Kiss the Girls and Make Them Cry

by Mary Higgins Clark

  Not sure what else to do, he made one final visit to Pomerantz’s Facebook page. She had posted nothing over the previous five days.

  The phone on his desk buzzed. “Mr. Carter, a Ms. Pomerantz is here to see you.”

  “I’ll be right out.” Before leaving his office, he glanced at himself in the mirror on the back of the door. He had researched the fashion choices that he hoped would give him an advantage. Skipping the necktie made him more approachable. Supposedly the pale blue of his V-neck sweater suggested dependability and trustworthiness. It made one look honest. His tan slacks communicated passivity and calming. He wasn’t sure he believed in all this color communication nonsense, but why take the chance? Maybe Pomerantz believed it. “Showtime,” he said to himself as he patted his hair flat by the temples, opened the door, and walked down the hallway.

  * * *

  Lauren Pomerantz said nothing as she followed him down the hall. That was fine with Carter, who preferred that their entire conversation take place within the confines of his office. Her gray sweater covered a striped shirt that was buttoned to the neck. He recalled what he read about wearing gray. The person wants to remain invisible. He would be more than happy to oblige her.

  “Please sit,” Carter said, gesturing toward the conference table. “I can send out for coffee. Are you—”

  “No. Thanks.”

  “Help yourself to a Danish.”

  “I already ate.”

  “A water?” he asked.

  “Okay,” she said, her expression stone-faced.

  Carter grabbed two bottles of Poland Spring from the mini-refrigerator behind his desk. Pomerantz had taken the chair with her back to the wall. Carter sat down opposite her and placed one of the bottles in front of her.

  “Why are we here?” she asked abruptly.

  Carter was taken aback by her question. “I’m here to do everything I can to make things right for you, to—”

  “I’m not talking about that. Why are we here, and not at the REL News building?”

  “Frankly, Lauren, I wanted to make things as easy as I could for you. The last thing I wanted was for you to bump into the person who caused you so much anguish.”

  Lauren was silent. She looked around the room without making eye contact. Carter opened the file he had brought from his desk and pretended to read it. Nature abhors a vacuum. He wanted her to be the one to break the stalemate.

  “No matter what happens, Mr. Carter, I’m not signing anything today.”

  “I respect that, Lauren. You told me that on the phone. We’re here to discuss the terms of a possible settlement. May I begin?”

  “Go ahead.”

  “The goal of the settlement, first and foremost, is to protect your privacy. It will include a substantial onetime payment to you and the guarantee that you will find a comparable job in the news business. I remember the concern you expressed in my office. You will not be the next Monica Lewinsky.”

  “And what will be expected of me?”

  “Nothing more than your silence. Are you familiar with the term NDA? Nondisclosure agreement?”

  She nodded.

  “Good. The NDA in the agreement will be ironclad. If you breathe a word of the settlement to anyone, you will immediately return the money that was paid to you. Now, I know this will never happen. But if litigation results, you will be responsible for paying the legal fees on both sides.”

  “I assume at some point you’re going to tell me how much.”

  “Yes, I am. Upon your signing of the agreement I am authorized to wire you two million dollars. A wire typically takes twenty-four hours to complete. If you sign today, the money will be in your account tomorrow.”

  “I said I wasn’t signing anything today.”

  “I heard you. I was only explaining how quickly wire transfers work.”

  Carter opened his folder, removed a document, and slid it in front of her. “I’m not your typical lawyer. I try to avoid the legal mumbo jumbo whenever I can. The agreement is only three pages.” He glanced at his watch. “I have something I have to respond to. It will take a few minutes. Why not give it a quick read?”

  Without waiting for her to answer, Carter went over to his desk, opened his laptop, and began typing. He pretended to read what was on his screen while eyeing Pomerantz. It was working. After an initial reluctance to acknowledge what was in front of her, she was now carefully studying it.

  He had labored painstakingly to avoid any word or phrase that might not be easily understood. A full five minutes passed before she finished and looked up. Carter hit a few more keystrokes, then returned to the table.

  “Sorry about that. I appreciate your patience.”

  “Will this be treated as income? Will I owe taxes on the two million dollars?”

  Carter was impressed. Clearly, Pomerantz was sharp and not to be underestimated. Her employment file indicated that she had been a double major at SMU, Communications and Economics. “At this time, no. The money you receive will not be subject to tax.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean, ‘at this time’?”

  “The New York State Legislature is currently considering a bill that would change the way settlements are treated. If it passes, settlements that include NDAs will be treated as income to the recipient. A similar bill is under review in Congress. They obviously care very little about the privacy of victims. Anyone who might be in line for a settlement that includes an NDA would be wise to act sooner versus later.”

  Carter let his comment hang in the air. He did not mention that the intent of the proposed bills was to make it harder, or at least more expensive, for companies to protect serial abusers in their ranks. If the bills passed, settlements that include NDAs would no longer be deductible to corporations.

  “Mr. Carter, I appreciate what you’ve done. What I read appears pretty straightforward. But this isn’t a fair fight. Matthews and REL News have you, a lawyer, representing them. You obviously have experience,” she pointed to the papers in front of her, “with these situations.”

  “Believe me, being a lawyer doesn’t make you any smarter.”

  She ignored his attempt at humor. “Here’s what I want to do. I’m not going to hire a lawyer. I just want to bring it to a friend who’s an attorney, ask her to read it and make sure that I understand it and am comfortable with it.”

  Carter shook his head. “I’m sorry, Lauren, that’s not possible.”

  “What do you mean? Why not?”

  “My marching orders are very clear. My client wants to keep the number of people who know about the incident to an absolute minimum. I believe that’s what you want as well. If you bring in a third party, the settlement offer is reduced to one million dollars.”

  “I just want my friend to read this and spend ten minutes answering my questions—”

  “Take it from a lawyer, Lauren, that’s not what’s going to happen. A lawyer is going to persuade you to retain him or her. In cases such as these, the attorney will get about one-third of the award. Instead of the original two million dollars, the offer will be one million. After the lawyer’s fee, what could have been two million dollars will be down to six hundred and sixty-six thousand. Even when they’re on a contingency, lawyers enjoy dragging things out. Instead of possibly getting it tomorrow, you’ll receive the money in a year or two if you’re lucky. Your attorney’s delaying actions might also give New York or Congress time to pass the bill I spoke about earlier. When that happens, you will owe an additional one-third in taxes, leaving you with a little over four hundred thousand dollars. I don’t like saying this, Lauren, but I have to. It will be tempting to quietly show this to a lawyer and hope I never find out. But here’s the catch. If you choose to sign the agreement in front of you, you will be swearing that you did not discuss the incident with anyone after you came to my office last week. The penalties for perjury in New York State are severe.”

  “I’m not a liar,” she said defiantly.

  “I kno
w you’re not. Lauren, do you know what the saddest part of the whole process will be?”

  She looked at him but didn’t answer.

  “I guarantee you your privacy will be violated. Your friend, the lawyer, she’s a member of a firm, right? The firm has partners who will want to know about this potentially high-profile case. They’ll take the three pages in front of you and expand it to thirty. Numerous associates will work on it. Legal secretaries will print and copy the document. Can you really trust all of those people to keep their mouths shut?”

  “Mr. Carter, I have nothing to hide. Maybe the lawyer I talk to will tell me I should be getting more.”

  “Lauren, I want to help you. Please don’t make me do this.”

  “Do what?”

  Trying to appear reluctant, Carter walked back to his desk, pulled a file from the center drawer, and sat down. He was pleased that his desk chair was higher than the ones at the conference table. It gave him the opportunity to look down on Pomerantz.

  “Lauren, do you know the meaning of the word ‘consensual’?”

  “You’ve got to be kidding!”

  “Somebody warned you against being alone with Matthews, but you went anyway. Didn’t you?”

  “I explained that to you.”

  “I know you did. While we’re at it, explain to me again how you stopped in the makeup room before you went to see him. You wanted to look attractive, right?”

  “I wanted to look my best.”

  “Attractive? Your best? I’m sure you’ll have no trouble explaining the difference between those terms.”

  “You’re twisting my words. I told you what happened.”

  “That’s right. You told me just like you’ll tell your lawyer, who will prep you for the first of a series of depositions where you can tell your version to the lawyers who’ll represent REL and Matthews.”

  “It’s not my version!”

  “It is your version, and I’m sure Mr. Matthews’s explanation regarding what happened will differ significantly from yours.”

  “Don’t forget, Mr. Carter, I have the tape.”

  “Maybe.”

  “What do you mean, ‘maybe’?”

  “I’m sure Mr. Matthews did not consent to your taping the meeting in his office. It might be inadmissible.”

  “That’s ridiculous. People tape phone calls all the time.”

  “Phone calls are treated differently. When a person is in his office, there is an expectation of privacy. You violated that presumption. Look, Lauren, we’re bogging down, we’re jousting back and forth on fine legal points. I’m trying to spare you being put through the wringer.”

  “I have nothing to hide.”

  “Really? How about I give a little preview of what’s ahead of you if you go to war with Mr. Brad Matthews and REL News. And I guarantee you, it will be a war. Will that be okay, Blue Skies?”

  “What did you call me?” she asked, a shocked look on her face.

  “Come on, Lauren, that’s the screen name you use on the dating service Tinder. You used the same name two years ago when you were on Bumble. Correct me if I’m wrong. Isn’t that the dating site set up to have the woman make the first move? Have you always taken an aggressive approach to dating?” It had cost Carter $2,500 for his army buddy who worked at a credit reporting agency to compile and send him Pomerantz’s MasterCard bills for the previous five years. He had given Carter the name of someone who could access the records of everyone she had communicated with when she was using the dating apps. Fifteen hundred dollars was his fee for what he deemed a rush job.

  “No response to that question? Let’s try another one. Tell me, Lauren, after exchanging a series of messages with a Mr. Douglas Campbell, who resides at 524 East 86th Street, you stopped using Bumble and went off the grid. Is this Mr. Campbell’s cell phone?” He read the number. “Would a search of your text messages to him reveal any really racy ones? And I hope you didn’t send him any explicit photos. God only knows how embarrassing that would be.”

  His army buddy who was at Verizon had provided her cell phone history over the past three years. When they’re not together, lovers typically call each other between ten o’clock and midnight. The cell phone information had cost him another $1,500.

  “That has nothing to do with what Matthews did to me,” she said, lashing out. “Besides, I’m not stupid. You’re not allowed to put my past on trial.”

  “You’re absolutely right, Lauren, that would not be permitted if this were a criminal trial. If that’s the route you had wanted to go, you’d be talking to a cop, not me. God forbid things go that far. In a civil case both sides are afforded more latitude. Way more. Your side would use all the ammo it could find to portray Mr. Matthews as a monster. And the finest legal talent money can buy will put your life under the microscope and find anything they can to rip you to shreds. I’m a run-of-the-mill labor lawyer. Working on my own, I found all this stuff in a few days.

  “I’m sure you followed the Brett Kavanaugh circus. People in bars, people sitting at home having dinner, discussing which one is truthful and which one’s a liar. Is that how you want to be remembered? Even if you win, you’ll lose.”

  Lauren made an unsuccessful effort to beat back tears. She put her face in her hands. “I don’t know what to do,” she blurted out.

  Using the softest voice he could muster, Carter said, “It’s time to start healing, time to make the pain go away. Beatrice, the receptionist you met outside, is a notary public. After you answer one more question, I’m going to call her in and she’ll witness your signature and mine on the agreement.”

  * * *

  Ten minutes later, with the signed papers in front of him, he had his feet up on the desk. Upon further reflection he decided this office was suitable. The money he saved on office expenses could be put to better use. Beatrice, the twenty-nine-year-old, brown-eyed receptionist with her jet-black hair in a ponytail and tight, white sweater accentuating her lovely curves, had agreed to go to dinner that night.

  He glanced at the paper on his desk blotter. Dallas was the city where Pomerantz wanted to work. He had to get in touch with Sherman and have him use his contacts to find something for her there.

  Written below Dallas was the next project. The woman who had tipped off Lauren Pomerantz to be careful around Brad Matthews was a former REL News employee named Meg Williamson.

  36

  Dick Sherman was in his usual position in the left lane on Route 95 as he made his way through the Bronx on his way home from the office. What was unusual was that he was behind the wheel. At dinner last night his wife had explained that she wanted to drive her car to the city and sleep at her sister’s before she and her sister caught an early flight to Bermuda from JFK. He didn’t know or care what she was doing; the part that affected him was his agreement to drive her car back to Greenwich. He had told his driver to take the night off.

  Sherman had just finished listening to a podcast of REL’s evening news. Matthews in his folksy way sounded like the adult in the room as he reported how the Republicans and Democrats at the latest congressional hearing had spent the entire two hours shouting at each other. Matthews closed the broadcast as he usually did on a humorous note. “Ours is a system of government founded by geniuses so it could be run by idiots.”

  Sherman would have been making good time if it weren’t for the moron in the Toyota. The jerk was more than ten car lengths behind the vehicle in front of him. Sherman had tailgated the last mile and twice flashed his high-beams to no avail. The driver was clueless.

  It had been four days since he met Carter at the Greenwich train station. He never liked carrying one cell phone, and now he had to carry his own and the one Carter gave him.

  Ed Myers had done what he was asked to do, but that did little to allay Sherman’s concern. When they passed each other in the hallway, Myers barely looked at him. Sherman recalled years ago when he had been roped into going to some stupid Boy Scouts dinner that was honoring
Myers, who had been an Eagle Scout. It was torture sitting there listening to them recite the twelve points of the Scout Law. I hope Myers remembers the one about being obedient, he thought to himself. When the pressure’s on, can Myers be counted on to keep his mouth shut?

  His reverie was interrupted by an unfamiliar ring. For a moment he thought the sound was coming from the radio. He then realized it was the burner phone.

  The Toyota in front of him finally eased over to the middle lane. Sherman swerved slightly as he dug into his right pocket and retrieved the phone that was now midway through its fourth ring. He remembered Carter’s caution to not use names and talk in code lest anyone was listening. He drifted slightly toward the divider as he answered, “Hello. What’s up?”

  “After looking around, I’ve settled on a Ford. The price was right. Two bushels.”

  “Good job,” Sherman said before considering whether that was an appropriate response to someone reporting a car purchase. “I’m happy for you,” he added.

  “I’m still in the market. Got my eye on a Chevy.”

  “That’s good,” Sherman answered, scrambling for how to introduce the next topic. He had decided he wanted Carter to be with him when he confronted Matthews. What was the code for doing that? The next time I see Carter I’m going to put an end to this code nonsense, he promised himself. Sherman didn’t realize that he was now the one holding back traffic by going slowly in the left lane. An idea occurred to him. “I like trains. Same day and time.”

  “Agreed,” Carter said as he disconnected.

  Sherman continued holding the phone to his ear as he breathed a sigh of relief, but it proved short-lived. Flashing blue light reflected off his dashboard. He glanced to his right where a blue-and-white New York City Transit Police car was in the middle lane. The officer was gesturing at him to pull over.

  “Damn it!” he shouted as he hurled the phone to the floor. Nine minutes later on the passenger’s seat next to him was a summons for careless driving and illegally using a mobile device while operating a motorized vehicle.