My Friend Anna

by Rachel DeLoache Williams

  The following day was Tuesday, September 5, Anna’s court date. During my morning check of her social media, I saw that she’d shared three new photos on Facebook. There was no location tagged: just three close-ups of her head—lips pouty and eyes blank, as usual. In the background of one, I could see a white umbrella, like those next to the Chateau Marmont pool. There was no way to know when the picture was taken, but I alerted Officer McCaffrey, just the same.

  He texted back with a question: You said she was really intent on not missing court, right?

  Yes, I told him, because that’s what Anna had said at the Frying Pan. If she missed her court date to face the misdemeanor charges, she was afraid that when she left the United States she would never be allowed to return. That word stuck in my head: misdemeanor. Mis-demeanor. Mis, meaning wrongly or opposite; demeanor, meaning appearance. That was Anna. But I’ve heard so many lies from this person it’s hard to know what to believe, I added.

  Would she still respond to your calls/texts if you were, in theory, to reach out to her?

  An ominous question, but I told him that the likely answer was yes.

  Chapter 17

  Turning

  * * *

  When my cell phone rang, I stepped onto the back porch of my parents’ house to take the call. ADA McCaw and Officer McCaffrey were both on the line.

  “She didn’t show up,” said ADA McCaw.

  I should have known. When given a choice between two paths, Anna always took the one that was more dramatic. Through the fine mesh of my parents’ screened-in back porch, I studied the trees, watching their leaves catch the wind and sway. September was a time for turning.

  “If you were to text Anna, do you think she’d respond?” asked McCaw.

  My heart snagged on a beat as I paused to reconsider the likelihood.

  “Yes,” I told her, just as I’d told McCaffrey.

  It wouldn’t be hard, I reassured myself as I hung up the phone. Just another shot in the dark. What was the worst that could happen? Silence?

  It was the first text I had sent to Anna in almost a month. The tone was like that of so many texts that had come before, but now the purpose narrowed, as did the feeling of who was in control. My goal was to re-establish contact, and uncover her location. I sent the message at half past two: Hey Anna. I’ve been thinking about you today, as I know you had that court date. I wondered how it’s gone for you. In thinking back through everything, I can tell you must have gotten into some sort of situation that I don’t understand. I can’t imagine you intended for things to turn out the way they have. It seems like you must have gotten into trouble somehow. I’m sorry that you didn’t feel like you could tell me the full story—and I’m sorry you’re in this mess, however it happened.

  I meant what I said.

  In case Officer McCaffrey had feedback, I took a screenshot of the overture and shared it with him. He approved. When Anna didn’t respond, I followed up over the course of the day with gentle inquiries that ran little risk of betraying my motives. I knew better than to rush it.

  Anna said nothing. News of her skipped court date appeared in the New York Post: “Wannabe socialite skips court, now faces arrest,” which meant it was now public knowledge that she was wanted by the police. She must have known that, too.

  When I touched down in New York the next morning, I pinged Anna with a question mark. Her silence lasted until almost five that afternoon.

  I’m in a hospital since Monday, her text said. Bad reception.

  I responded immediately with a barrage of questions: What??! Are you ok? Are you in NYC? Should I come by? I remember you hadn’t been feeling well. What happened?

  But she was done with answers for the day. A hospital? I remembered her heavy drinking, I thought of her suicidal impulses, and I wondered.

  I sent everything to Officer McCaffrey, as usual. He was receptive but wanted to be sure I wasn’t overextending myself emotionally, given that I was a victim in the case. I assured him that this type of contact was not outside the realm of what I’d be doing if I still didn’t know the truth about Anna. Yes, I was nervous, but I was within my comfort zone. And, besides, if I didn’t do this, who else could?

  Officer McCaffrey and I made plans to meet later in the week, to re-examine my information and to see if there was anything he might have missed.

  When I woke up the next morning, I saw Anna’s next text.

  In CA, it read.

  Broad. California is a large state. Then again, progress was progress. I sent a screenshot to Officer McCaffrey. He suggested I ask for an address to send flowers, but I knew that Anna would see through any line of questioning that was too direct. Instead, remembering how badly she had wanted to see that Mirage installation near Palm Springs, I took a roundabout approach: Are you out of the hospital now, and ok? Did you finally go to see Doug Aitken’s glass house?

  After that, I waited.

  At noon, the staff at Vanity Fair received an unusual email asking us to gather immediately outside of the planning room. The space was too small for our head count, and we overflowed into the hallway. After a few minutes, our editor in chief, Graydon Carter, appeared and announced that after editing the magazine for twenty-five years, he would be stepping down at the end of the year. Everybody was shocked and upset. It was as though someone had died—not Graydon, but Vanity Fair as we had known it. We had always known it would happen one day, but that did little to lessen the impact.

  Then again, my world was already so out of whack that more change felt inevitable. Clichés are clichés for a reason: When it rains, it pours.

  When I got back to my desk, I sent another text to Anna: Do you need help? Where are you and what happened? Still in the hospital? Now I’m worried!!! While I waited for her to respond, I confirmed a meeting with Officer McCaffrey for the following day.

  Anna got back to me that evening as I was leaving the office.

  Still here, she said.

  I had just finished sending a screenshot to Officer McCaffrey when a second text came in: Why dont you stay away from my toxicity like you suggest others do.

  Who had she been talking to? Toxicity—I had used that word in reference to Anna many times. Where had she heard it? We began a game of psychological jujitsu.

  Five minutes later, I wrote back: Anna, I have been TOTALLY freaked out. You can’t blame me for trying to figure out what is going on. The amount of money outstanding is HUGE to me. I’ve been extremely upset. And then you went totally silent.

  Why should I be on the defensive? I sent another text two minutes later: I can’t believe that you think it’s acceptable to be mad at ME in this situation. I’m the one checking on you even though you owe me almost 70k.

  Nearly fifteen minutes passed. I sensed an open channel and instinctively knew that it was time to push, to lean in while I had the chance. I continued: I’ve spent so much time with you since February and it seems like everything has just spiraled. When you stopped communicating I just kept thinking about everything. I thought maybe since it’s Sept, you could actually access your trust and things would get better. I’m truly sorry that your family or whatever support you have hasn’t come through for you sooner. It just seems like it’s all unraveled. And as mad and desperate as I’ve been, I also feel sorry for you and worried. Why are you in a hospital?

  She didn’t respond, but I had faith the message would land.

  * * *

  The Starbucks on the corner of Johnson and Gold Streets was busy at eleven o’clock the next morning. Three steps inside, I spotted Officer McCaffrey, seated but obviously tall, square jaw, slick hair, and with a gun on his waist. He stood to shake my hand. It was the first time we’d met in person. I ordered a coffee and took a seat. We went through the story again, from start to finish, and I answered his questions. He didn’t divulge any new information, but the meeting in itself felt productive. At the very least, I was glad to put a face to the name.

  After leaving the Starb
ucks, I sent another text: Anna? I’ve restructured so much of my life to support this huge debt. I’m having constant panic attacks. The least you could do is communicate. I’m truly sorry to hear that you’re in a hospital. What is happening to you?

  Three minutes later, I got a text from a random server who used to work at Le Coucou. Anna and I had gone to visit him once in his new job at some other bar, where he wore Hawaiian T-shirts every day. His message seemed benign, but its timing was suspicious.

  Hey how have you been? he asked. If he was in touch with Anna, she could have been using him as bait, so that I might divulge my true opinions and motives. Act natural, I told myself.

  Hey, I’m okay—how are you? I wrote.

  I’m good! It’s been a while!! he replied.

  Yes!! Things ok for you at work? Still wearing the shirts?

  Of course I am. I miss seeing that pretty face of yours!

  It has been a while, I noted.

  Too long!! What’s new with you?

  Why was he asking? Was he just making small talk or was he digging for information?

  Getting excited for the fall. Just hanging in there. Working hard. And you? I asked.

  I love the fall!! Working hard as always but making sure to have fun. You need to come and visit me.

  This conversation was going nowhere. It was entirely possible, even probable, that he was merely hitting on me, but at this stage of the game, wherever Anna was concerned, it behooved me to assume the worst—that he was her spy. I answered with a superficial Oh do I? and went quiet.

  That afternoon, Officer McCaffrey asked me whether Anna had a Snapchat. She did, I told him, though she rarely used it. It was only by spelling out her Snapchat username in a text that I saw it with fresh eyes: delveyed. It read like a verb, and it described what had happened to me. Had Anna known that when she chose it?

  * * *

  The rest of the day went by, and Anna still hadn’t responded to my texts.

  I sent one message on Saturday: does your family know that you’re in the hospital?

  And another on Sunday: I hope you are ok.

  Finally, on Sunday night, I received a response: My family’s accountant will arrange for your payment hopefully this week.

  Back to that old game again! Just when I thought it was over. It was a language of engagement we both knew so well. Well, if that was her chosen tongue, so be it. I would play along. Was I to believe that reimbursement was coming? Was she hoping I would silently wait?

  Not wanting to scare her away, I let the message sit unanswered. We were busy in the office that week, anyway, prepping for the New Establishment Summit, which was quickly approaching. I would travel to Los Angeles in less than a month to help with production for Annie Leibovitz’s group portrait of the conference speakers. Maybe Anna would still be in California. The Instagram posts from the Chateau Marmont made me think there was a good chance she could even be in LA.

  On Monday afternoon, I attended a meeting to review plans for the photo shoot. Afterward, when I had a moment, I went back to Anna and gently pushed for more insight. That would be an enormous relief, I told her. Are you back in NY yet? How are you feeling?

  Another day went by. Part of me wished that my investigation hadn’t been quite so thorough before I found my way to the District Attorney’s Office. Clearly I had touched on something (or contacted someone) that rocked Anna’s trust. Then again, I had done only what any rational person would have: I had tried my best to solve the puzzle. She was just being paranoid, though perhaps rightly so.

  On Instagram that evening, Anna hid all of the photographs in which she’d been tagged. Her account stayed up, but an entire section disappeared, the one that showed posts by other people in which she’d been identified. I had already taken screenshots of the photos she removed, so I sifted through them for clues. What was she trying to hide? Or was she merely pruning her personal “brand,” knowing that people would be looking?

  I walked to work on Wednesday, and not long after I arrived a text message appeared from Anna: Im still in California, they will reach out in coming days.

  I assumed “they” referred to the family accountant. It was the third time she’d told me she was in California, but her answer wasn’t getting more specific. Ok. When are you coming back? I replied. I haven’t seen you in over a month.

  I was hoping to hurry things along, but once again Anna was slow. In the interim, out of the blue, I heard from Kate. When she asked how I was doing, I gave an honest answer, and like a good friend, she gently pried. I expanded: It’s a bit complicated but I’m ok. Just went through a really hard time with that person who owed me money . . . haven’t been paid back and don’t think I will be. Plus Graydon announced he’s leaving V.F. at the end of the year so everything is about to change in a huge way at work. and Nick and I aren’t doing well. He’s been abroad for over a month and [is] not communicating much. It’s been a hard few months. Seeing my own recap, put so succinctly, I suddenly understood why I was bone-tired.

  Kate had the perfect series of reactions, beginning with Oh my god Rach!!!!!!!!! You gotta tell me these things!!!!! and closing with I am here for you and love you. It was a relief to have another ally in the know.

  On Thursday, I was in Pier 59 Studios for a photo shoot of actress Hong Chau. The photographer was Erik Madigan Heck. In between setups, and after another day of silence from Anna and a conference call with Officer McCaffrey and ADA McCaw, I gathered the nerve to call Anna’s phone. Since I dreaded the thought of hearing her voice, it was a relief when she didn’t answer. I followed up with a text for good measure: Tried calling you. Are you still in the hospital? What’re you doing in CA? Still no response. I sent parallel messages on Facebook Messenger and could see that she was reading them. What would it take for her to respond?

  Worrying that she was really gone this time, at midday on Friday I decided to get creative. When I opened Snapchat to see whether she’d posted, I noticed a filter that I knew she would like. I used it to take a black-and-white picture of myself. A large satin bow appeared in my hair, centered like a baby doll’s headband. The effect also enlarged my eyes and gave them exaggeratedly long lashes that looked a lot like Anna’s extensions. I held my mouth in a pout and kept my long hair in front of my shoulders. My resemblance to Anna was exceptionally creepy—I had a hunch that it might work. On top of the image, I wrote a short message: “This Snapchat filter is very you.” I hit Send.

  That afternoon, five minutes after I sent another wave of text messages, Anna finally replied: Bettina or someone else will reach out to you regarding the payment.

  And then another: Im also aware of the messages you are/have been sending to other people and other comments from your side.

  She knew exactly what to say to mess with my head. Again, I wondered if my phone had been tapped. What did Anna know, and how? Or was this intimidation tactic just part of her skill set? If so, bring it on.

  Not sure what you’re referring to, I replied. It’s insane that I haven’t been paid back after this long. You have no place to question my behavior in this situation. You haven’t given me a straight answer to my questions in months.

  I was daring her to tell me the truth, which was hardly likely to happen, but at least I was on offense. I went on: When are you coming back/can we just meet to go to the bank? What are you even doing in CA?

  I followed up the next day: still no straight answers? I was such a good friend to you. I cannot understand how you think this behavior is excusable. At the very least you could be direct with me.

  * * *

  The Florida Gators beat the University of Tennessee Volunteers with a sixty-three-yard Hail Mary touchdown in the final seconds of the football game on Saturday, September 16. My brother, Noah, and I watched from my apartment, and afterward we decided to go for a walk before grabbing some dinner. Without a specific destination in mind, we took a tour of SoHo. Noah pointed out the office where he’d just begun a new job as a vide
o producer for a company called Group Nine Media. Meandering from there, we playfully bickered about who knew the neighborhood’s streets better: me, who’d lived nearby for six years, or Noah, who’d worked there for less than two months.

  Just before we settled on a spot for dinner, I got a message from Anna saying she would call me by Monday. The thought of her deflated my mood. By the time Noah and I entered Café Gitane, at the corner of Mott and Prince Streets, I was quiet and a little depressed. We sat at a table by the window, and I anxiously sipped water to calm my nerves. When the waitress brought over menus, I scanned mine briefly, recognized its French-Moroccan influence, and knew that it was time. Once my glass of wine arrived, I began to tell Noah the story. I started with the trip to Marrakech and brought him all the way up to the present. You could see on his face that it was a lot of information to digest. He listened with complete attention, such that when his dinner course arrived, he reached down to move it aside without thinking and promptly burned both of his hands. He spent the second half of our meal holding a glass of ice in each palm in an effort to soothe the burns. We would have laughed about it if the mood hadn’t been so low. I could feel that he was sad for me, and that in turn made me sad, too. But somehow that sadness worked to bring us closer.

  It was that same weekend that I focused on compiling supporting documents for American Express. I wrote a detailed letter describing the events surrounding my claim—“Anna Delvey (aka Anna Sorokin) was a friend,” it began.

  I also included copies of relevant email correspondence, an itemization of charges (along with receipts), and press clippings from the Daily News and the New York Post. I added mention of the grand jury hearing, hoping it might lend credence to my case.