Bluff

by Jane Stanton Hitchcock

  They also believed that my nerves caused me to miss Sklar and hit Sunderland instead. I sensed that Lydia believed their theory as well.

  I have to say they weren’t exactly wrong. But they weren’t exactly right either. Here’s the truth: Walking into the restaurant that day I admit I was in an eye for an eye, tooth for a tooth frame of mind. But I’m a good shot, and I didn’t mean to shoot anybody. I aimed at the banquette between Sklar and Sunderland, knowing that the mere notoriety of such a brazen crime would serve my purpose just as well as wounding or killing one of them. If Sklar hadn’t pulled Sunderland in front of him, the man might be alive today. Everything would be playing out just as I’d planned—only I wouldn’t be a murderer.

  What surprises me most is how little effect Sunderland’s death has had on me, purely from the moral point of view. I know I should feel tons of guilt and buckets of remorse that I killed a man. But, truthfully—to use one of Sklar’s favorite words—I don’t really give a damn. Certainly not for that man who helped kill my mother. I find this odd, given the way I was brought up—going to church, obeying rules, curtsying to everyone in sight, and all that sort of thing. I keep waiting to feel a debilitating gash in my psyche, but so far, I’m cool with it.

  My only real concern was what Sunderland’s death might do to my confederates, Danya and Jean. Would they crack under the pressure? Were they equipped to handle the guilty conscience that usually comes with complicity in a murder? I wasn’t sure. However, I was sure that if just one of them folded, the game was over. Luckily, they both seem to be holding up very nicely. Then again, they aren’t the ones who actually committed the crime.

  I have to wonder if long exposure to Sklar had somehow acted as a catalyst for the dormant sociopath in me—much like exposure to a carcinogen suddenly causes cancer in people who are genetically predisposed.

  Or did the game of poker embolden me? Poker is mental war. You must be willing to die in order to win. I’ve been on the front lines for years playing against my “enemies” in tournaments, living and dying on a regular basis at the tables. Did poker somehow inspire me to war against my enemies in real life? I wonder…

  I confess I don’t recognize my face in the mirror anymore—and it’s not just because I’m older. It’s because I’m not the person I once thought I was, or would ever be.

  If the cards have taught me anything, they’ve taught me this: No matter what kind of hand we’re dealt in the beginning of our lives, who we become depends on heart, guile, and a little luck.

  Chapter Fifty-two

  I’m now playing the biggest poker hand of my life with no cards. Lydia and I are in court for the first day of jury selection. She’s explained to me that getting a panel of sympathetic jurors is key. She tells me picking the right jury is both an art and a science. She’s hired an expert consultant. However, finding a jury of my “peers” is going to be a challenge. I’d say I’m relatively peerless when it comes to the highs and lows of life. What other woman has bowed to “le tout New York” at her own debutante party, then gone on to commit one of the most brazen murders in the city’s history? I’ve lived it all from the top down, and now from the bottom up.

  I notice the perspective jurors glancing at me. Will older women be more kindly toward me than younger ones? Will men dislike the fact that, as a woman, I took matters into my own hands? Will I be resented for being a privileged person? It all depends on Lydia’s ability to get a “read” on the juror, as we say in poker.

  I’m hoping they will see me as something more than a child of wealth who spun out of control when life didn’t go my way. I wish I could explain to them that too much money can be as damaging as too little; that neurosis, dysfunction, and addiction can flourish just as easily in wealthy homes as in poor ones; that money is a matter of luck, and class is a matter of character. How can I convince them it was money that first attracted a shark like Burt Sklar to my family; money which amplified my mother’s narcissism; and money which cemented Alan’s addiction? And finally, how can I tell them that the loss of money was not my motivation? I never would have risked this for money alone. No…I am an avenging angel. Or devil. Whatever.

  After two intense days of voir dire, a jury is selected. Because it’s such a high-profile case and may take long, the judge sets the trial date a week away to give jurors time to get their affairs in order. Lydia says she’s hopeful that the men and women who have been chosen will at least be understanding when they hear my entire story. Poor Lydia. I know she’s just trying to bolster my spirits. But I saw them all looking at me like farmers with pitchforks. I suspect to most of them I’m just another spoiled brat who thinks she can get away with murder.

  Lydia and I go back to Rikers where she tells me for the umpteenth time that using E.E.D. is a long shot, particularly now that the prosecution has proof I investigated it before I committed the crime. She feels bound to tell me that Vance Packer is out to make an example of me to prove the system is as tough on privilege as it is on poverty. No plea deal has been offered. But she’s not giving up. I so admire her for that. Let’s face it, loyal friends are few and far between.

  As we’re so close to trial now and the jury looks to me like a lynch mob, I feel the time has come to “confess,” which in my case means the time has come to bluff.

  When you bluff in poker, you’re essentially telling a story that you hope your opponent will believe so that he or she will fold their hand. You have to make your story convincing, or else your opponent will call you and you’ll be out. I’ve been in many a tournament where I knew I had the losing hand. Yet I mustered the courage to bluff my way out of it. Part of that has to do my “table image”—which is the way people think I will play because I’m an older woman. My opponents never imagine I have the guts to play risky cards. People don’t like their preconceptions challenged and that’s what I’m banking on here. I’m hoping my image as an older lady will confound the D.A., as it has confounded my fellow poker players on occasion.

  The prosecution is now patting itself on the back because they have discovered my plan to pretend I was crazy when I committed this crime. But they know now I wasn’t crazy. I went there intending to murder Sklar, even though I missed. That’s what they think. What’s more, they have the evidence to prove it. But once again, this older lady has been underestimated, just like at the poker table.

  “Lydia, I’ve been lying to you,” I announce.

  I have her full attention.

  “I wasn’t out of my mind when I walked into the restaurant that day. I knew what I was doing. Things didn’t go as planned. But I need to come clean with you now. I want to tell you the truth.”

  At first, Lydia seems slightly annoyed that I didn’t trust her from the very beginning. She’s attentive, however, obviously interested to hear my new story. I need to spell it out for her so she understands there’s concrete proof of what I’m telling her.

  When I finish my tale and tell her there’s hard evidence to back it up, Lydia’s face is frozen in a comic book stare.

  Eyes out on stalks, all she can say is, “You’ve got to be kidding!”

  Not kidding, I say to myself.

  Bluffing.

  Chapter Fifty-three

  When I was in the ninth grade at Miss Wheaton’s, an all-girls boarding school in Providence, Rhode Island, I played Sidney Carton in an adaptation of A Tale of Two Cities. Everyone said I ought to be an actress, like my mother. But the stage really wasn’t for me. However, that talent has come in mucho handy at the poker table. I’ve often played the part of a ditzy older woman, pretending not to know where to sit or when it was my turn to bet. While players are looking at me with smirks in their hearts, dismissing me as “dead money,” I’m taking careful stock of each of them. If I’ve learned one thing in poker and in life, it is: Never underestimate your opponent.

  One Hogan Place in Manhattan is where I’m going to tell my s
tory to the District Attorney. It’s time for penitence on parade. I’ve lost a lot of weight and I’m further dwarfed by the baggy prison jumpsuit. They really need to get Michael Kors in here to redesign these ghastly uniforms. Inmates need a lift. My hair’s gone completely gray. I take mincing steps, as if unsure of my balance. Though I’m acting the part of a frail and frightened little old lady, I’m thinking to myself: Time to shuffle up and deal, baby!

  Alan, Mummy, Siddy, I hope to heaven—or hell—you’re watching…

  I’m led into Vance Packer’s office. Packer, Detective Chen, and Kyle Michaels are all waiting for me like a trio of grand inquisitors. Lydia is there too, having assured Packer that I have a fascinating story to tell, one he’ll definitely want to hear.

  Packer greets me with a solemn nod, then motions to Detective Chen and Kyle Michaels.

  “I believe you know these two gentlemen,” he says.

  I give each man a wan smile. I want my deep remorse to show. I perch on a chair, kneading a handkerchief in my hands as my eyes dart from one person to another. I’m a frightened bird, trapped by fate and folly.

  “So, Ms. Warner,” Packer begins, “your lawyer says you have an interesting story to tell us. I believe she’s explained to you that we are offering you what’s called ‘Queen for a Day,’ which means anything you say will not incriminate you, as long as you tell us the truth. Do you understand?”

  I whisper, “Yes.”

  “You understand this is your last chance to tell us the truth before trial?”

  “Yes.”

  “Any time you’re ready,” Packer says, glancing at Lydia as if to say, this better be good.

  All eyes are on me, just like at the poker table when I’m about to act. Just like at the poker table where players always underestimate my ability to carry off a “triple barrel bluff,” I’m banking on the fact the District Attorney will underestimate my ability to carry off a triple barrel lie.

  I swallow hard and take time to gather my thoughts before going “all in,” as we say when we move all our chips into the middle of the table for our tournament life…or death. I know that everyone in the room is looking at me for “tells,” any little gesture or offhand remark which will give me away, and make them suspect I’m lying. When I’m good and ready, I take a deep breath and say to myself: It is a far, far bigger bluff I do than I have ever done before…

  I begin my story.

  “The truth is…Burt Sklar promised to pay me a quarter of a million dollars to kill Sun Sunderland.”

  I pretend not to hear the low guffaws or notice the incredulous glances flying between the three men. Packer folds his arms and rolls his eyes impatiently at Lydia, as if to say, Are you effing kidding me?!

  “Just listen to what she has to say,” Lydia snaps. She nods at me to continue.

  I clear my throat. “As you all know, my mother, Lois Warner, died broke. I blamed Burt Sklar. I hardly spoke to my brother, Alan, after she died because I believed he was in league with Sklar against me. About a year ago, Alan called me up out of the blue. He sounded desperate. He told me he owed a quarter of a million dollars to some very dangerous people. He said they were going to kill him if he didn’t come up with at least some of the money. He was convinced there was still a lot of money in the trust fund our mother had set up for him years ago with Sklar as the sole trustee. But Sklar had stopped taking his calls. He asked me if there was anything I could do to help him with Sklar. I told him I’d have to think about it. Meanwhile, he was hiding out and there was no way to get in touch with him until he called me.

  “I read in one of the columns that Sklar was down in D.C. at a dinner in honor of Sun Sunderland. I found out he was staying at the Jefferson. I called him up and said I wanted to see him. He didn’t want me to come to the hotel so we went for a walk. He was curiously friendly. I was surprised to learn that he’d been keeping track of me. He knew my address in Washington and he knew of my obsession with poker.

  “Then we got down to business. I told him that Alan owed a quarter of a million dollars to some very bad people and his life was in danger. I asked him about the trust fund and why he wouldn’t take Alan’s calls. Sklar said he’d explained to Alan ad nauseam that the trust money was long gone. But he said he’d think seriously about a way to help Alan. He was kind. I really believed him.

  “Sklar got back in touch with me a few days later. He said he was coming down to D.C. again and told me to meet him at the Lincoln Memorial. I met him and right away asked him if he was going to give Alan the money. He said he was working on it. What I didn’t know then was that he was also working on me….”

  I pause. Lydia nods at me for encouragement. I continue.

  “My mother refused to see through Sklar. I could never understand how she kept falling for his lies. I knew he had this Svengali- like ability to persuade her of anything! I deeply resented her for being so blind… But you know how they say all women eventually become their mothers…? Gentlemen, you’re looking at Lois Warner right here in front of you!” I thump my chest for effect.

  The men seem a little taken aback by my histrionics, but they don’t say a word. I go on.

  “Sklar worked on me to get my sympathy. I see that now. My former nemesis was being kind to me. Had I misjudged him? He planted that seed very convincingly. He said I could help him. That drew me in. He said he was in love with a woman who was in love with a very bad man, and he’d just found out how bad that man really was. He wouldn’t tell me who the man was at first. But he said it was ironic that I was the only person he could confide in, and that if I knew the whole story, I’d know why. He said he was afraid of what this man would do—not only to the woman, but to himself as well. He said this man had committed a murder.

  “Then he asked me if I played poker with any hit men. I said I probably did, but they didn’t exactly advertise. I asked him jokingly if he was thinking of killing this man. He said he was. And I knew he wasn’t kidding. He asked me if I’d ever thought of killing anyone. I said, ‘As a matter of fact, I’ve thought of killing you!’ He laughed, then nodded as if he understood. He knew I was slightly unhinged given my past behavior. He knew I was taking meds because I told him. He said I was lucky I didn’t kill him because he wasn’t the real culprit in my life.”

  Packer interrupts. “Ms. Warner, we need to get to the point here.”

  “Sorry… He finally told me who this bad man was. He said he was Sun Sunderland, his best friend. I was shocked. But I believed him. He told me that it was actually Sunderland who’d stolen all my mother’s money. And that Sunderland was terrified my mother was going to go to the police because that would expose everything. He told me that Sunderland killed my mother! And the thing is, I knew Sunderland had gone to visit my mother the day she died because she told me he was coming and she wouldn’t say why. I remember she sounded upset when I spoke to her. So when Sklar told me that Sunderland killed her to prevent her from going to the police about him, I knew it was possible.”

  This little tidbit raises eyebrows. I burst into tears. Lydia immediately rushes over to comfort me. The men in the room are shifting wildly in their seats and looking at each other. They are all wondering what I want them to wonder, which is: How could I possibly know all this unless Sklar himself had told me?

  I go on and on about how insane this revelation made me, and how Sklar knew just how to whip me up into a frenzy.

  “Sklar knew how crazed I was. He worked on me. I told him I was going to kill Sunderland if I got the chance. I don’t know if I really meant it then. But I wanted to kill him and I said it to Sklar like I might actually go through with it. It was then that he said—and I remember this very well—‘How far are you willing to go to help your brother?’ That was the beginning of everything.”

  “How so?” Packer says.

  “He sent me a clipping of an article on a famous defense attorney n
amed Joyce Kiner Braden. Maybe you’ve heard of her?”

  “She’s well known,” Packer says tersely.

  “She’s also a poker player. He suggested I go to this poker tournament and make her acquaintance, then talk to her specifically about the ‘E.E.D. defense.’ You know what that is, right?”

  “Of course,” Packer says irritably.

  “Well, I didn’t know. I’d never heard of it. But I was going up to play in that tournament anyway so it wasn’t a big deal to meet this woman and ask her about this weird defense.”

  “How’d you know she’d talk to you?” Packer says.

  “Poker’s a small world. Joyce and I are older women. Trust me, when you’re surrounded by three hundred men who think you’re easy prey, you’re happy to find a kindred soul. We bonded like old bat Rosicrucians. When we met on the break, I told her I’d read the article about her in the Post. And like Burt instructed, I got her talking about the Extreme Emotional Distress defense. I learned a lot about it.”

  “Like what?” Packer asks.

  “Like it’s difficult to prove. But if you’re clever, you can get away with murder.”

  I glance around. The men seem more interested now, like kids waiting to hear the end of a gruesome fairy tale.

  “Go on,” Packer says.

  “Sklar said he’d give Alan the money if I killed Sunderland. It’s hard to explain, but there was a kind of gangrene spreading through my system at that point. I couldn’t stop thinking about Sunderland and my mother… I won’t lie to you. I wanted to kill him—and not for the money. I just wanted him dead.”

  “So the plan was…?” Packer says.