Option One: I call Anna out: “Your actions amount to fraud and if I don’t have the funds in my account by ____, I will go to the authorities. (Maybe even the FBI!)” She wanted to stay in New York, I reasoned, so perhaps the threat of being reported (and potentially deported) would be enough to scare her into action. The downside to this approach, of course, was that she might disappear, and if she fled the country, I’d be effectively without recourse. Dave also had some concerns that this approach could be viewed as extortive.
Option Two: Since I still believed Anna might receive an inheritance from her family trust in September, I could offer her a deferment. I could say, “It’s clear you’re having trouble settling the debt at this time. I propose that we postpone the due date to September __, at which time you’ll pay the original amount plus ____.” I would make sure this agreement was properly arranged between lawyers.
We still had to decide which of these two next steps to take, but we all agreed that I would start by drafting the “friendly note” to Anna, as well as an email to Janine. Dave wanted to bounce our game plan off another friend, who regularly handled this sort of law, just to be sure that he was offering reasonable advice. In the meantime, I would get everything ready and await his go-ahead. For the first time in months, I felt hopeful and lighter.
Around one p.m. the next day—a Monday—I sent the email to Janine.
Janine,
I deeply regret that I’m not coming back to you with better news. My situation with Anna has worsened . . . She is clearly a deeply troubled girl and her actions amount to fraud though I do still hope that I will be reimbursed . . . I’m just not sure how quickly . . . Janine, it’s really a lot of money. I want to be sure you know that—and if, in the end, it’s not feasible to provide the loan I totally understand . . . God, I hope you’re not on the floor and are still breathing if you’ve made it this far into the letter. I thought I’d rather come tell you in person, but I have no money to get upstate. Things are grim. And I wanted to call you on the phone, but this whole ordeal has left me so emotionally drained that my ability to maintain composure has really gone down the tubes.
Miraculously, my parents are still unaware - as are Jennie and Noah. You and [Aunt] Jennie are the only family in the know. I would like to keep it that way for the time being. It’s just too stressful, and I don’t think they’d be able to help. I’d rather spare them the weight of the knowledge. They all have so much else going on right now!
Janine, it’s so important that you be frank with me. Do not feel obligated, please please please. Know that regardless of the money, I’m deeply grateful for the emotional support and the gesture that you’d like to help if you could. I really do understand if you can’t.
I love you.
Janine was kind enough to offer a loan. But somehow I was still holding out hope that I would not need to resort to accepting it—either Anna would come through with the repayment or one of the approaches Dave suggested would work. I thanked Janine profusely and told her that this would be my emergency backup plan.
Reaching out for help made me feel both vulnerable and deeply supported at the same time. At last, things seemed to be falling into place. The forward motion was exhilarating after running in circles for so long. At the end of the workday, I telephoned Dave.
“What’s the word?” I asked.
“Scratch the plan,” Dave answered.
He’d spoken to his friend, who shared Dave’s worry that if I threatened Anna with going to the authorities, it might be viewed as extortion. As for agreeing to let Anna defer the repayment until she received her inheritance, he’d decided that we shouldn’t trust her, and that giving her an extension would only delay the inevitable.
“Your best bet is actually the police,” Dave said. “Try to get an appointment with a detective unit. This could be the sort of thing they would find interesting.”
The police? Although Anna’s actions seemed criminal, I’d been trying to avoid going to the authorities. But now it did seem like my best option. Directive accepted. I would go to the police, and I’d show up prepared.
* * *
That same night, I made a folder on my computer called Operation Clarity, in which I saved every text message, email, and file that seemed relevant. It was late that evening when I printed the last of the pages. While they were still warm from the printer, I slotted them into a three-hole punch before dropping them carefully onto the open metal rings of a black office binder. I closed the binder with a snap and slipped it into my backpack. I was so tired of waiting. Waiting for Anna to get back to me. Waiting to see whether her promises would come to fruition. Waiting for lawyers to return my calls. Just one more night, I thought, relieved to finally have a plan.
Before I went to sleep, I heard from Kacy. Once again, Anna had appeared in the lobby of Kacy’s apartment building. Kacy had a date sleeping over when her doorman called and said that Anna, who was still without any of her cell phones, was in the lobby and needed to speak with her. When she got on the line, Anna was crying and told Kacy that she might kill herself. Kacy, wanting to avoid a scene in front of her date, met Anna in the lobby to calm her down. They sat and talked for a while before Kacy encouraged Anna to leave and get a good night’s sleep. That way they could regroup tomorrow, Kacy said, when they were both better rested. Anna took her advice and began heading downtown, allegedly bound for the Greenwich Hotel.
Was Anna really suicidal? It was hard to measure the veracity of such a claim. She had insinuated the same thing when I let her stay in my apartment. Was she being manipulative or crying out for help? Or, to Anna, were those one and the same? That evening, while gathering my Operation Clarity files, I noticed an article on The Real Deal website from the week prior: Aby Rosen’s realty company had reportedly signed a new tenant, a Swedish photography organization called Fotografiska, to lease the entirety of the Church Missions House—the very building that Anna wanted to lease. She had been working toward it as long as I’d known her. Anna and her schemes were falling apart.
* * *
On Tuesday, August 1, 2017, I wore pearl earrings and a white shift dress. I felt focused, driven, and resolute.
“I’d like to speak with a detective,” I said to an officer, who stopped me just inside the door of One Police Plaza.
“Do you have a police report?” he asked. I shook my head. I was in the wrong building. “You have to file a report at a local precinct first,” he told me, “and then—maybe—you’ll be referred to a detective unit.”
Today was the day. I went straight there. I looked up the closest precinct on my phone and marched swiftly down to Chinatown. The building on Elizabeth Street was nondescript. Then I noticed blue lamps on either side of a door, above which it said “5th Precinct” in gold letters. Upon entering, I passed through a set of double doors and immediately found myself in a small wooden pen, waist high, and closed. From the other side, an officer asked, “How can we help you?”
Oh, this was not how I had imagined it. I thought I’d be in someone’s office, or at the very least in a cubicle and maybe sitting in a chair. How could I answer a question like that while standing in a doorway? They really wanted me to deliver an elevator pitch to the open room? Where to begin? Maybe after I started, they’d let me inside. As I began to speak, the first officer was joined by a second. I continued. After a bit, the first officer left and the second officer was joined by a third. I kept telling my story. At last the second and third officers were joined by another, a man with gray hair who was introduced as a lieutenant. When I finished, I was breathless and still standing in my pen, and I hadn’t even showed them my binder yet! I took it out of my backpack and made sure to point out the labeled dividers. By then, only the lieutenant was left. His nods were sympathetic, if a bit dismissive.
At last, he spoke. “I’m sorry this happened to you,” he offered, “but since it happened in Morocco, there’s nothing we can do.”
My chin dropped like an anchor.
“What?” I croaked. I had not seen that coming. “But the trip was planned from New York,” I explained. “She and I are both in the city. The charges were made on American credit cards.” Two rogue tears escaped from the inner corners of my eyes as they fixed on the lieutenant. Was there no way to approach this from a different angle? Was there really nothing to be done?
“With your face,” he said, “you could start a GoFundMe page to get your money back.”
That was not the advice I had been looking for. His only other suggestion was to try the Civil Court. “I don’t know—maybe someone there could help you,” he said.
Back down the front steps, on Elizabeth Street, I stood beside the station and, for a moment, I sobbed. The police had always been my last resort. I’d never considered they might be unable or unwilling to help. This came as a shock. Regaining my composure, I called Dave to tell him the news. Then I called Kathryn for a morale boost, and I kept on.
* * *
I walked straight to the nearby Civil Court. Did I really think I’d find answers there? No. After my experience with the police, my faith had hit rock bottom, but I was committed to trying everything possible, if only to check each stop off my list.
The Civil Court building was large, boxy, and metallic. Its entryway spanned a city block, with large windows and entrances at either end. The inside felt like a small airport with metal detectors placed at each door. I watched my backpack slide down the conveyer belt and pass through the X-ray machine. I walked through the archway and collected my backpack on the other side. Then, in the middle of the lobby, I paused. I’d come somewhat aimlessly searching for someone who might be able to help, but how would that work? That’s when I noticed a sign: “Help Center,” it read. Perfect, I thought. In the middle of the two entrances, against the entryway’s longest wall, a man sat in a booth between two American flags. I approached.
“Is the help center open?” I asked. They were closed for lunch, he said, but would reopen at quarter past two. Lunch. I heard Janine’s voice in my head: “And I know you’re stressed; you better be eating!” I’d stop for lunch, too.
On Baxter Street, in a row of storefronts offering bail bonds, the Whiskey Tavern looked welcoming. Inside, I sat in a tall chair at the bar, next to a cop and a large man in a suit.
“What can I get ya?” the bartender asked. I ordered an iced tea, chicken fingers, and tater tots. “What brings ya to the neighborhood?” he inquired, returning with my drink.
“I think I’ve been conned,” I blurted out. The two men beside me stopped talking and turned to face me. The bartender leaned forward on his arms. Before I even realized what was happening, the elevator pitch just spilled right out, only this time, in the height of my despair, describing the absurd futility of my efforts made me simultaneously laugh and cry. I couldn’t stop myself. Oh, things were pretty bad, all right, and there was a dark humor to it all.
“Lunch is on the house,” said the bartender. Fried food, comedic relief, and the kindness of strangers. I was done feeling sorry for myself.
Back in the Civil Court, I followed signs to the Help Center. It was a bit like the Department of Motor Vehicles. I waited in line for my turn. When the young man in front of me was done, I stepped up to a window and spoke with a woman through an institutional Plexiglas divider. “How can we help you?” she asked. Her question shouldn’t have come as a surprise, but I laughed nervously at the notion of once again having to explain my situation in such an awkward setting. It wasn’t the right day to ask for help on that sort of a topic, she told me, but then she turned to speak with a man who happened to be passing behind her. He nodded. “He’s not usually here on Tuesdays, but come on back,” she said.
I went through a door and followed a mousy man in khakis over to a small cubicle. “Okay, tell me,” he prompted. Sparing no detail, I relayed my tale of woe. It felt like dumping a fresh jigsaw puzzle onto an empty table. Here, here it is, I wanted to say. Tell me, what can you make of it?
When I finished, he smiled a sneaky little grin and said, “Well, gee, I’m kind of jealous that you got to go to Morocco. How was it?”
Really? That’s your response? I thought. “All I can tell you is it wasn’t worth it,” I answered. He tried to help by offering pamphlets on pro bono lawyers, but the money involved surpassed the financial limit dealt with in Civil Court, he told me. Another swing, another miss.
Back outside, I called Kathryn. She suggested we meet to strategize. Surely one of our connections through Vanity Fair or past photo shoots might be able to help. It was just before four p.m. and she was in the office. Since it was conveniently midway between us, we decided to convene at the Beekman. I arrived first and stood outside to make phone calls while I waited. I called Nick and Janine with my update. Then I sent a text to Kacy to ask whether she’d heard from Anna again. She responded almost instantly to say that Anna had reappeared in her lobby only moments before. I think I or we need to sit her down and try to get to the truth, I responded. The situation is really bad.
When Kathryn arrived, we stepped into the bar, the same place I’d been with Anna not long ago waiting for an imaginary check. We sat in a booth near the entrance. My world felt completely upside down. Before Kathryn and I could order, I got a text from Kacy asking if I had a moment to talk. “White wine?” Kathryn asked. I nodded and excused myself for a phone call.
“It’s intervention time,” I told Kathryn when I returned to my seat. Kacy had an idea. One of her clients, Beth, was a divorced mom in her early fifties who, according to Kacy, was a real straight shooter. Kacy would ask Beth to meet Anna in her lobby. Beth would then explain to Anna that Kacy would be meeting them nearby at an outdoor bar called the Frying Pan, on a pier off the West Side Highway. Kacy and I would join them, and together we’d ask Anna for answers. It was a Hail Mary play, but worth a shot.
“Go! Good luck,” Kathryn said. I took a sip of my wine and left.
Part III
Chapter 13
The Frying Pan
* * *
Kacy was also wearing white. I met her in front of her apartment in West Chelsea. “We’ve got our power whites on,” she said, smiling. We walked west toward the Frying Pan. “This has gone too far; something is just not right. We need to get some truth. We need to reach her family.” I nodded obediently as she said what I already knew.
My stomach ached as we crossed the West Side Highway and found our way to the outdoor bar. As we approached the table, I tapped the record button on my cell phone. I knew this would be an important conversation, and I wanted to have every word of it preserved.
The table was on the far left-hand side of the pier, next to a fence. The bar was crowded, filled with men in suits with loosened ties and women in professional clothes who’d traded their high heels for after-work flats. Anna was sitting on the far side of the table, next to Beth, facing us, as we approached. She was wearing the same dress that she had for weeks, a loan from her night’s stay in Kacy’s apartment. Aside from looking more unkempt than I’d ever seen her—and a bit sulky—she was strangely calm, considering the circumstances. Anna seemed surprised to see me—not startled exactly, but taken aback. You could see her gears spinning as she realized that Kacy and I had been in touch without her knowing. She appeared to regain her footing quickly, readying for the confrontation that would follow. I sat down directly across from her. Beth stood up, introduced herself to me, and went to the bar to get white wine and beer for the table. Kacy sat beside me, across from Beth’s empty seat. And so it began.
“We can’t go through this anymore, darling,” Kacy began. “Anna, we had to be here because something is just not right. We have to figure out what’s happening, what’s going on, and how can we make her stuff better, and get you better. Because if not, it’s gonna spiral and spiral and spiral and spiral.”
“I keep telling her that she’s the first priority,” Anna answered, nodding toward me. “I haven’t really been taking care of my own stuff.�
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“I don’t question that,” I cut in, “but what is your own stuff? What has gone wrong? What is the truth of your situation right now?”
“Because there are too many lies, too many lies, no more lies,” Kacy interjected. “No. More. Lies.”
“I didn’t lie about anything,” Anna said in a monotone voice, devoid of emotion.
Kacy jumped to my defense: “She has had—how many times?—her money coming to her from wires, from this, from that. It’s just too much!”
Beth, back at the table, turned to Anna and asked, “Do they know about what’s going on in September?”
At first I assumed she was talking about Anna’s inheritance, but it quickly became clear there was something else Beth was referencing.
Anna looked to Kacy and me. “Have you seen what they wrote about me?” she asked, again without much emotion. I had no idea what she was talking about. Anna—with interspersed commentary from Beth—went on to describe an article that had come out the night before in the New York Post calling Anna a “wannabe socialite.” Anna began to snivel. She lifted her glasses to wipe away tears. She had been portrayed unfairly, she complained. She had been sitting and working every day, not partying or acting frivolously. She wanted to be taken seriously.
Hungry to read the story for myself, I waited for a lull in the conversation and then searched on my phone. The New York Post article came up right away—and there was a second one! The Daily News published a piece of their own, just this morning. The articles described how Anna had stiffed the Beekman hotel for a multi-week stay, then did the same for a shorter stay at the W New York–Downtown, and finally tried to skip out on a lunch bill at Le Parker Meridien. She’d been caught as she attempted to leave Le Parker Meridien, was arrested and then released without bail, and was now facing three counts of misdemeanor theft of services. The total amount she was accused of failing to pay was more than $12,000. And the event that would be going on in September that Beth had referenced wasn’t Anna receiving her inheritance: it was a court date.
My Friend Anna Page 18