My Friend Anna

by Rachel DeLoache Williams

  “I didn’t borrow like . . . I didn’t get into her bank account and go shopping with it,” Anna said.

  “You went and fucking vacationed with it,” said Kacy.

  “I know, but that’s why I’m not denying it—I’m trying to repay her.”

  “But it’s not about you,” Kacy said, again.

  “But don’t you . . . see the whole story?” Anna whimpered. “Do you see how, like, I’m doing?”

  “Forget about you for a minute,” Kacy tried again. “Forget about what you have to do or what you’ve done. Forget all that shit. Think of somebody else—someone else totally—not you. Not what you want. But someone else’s pain. You need to detach from yourself, Anna. Okay? Understand something, because the minute that you pay it forward, that you can feel someone else’s shit, that you can do something out of an unconditional loving place, your shit will change. You need to understand that. You . . . you . . . you keep looking at it as if, like, I’m doing the best I can. That’s not brownie points. Because you already have overstepped your bounds.”

  While this condensed, live-action version of my experience from the past two months was happening—filled with misinformation, lies, and deceit—I texted Ashley, Nick, Dave, Kathryn, and Jesse with links to the articles. None of them had seen it.

  Kathryn wrote back: Per the article now you have [Anna’s] attorney contact, she said. Let’s reach out to him tomorrow.

  Ashley’s response was: Wow. I’m so sorry. She also offered to connect me with a family member of hers who was a lawyer, if only for advice.

  It’s pretty dark over here, I wrote back to her. [Anna is] a terror.

  Jesse texted me: Omg. Rachel. That’s insane. Did you talk to her?

  At a confrontation right now with kacy and one of kacy’s friends, I told him.

  And anna? he asked.

  Yes.

  Jesus, he said. Does she owe Kacy?

  Yes.

  Is she a con or is this a matter of spoiled brat doesn’t have access to her family’s money?

  It took around ten seconds for me to type and send my reply: I think she’s a long-game con.

  No way, he said. Fuck.

  I looked back to Anna, who was utterly devoid of compassion. She stuck to her story, claiming that everything she said was true—that nothing was her fault. I said little as I watched. I seemed to float outside of my body, while tears ran down my cheeks. Against the raised voices and direct accusations, Anna’s face remained unsettlingly blank. Her eyes were empty. I suddenly realized that I didn’t know her at all. With this epiphany came a sort of strange calmness and release. I understood Kacy’s and Beth’s anger and disbelief; I’d had those feelings for months. But I had finally come through to the other side, and I knew that there was only one answer.

  After two hours, the intervention had gone as far as it could. Kacy was the first one to call it a night. She had given Anna enough energy and didn’t want to look as tired as she felt during her scheduled appearance on a television show the following morning. Beth, Anna, and I soon followed suit. The three of us walked south along the West Side Highway beneath a waxing summer moon. Beth kept pace beside me, bound for her apartment in Tribeca, and Anna strode two steps ahead, on her way to the Greenwich Hotel. I watched Anna intently as we strolled, with her Balenciaga tote bag over her arm and large sunglasses atop her head. Was that all she had? Maybe to Anna, everything and everyone were disposable. Her feet fell quickly but with minimal impact, so that she almost seemed to glide. How had someone who had once felt so familiar become so hopelessly obscure? I thought through the months leading up to this moment, and about the way Anna had responded to questions and accusations. I studied the framework of her explanations and tried to crack it with my mind. But that was the thing about Anna: she was all riddle, no solution—and that was an answer unto itself.

  I stopped at Clarkson Street and waited to cross the highway toward my apartment. Beth said a quick farewell. Anna kept walking.

  “Bye,” I shouted after her.

  She turned around abruptly, flashed a smile, and waved. “Bye!” she answered.

  That would be the last time I saw Anna for a very long while.

  Chapter 14

  Penny Drop

  * * *

  Still reeling from the night before, I awoke on Wednesday morning to a text from Kacy asking if everyone had gotten home all right. I think so, I told her. She was also curious whether anything significant had transpired after she left—whether Beth, such a staunch caller of bullshit, drank Anna’s Kool-Aid in the end. No, she definitely didn’t, I assured Kacy. Beth was a firm nonbeliever. But even so, thinking of Beth and Anna walking into the night alone, I couldn’t help but wonder if it was possible. I knew Anna’s power.

  I was irritable, distracted, and slow while getting ready for work. It was after eleven a.m. when I got to the V.F. office. My brain was burnt out and my spirits were down. The closer I got to the truth about Anna, the further I got from relief. The police weren’t interested in my black binder. I was still out $62,109.29, and American Express kept calling. I could borrow money from Janine—she’d immediately responded to my email with an offer to help—but how would I ever repay her? And a corrosive idea was beginning to form: Had Anna betrayed me on purpose? Sitting at my desk, I felt pangs of a sadness so heavy that I was tempted to lie down on the floor. Could I go home? Get back in bed? What way forward was there now? It had been two and a half months. Was she toying with me all along? Seventy-five days! Morning apprehension. Afternoon effort. Nighttime dread. And for what? I’d been waiting on something that would never happen, right? Was any of it real?

  Noon. A text from Kacy. Anna was asleep at Beth’s house.

  Of course she was. The brazenness. We all knew that she wasn’t staying at the Greenwich Hotel, but why hadn’t Anna said goodbye to Beth to protect her lie? Couldn’t she have found some other place to sleep? Then again, the obvious path was never Anna’s route. When she lit a fire, she stuck around to watch it burn. It’s possible she really had nowhere else to go. But could it also have been that she was drawn to a challenge? Had she latched onto Beth in a ploy to win her approval? Poor Beth. Had she offered or did Anna finally ask? The newly paranoid part of me wondered if maybe they’d known each other all along.

  Beth had given me her phone number. Taking into account her unexpected guest, I sent a message to ask whether everything was okay. Anna was still sleeping, Beth told me. She’d get her up and out in a little while and would check in with me afterward. Don’t let her toxicity get to you! I cautioned. I won’t, she replied.

  I tried to bury myself in my work. I’d managed to hold it together for so long. Oh, how badly I wanted to crumble. Could I please just curl up into a ball and disappear under my desk? Would anyone notice? Would it all go away? I was struggling not to cry. But it was useless.

  i’m so sick to my stomach today, I texted Kathryn, who was out for lunch, i’m in the office but i’m not sure how long i’ll be able to stay. i’m trying to keep my head up but i’m totally overwhelmed. She returned within the hour and checked on me straight away.

  The showdown at the Frying Pan had unfolded like a stage drama. I relayed its essential plot points to Kathryn, who absorbed them carefully. “Remind me how much money you owe?” she asked. Although she understood the situation’s magnitude, she encouraged me to view the setback as surmountable. Resourceful as ever, she also thought of ways to help. “We could do a photo auction,” she proposed. She had the idea to talk to some of the photographers we worked with, to see whether, knowing the situation, they might be willing to donate prints. Rattling off names, Kathryn reminded me that I was part of a community, that I wouldn’t have to carry my burden alone.

  Bolstered by this assurance, I refocused on how to move forward. Dave suggested I contact the Manhattan District Attorney’s Office. Thinking it would help to have a connection, Kathryn reached out to one of our colleagues, who, assuming we were looking for a
photo-shoot location, pointed us to the press office. I drafted an email, and we sent it from Kathryn’s account.

  Dear Emily,

  . . . A dear colleague of mine . . . has been the victim of fraud . . . perpetrated by Anna Sorokin-Delvey, who was the subject of this piece in yesterday’s Daily News: “Aspiring socialite Anna Sorokin accused of skipping out on $12G in hotel stays.” . . . I am hopeful that you may be able to point us in the right direction, as we are eager to help our colleague and also feel that she has important information to disclose. Is there someone in the District Attorney’s office with whom she could meet in person to explain the situation and to explore the best course of action?

  Thank you in advance for any insight you can provide.

  With gratitude,

  Kathryn MacLeod

  While we waited for a response, I sat at my desk picking at my memories from the last six months. I googled “Anna Sorokin-Delvey,” “Anya Delvey,” “Anna Sorokin,” “Anna Sorokina.” Was she German or was she Russian? Old party photos with random scenesters, crazy hair, and questionable fashion. How far back did the lies go? How had she gotten to Purple magazine in the first place? From what I could tell, that was when she broke into the social circuit.

  So far, in the world of people who also knew Anna (not counting Kacy or Jesse), I’d confided only in Ashley and Tommy. I wanted to reach Olivier Zahm, editor in chief of Purple, to see what, if anything, he might know. I contacted him through a friend we had in common, explaining the situation and hoping for insight. They were both in Europe, so with the time difference, I hoped to hear back the next day.

  The DA’s press office responded: they would pass on my information to the prosecutor on the skipped-hotel-bill case. With that, it was back to waiting. Waiting to hear from Beth, from Olivier, from the prosecutor. Maybe this time around I’d learn something new.

  I had concert tickets to see Gillian Welch at the Beacon Theatre that evening. When I was feeling disconsolate, I’d unsuccessfully tried to sell them. I was too worn out, too depressed, and frankly in need of the money. I’d just skip it. But when Kathryn heard me say so, she intervened. She could tell I needed a boost. We would go together.

  In the lobby of the Beacon, Kathryn bought white wine and Peanut M&M’s. Inside the theater, everyone was seated and the lights were off. Two people holding acoustic guitars stood illuminated on the stage: Gillian, in a faded blue dress, hair down and parted in the middle, and her partner, Dave Rawlings, in a loose-fitting jacket and pale cowboy hat. The duo was on tour to celebrate the vinyl release of their 2011 album, The Harrow & The Harvest. Their set list was the album from start to finish, in order. I knew every word. Once, I had been in the Adirondacks without cell-phone service. The Harrow & The Harvest was the only album I had, so for several days I listened to it on repeat. Lines echoed in my head for weeks. It had country grit, and soul, and made rural melancholy sound beautiful. “We wouldn’t normally lay so many minor-key songs on you in a row,” Gillian told us from the stage, “but this is how the record goes.” There was something powerful about hearing music that met me where I was. Slow. Sad. Tired but strong.

  Beth called at intermission. She’d spoken to Anna’s lawyer, she told me, and would fill me in more after she finished with dinner. When the show was over, I said goodbye to Kathryn in the lobby. She gifted me with a Gillian Welch T-shirt that she’d bought when I wasn’t looking. She really was trying so hard to support me. It warmed my heart.

  I gave Beth a call when I got off the subway downtown. She had spoken to Anna’s criminal-defense lawyer—he sounded legitimate, but his twenty-thousand-dollar retainer hadn’t been paid. I asked Beth how she’d gotten Anna to leave her apartment. She told me that she put Anna up in a hotel (the Hotel Hugo in Soho) for the night. Beth also said that after speaking with Anna and her lawyer, she thought if we could find a way to put money toward the lawyer’s retainer, maybe he could retrieve Anna’s cell phones from the police, who were apparently holding on to them. The reasoning was convoluted, but it seemed Anna had explained that she needed her phones to access her emails and contacts. Without those, she couldn’t issue the outstanding payments she owed. And if Anna’s lawyer received a portion of his retainer, he might take the necessary steps to negotiate getting the phones back. Beth was trying to help me. Anna was trying to help herself.

  I thanked Beth sincerely and told her it was time for us both to disengage. I made a commitment as I said it aloud: From now on, we must operate under the assumption that Anna is a highly skilled con artist. No more doubt about that. Anna had upended my life and watched as I came undone. Now here was Beth, a new mark with an impulse to help. Her empathy had made her vulnerable, and Anna had seized the opportunity. I recognized the pattern now.

  * * *

  Understanding Anna as a fraud, one had to marvel at how widely she’d burrowed her roots. Details varied slightly from person to person, but the central story was always the same—you had to give her points for consistency—she was an ambitious German heiress with an interest in art and business. You could ask anyone else who knew her and they’d tell you the same story. Like, for instance, Tommy—did he really know anything about Anna’s family? The information he gave me had lodged in my gears like a wrench.

  I decided to ask him: Hey Tommy, I’m beginning to think Anna is just a total fraud. Like there’s not even a trust fund or rich parents at all. Is that possible? Are you positive she even has a family? He told me that Anna had given him a family name from Munich, but he agreed it could have been make-believe.

  The more I picked at the pieces, the faster they fell apart.

  I did get a response from Olivier Zahm, but it was vague and brief—all he said was that Anna had been let go from Purple. I didn’t fault him for his terseness. Anna’s waters were murky, and it was hard to know whom to trust and how much information to share. Just the same, the pattern was clear: Anna’s past was filled with ambiguity and discord.

  Now I just needed to reach the prosecutor from the DA’s office. I assumed their case pertained to the misdemeanor offenses reported in the New York Post and Daily News: stiffed bills at both the Beekman and W hotels, and an attempted dine-and-dash incident at Le Parker Meridien. Did the prosecutor know those offenses were just small pieces of a much bigger puzzle?

  I followed up with an email: If possible I’d really like to speak with someone today. I think this girl is a con artist. I’m happy to meet in person or to speak over the phone. I can be available any time. With so much hanging in the balance, after such prolonged stress, I was fully committed to exploring every possible lead. I’d gathered as much information as I could. I had a scan of Anna’s passport and an image of her debit card from when I booked the flights to Morocco. Everything was saved into my Operation Clarity folder, printed, and filed in the black binder.

  As I waited for a response, I warned others to stay on guard. I sent a text to Beth: Hi Beth, I hope you got some rest. I’m still working on gathering as much background info on Anna as I can. It’s clear that she has a track record of sticking other people with bills or not paying them. I do think she’s a fraud. I highly recommend that you distance yourself from her entirely. You clearly have such a kind and strong heart but she is masterfully manipulative and completely toxic. I do suggest telling your doormen not to let her in your building.

  She had already done it.

  My cell phone rang. The caller ID read “United States.” I answered as I stepped away from my desk. “We think you’re right,” a voice said.

  It was an assistant district attorney from the Manhattan DA’s office, who confirmed that Anna Sorokin (aka “Anna Delvey”) was the subject of an ongoing criminal investigation. They wanted me to come in.

  As I hung up the phone, I felt a rush of clarity. My brain skipped back and forth through time like a VCR tape gone berserk. Breathing slowly, I slipped the black binder into my backpack, logged out of my computer, and switched off my desk lamp. I had felt that
I was right, but even so, that voice on the other end of the line, echoing with affirmation, rang loudly in my brain. If it was true, and Anna really was a con artist—then what next?

  I don’t remember waiting for the elevator, or leaving Condé Nast’s headquarters. I must have headed east, walking fast. Did I stop at the crosswalks? Were there even cars on the street? The world parted like a sea, melting, bending, and unfolding. I’d gotten used to the ground shifting below my feet. I wanted my balance back.

  I’m not sure if I wrote down the address, or if it stuck in my brain—with so many other names and numbers, indelible and carefully organized. Eighty Center Street. I passed through Foley Square, the Civic Center of New York City, and spotted my destination on the corner.

  Up a few stairs and inside the doors, I approached a security desk. “We have a Rachel Williams here,” the guard said into a phone, looking intently from me to the driver’s license I’d provided upon his request. He passed back my ID and gave me a “Visitor” sticker, smiling and pointing in the direction of the elevators.

  I followed directions to the Financial Frauds Bureau of the DA’s office and sat at a table with three other women—two assistant district attorneys (ADAs) and a paralegal. They wanted to hear everything.

  At last, I had found a space where my story was welcome, and even useful. It fell on ears that believed and understood. Anna had performed a long con, all right, and I wasn’t the only victim. In many ways, this was the worst-case scenario for me—“we don’t think she has a pot to piss in,” as someone put it—but the truth also made things simpler.

  ADA Catherine McCaw, the primary prosecutor on the case, suggested I try contacting American Express to dispute the relevant charges. And another thing, creepy but important: my coloring was not unlike Anna’s—maybe a coincidence, but maybe not. I would need to consider changing my credit cards, bank account number, and even my passport. I took this directive as an opportunity to mention one of my theories: “Oh, and I think she’s Russian,” I said.