct my assumption.

  We drove back to Manhattan, and my stomach knotted tighter with each mile. When they finally parked in a garage under the U.S. District Court, my dread grew. It multiplied when I was led in front of a federal magistrate judge, and he launched into his spiel.

  The list of charges against me was so long, I couldn’t keep up as he rattled them off.

  Mail fraud, wire fraud, securities fraud, money laundering.

  The charges that registered were all too familiar; my father had been convicted of them all. My very own worst-case scenario was playing out in a federal court. Why hadn’t I just kept running? Because I’d wanted to make things right. And maybe I would. For everyone but myself.

  As the magistrate judge rambled on about being appointed counsel if I couldn’t afford my own, I knew I needed Ivers. ASAP. I needed someone to explain to me, using idiot-proof words, what the fuck was going to happen to me.

  As soon as Ivers’s name entered my thoughts, he was pushing through the doors of the courtroom. The judge dismissed me, and Ivers followed the Marshals as they led me out the back. We were escorted to a small room and Ivers shut the door. He pulled out his phone and started barking orders into it. When he ended his call, he sat down next to me.

  My voice shook as I asked, “What the hell just happened?”

  “In addition to conspiracy, you’ve been charged with several of the felonies of which your father was convicted.”

  “But why? I had nothing to do with it.”

  “Well, the information you turned over to the FBI seems to say differently.”

  “What are you talking about? I don’t understand.” My voice rose on the last words; I was barely holding it together.

  The door opened.

  Shit.

  Cold fear snaked down my spine.

  Michael Drake, the Assistant U.S. Attorney who’d eviscerated me on cross-examination during my father’s trial, had joined the burn Charlie at the stake party.

  “Well, Ms. Agoston, you’re looking a little different than the last time I saw you.” If I weren’t handcuffed, I would have been tempted to slap the smug smirk off his face.

  I didn’t know how to respond to his taunting statement other than telling him to go fuck himself, so I kept my mouth shut.

  “Let’s cut through the BS and get down to why you’ve bothered to drag my client through this farce when we both know she didn’t have anything to do with Agoston’s scam.”

  Drake sat down across from us.

  “The accounts in her name say otherwise.”

  The cold fear spread from my spine to envelop my entire body like an icy straight jacket. “Wh … what are you talking about?”

  Drake’s smile was triumphant. “So far, we’ve identified several accounts in your name in the Caymans and in Switzerland, courtesy of the little book you turned over to the FBI.”

  “How … how is that even possible?” I stammered, between shallow, panting breaths.

  “You tell me, Charlotte.”

  “Cut the crap,” Ivers said. “Her father did it. She wasn’t involved. You know it, and I know it. Besides, if she was smart enough to pull this off, why the hell would she be dumb enough to put the accounts in her own name and turn over evidence to help the FBI find them?” Ivers sounded so calm and self-assured, but then, his entire life wasn’t flashing before his eyes. I thought of the days I’d spent in the bin. I can’t do this. I can’t do this.

  Drake’s laugh could have been used as a track for an evil movie villain. “Lucky for me, I don’t need to answer that question in order to send her to prison for the rest of her life. No jury on Earth is going to let her walk after they see the evidence.”

  I lunged for the garbage and threw up the rubbery chicken patty I’d been served for lunch. I dropped to my knees, gagging and spitting, resting my arms and handcuffed hands on the edge of the trashcan for support. My head spun, and the urge to pass out was pressing down on me. Part of me welcomed the darkness and the escape it would offer.

  “Disgusting.” Drake’s snide tone pulled me out of my momentary stupor. Awareness rushed back in, along with an untapped inner reserve of strength. I had to get up. I was already ashamed that he’d brought me to my knees.

  Ivers crossed the room and opened the door. “Could someone get us some water?”

  I pushed up and stumbled to my feet, Ivers catching me by the arm and helping me back to my chair. A few seconds later he pressed a Styrofoam cup into my hands. I drank slowly, not wanting to puke again.

  I fumbled the cup to the table and took a moment to compose myself. The silence in the room was de
afening. Or maybe it was just the blood rushing in my ears.

  Finally, Ivers crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair. He continued the conversation with Drake as though nothing remarkable had happened.

  “Are all of the accounts you’ve been able to identify in her name?”

  I squeezed my eyes shut, not wanting to hear the answer that would send me running for the garbage can again. My heart thundered so loudly I almost missed Drake’s self-satisfied, “Yes.”

  Tears burned my eyes, but I blinked them back. I was not going to let him see me cry.

  “Do you suspect that all of the accounts are in her name?” Ivers asked, his cool tone completely at odds with the damning information he was hearing.

  “No,” Drake replied. “But it’s a clear possibility at this point that dozens of them are.” I clenched my hands together to stop the shaking.

  “How long do you figure it’s going to take you to cut through the red tape with all of these foreign banks and recover the money?”

  Drake straightened, and looked down as he spun a cufflink. “It’ll take some time, but we’ll get there.”

  Ivers leaned forward, elbows resting on the table. “So the reason you ran down here so damn fast isn’t because you want to cut a deal in exchange for Charlotte’s help to recover the money? Because we both know if she’s the one signing the withdrawal slips and approving the wire transfers, it’ll take weeks rather than months or years of the red tape you’ll be wading through to get it back.”

  Drake looked bored as he said, “We might be willing to discuss the possibility.”

  The icy grip clutching my chest receded a fraction. I reminded myself that with my recent luck, a deal could still mean years in prison. If not decades.