She had to fit in. The champagne tasted strange but at the same time pleasing. The rest of the evening was a blur. Another glass of champagne, a nightcap at the bar, an offer of a ride home in his chauffeured car, for whatever reason having to stop at Matthews’s office first. She poured more vodka into her glass as she recalled with revulsion the feeling of him on top of her on the couch. Crying in the cab as she went home alone.
Soon after, the calls began. He wanted to see her in his office after her broadcast or before she started. She would go into his office looking perfect, her makeup and hair ready for the hot glare of the cameras. The sound of his office door closing. As he handed her a glass filled with a clear liquid, he told her how much he had enjoyed getting to know her at the Christmas party. It was the first time she had ever tasted vodka.
Usually he would leave first. That would give her a little time to compose herself. When she stopped crying, she would head back to the makeup room for a touch-up. REL insisted their on-air people, particularly the women, always look their best.
Finally, she had had enough. She hated Matthews and hated herself for what she had allowed him to do to her. She wanted out of New York. She’d quit REL a year and a half ago and accepted the first job she was offered, as the weather reporter at WDTN in Dayton. But after what happened with Matthews, something had changed, and for the worse. She had lost her self-confidence. Previously she would experience a rush of excitement when the producer counted down with his fingers and pointed to indicate when she was live on the air. In Dayton she found the green light of the live camera terrifying. And it showed.
Thanks to Matthews, she knew what she had to do to calm down. A swig of vodka before going on the air did the trick, at least in the beginning. But the feeling of nervousness crept back in and terrified her. Bigger problems called for larger cures.
It didn’t take long for her producers and some viewers to notice. She slurred the pronunciation of Cincinnati several times in one broadcast.
She took another sip as she recalled the humiliation that followed. A meeting with the executive producer and a company lawyer in her small office. Her denials followed by the discovery of a half-consumed fifth of vodka in her desk drawer. Her agreement to take a leave of absence for personal reasons. Who are they kidding? she asked herself. I got fired.
She didn’t need to go to some stupid rehab place, she had convinced herself. It’s natural to get a little nervous when you’re on TV. Everything would be all right if she just took some time to pull herself together after what had happened at REL News. And besides, she was tired of it being so cold in Ohio.
And then Michael Carter tracked her down. After a meeting that lasted less than an hour, $2 million was headed her way as long as she kept her mouth shut about what had happened at REL. A year ago I had $2 million, she thought.
After receiving the settlement, she traveled for three months. Cruises around Italy and Greece. Skiing in Vale. Most people her age didn’t have the time or money to go on those types of trips, so she went alone. And it was easy to meet people, particularly at the bars.
It was only a week after she had moved to North Carolina that she met Carlo. Blessed with dashing Italian good looks, he had been recruited to work for one of the many hi-tech companies in what had been dubbed Research Triangle Park near the cities of Raleigh, Durham, and Chapel Hill.
It was the first time in a long time she had felt good around a man. He was so nice to her. Unlike some of the others, he had not been critical of her drinking. They were close to getting engaged. The software he had developed seemed so promising. It was time to leave his job and go out on his own to create a future for both of them. With the right backing, the company would be profitable in less than a few months.
A few months became six and then nine. She couldn’t risk losing the $700,000 she had invested, so she kept putting in more. And more. Before it was over, $1.3 million of her money was gone. So was the company. So was Carlo. How could she have been so stupid?
That was a question she had kept asking herself over recent days and weeks. But it didn’t only pertain to the investment in Carlo’s company. She opened the manila folder on the table that was labeled “Me Too” and again glanced over the online articles she had printed. The woman who got $20 million from one news organization. The studio magnate who settled three separate cases, each in the $9.5 to $10 million range. A woman from a TV network who had received $9 million. Two women from other networks were expected to get more when their cases settled.
What REL had paid her was so little compared to what these other women got. Twenty million dollars! That’s ten times what they gave me. Whatever he did to her couldn’t have been worse than what happened to me. And they tricked me into not using a lawyer, she thought bitterly.
She didn’t bother to look at the settlement agreement that was on the kitchen counter. She had reread it a dozen times over the past week. If she tried to go back for more money, REL would demand repayment of the $2 million she had already received.
She looked at the phone number of Carter & Associates on the letterhead of the document. She had only spoken to that slimeball once since she signed the agreement. That was when she had called him to confirm receipt of the $2 million wire. He told her they should never speak again, with one exception. If anybody, especially a reporter, ever contacted her about her time at REL, she was to call him at that number immediately.
She knew what she had to do, but she was afraid to take the first step. It was as if the green light of the camera were shining on her again. Another sip of vodka helped her focus. She desperately needed to talk to somebody who would understand. The only other Matthews victim she knew was Cathy Ryan. By holding out and not settling right away, she almost certainly was on her way to a much bigger payday.
There was one other person she could call. One of the truly decent and caring people who was still at REL. She started to dial but then put the phone down. A sympathetic ear would be appreciated, but she really didn’t want more advice, no matter how loving, that she should get help with her drinking problem.
She opened a second folder and glanced at the Wall Street Journal article she had cut out. It was about REL News going public. Timing is everything. Maybe my luck is changing. Maybe it is possible to get a second bite of the apple, she thought as her eyes remained fixed on the number of Carter & Associates.
44
Michael Carter inhaled the cool evening air as he walked the two blocks from the subway to his apartment. He had begun his preliminary research on the victims named by Matthews. Now that he could set his own hours, he found time to make it to the gym almost every day. The small paunch that had been starting to show around his belt was significantly diminished. His wife had given up on constantly asking him what he had been doing on the evenings he arrived home late. She had accepted his explanation that now that he worked on “special projects” for REL, his hours would be irregular. This had come in handy the previous evening when he had taken the receptionist in his rented space to dinner for the third time. He smiled as he recalled their kissing and petting all the way to Brooklyn in the back of the Uber. It would be only a matter of time before she agreed to go to a hotel after dinner.
His reverie was interrupted by a deep baritone voice that said, “Michael Carter?”
“Yes,” he answered, startled.
He turned to see a large, broad-shouldered black man who was at least a head taller than he was standing next to him. He felt the man’s enormous hand clamp down on his shoulder. “This way,” he said, pointing toward a black Lincoln Navigator that was parked to their left with its engine running. It wasn’t a request; it was a command. The man gave him a gentle push toward the car.
“Listen, if it’s money you want, I can—”
Ignoring him, the man opened the back door of the car and said, “Get in.”
From his standing position Carter could see someone else in the backseat, on the opposite side. He could see
the man’s lower arms and legs but not his face. Instead of a robbery, was this a Mafia-style hit? he thought to himself. Would they find him tomorrow floating facedown in the East River?
He felt a hand start to shove him forward. “Okay,” he said. “I’ll get in.” He bent down and slid into the seat. Nervously, he glanced at the figure a few feet away from him.
“Oscar, give us a few minutes so we can talk alone,” a voice commanded.
“Text when you need me,” Oscar replied before closing the door firmly.
At first Carter wasn’t sure who his fellow passenger was. But the voice confirmed it. Staring at him but not saying a word was Frederick Carlyle, Jr.
A few moments later Junior broke the silence. “Do you prefer to be addressed as Michael Carter or ‘Carter & Associates’?”
“Mr. Carlyle, if you give me a few minutes to explain—”
“Carter, I’m going to give you as much time as you need to explain why you and Dick Sherman stole twelve million dollars from my family’s company. If I’m not satisfied with your explanation, Oscar and I will personally escort you to police headquarters, where I will press charges against you. Allow me to caution you, Mr. Carter,” he said as he opened a manila folder on his lap. It was Carter’s personnel file. “I already know a great deal about you.”
Carter paused to consider his options. He could refuse to answer questions and just open the door and leave. That assumed the child locks were not in position. He pictured himself repeatedly yanking the door handle while Carlyle smugly stared at him. If he were able to get out of the car, would Oscar be there to greet him? He had an image of that huge hand around his throat lifting him off the ground. Was Carlyle bluffing about pressing charges? He had no idea.
“All right, Mr. Carlyle, I’m going to tell you the truth.”
“That would be very refreshing.”
Carter explained how Lauren Pomerantz had knocked on his door to share her story of being abused by Brad Matthews and how he had gone to Sherman with a plan to contain the situation. Only once did Junior interrupt.
“Who else knows about what happened to Pomerantz?”
This is a chess match, Carter thought to himself. The winner will be the one who can plan several moves ahead. When he told Junior about Pomerantz coming to his office, he had omitted the detail that she had gone to Junior first, but he didn’t do anything about it. Junior is probing to see if I know that, he thought. It won’t hurt to keep an ace up my sleeve for later. “As far as I know, Matthews obviously, Sherman, myself, and now you.”
“Go on. Tell me everything else.”
Carter spent the next fifteen minutes recounting the settlements reached, his progress on negotiations with other victims, and the Greenwich Country Club meeting with Matthews and Sherman.
“So you believe there are more women that we don’t know about?” Junior asked.
“I do. When I confronted Matthews and got him to name names, he conspicuously left out Meg Williamson. How many others he refused to admit to, at this time I don’t know.”
“My opinion of you has undergone a transformation, Mr. Carter. At first I thought you were a common thief, albeit a clever one. It’s not easy to make twelve million dollars fall through the cracks unnoticed, but you and Sherman succeeded in doing that.”
“With all due respect, Mr. Carlyle, if we were completely successful in doing that, you wouldn’t be here talking to me.”
“True,” Junior said with a grin. “Never mind how I found out. Here’s what I want you to do. Continue with your project. Keep me abreast of everything you’re doing. Who you’re negotiating with, settlements reached, potential new victims, I want to know everything.” He slipped him a piece of paper with a phone number and email address scrawled on it.
“Two more things, Carter. REL relies on a network of well-placed sources to help us get a jump on our competitors when pursuing stories. These individuals receive monetary honorariums for their efforts. I assume I can count on you to facilitate those transactions.”
“Of course,” Carter responded.
“And finally, I’ve had my eye on Dick Sherman for several years. I won’t bore you with the details, but he and Matthews have been using their positions at REL to illegally enrich themselves. I’m sure you wondered why Sherman so quickly approved your plan to save Matthews.”
“That did come as a bit of a surprise to me,” Carter said, knowing full well that it didn’t. He had assumed Sherman was being a loyal company man doing anything he could to preserve REL’s cash cow, Brad Matthews.
“A word of caution: you can’t trust Sherman as far as you can throw him. Not a word to Sherman or anyone else about our meeting today or our ongoing relationship. Have I made myself clear?”
“Crystal,” Carter said, repeating his favorite line from the military movie A Few Good Men.
“You’re free to go,” Junior said as he picked up his phone and began typing a text to Oscar.
45
Dick Sherman eased his Mercedes into his familiar parking space at the Greenwich train station. The slow burn that had been building inside him for weeks now felt like an inferno. I should have followed my initial instinct, he thought. At that first meeting I should have wrung Carter’s neck and thrown him in Long Island Sound.
Sherman was not accustomed to feeling awkward around people, particularly employees. If he didn’t like somebody, they’d have that person fired or make him (or her) so miserable that they’d quit on their own. Now when he saw Matthews in the hallways, there was no deference. After a quick, barely audible “hello,” the anchorman just kept going. Myers, he noticed, also went out of his way to avoid him. With the exception of staff meetings, he and the CEO had barely exchanged a word in the last month.
But it was Carter who had set him off. The two-bit lawyer had called him on one of the stupid phones he insisted on using to say another wire would be necessary. Sherman had cut him off immediately. “Same time and place to look at trains,” he had barked.
Sherman exhaled in a futile attempt to calm himself down. He had the nagging suspicion that Carter was playing him for a fool. How did he know that Carter was reaching settlements with the women? Carter said so. How did he know the victims were getting $2 million each? Carter said so. Now Carter was saying there were more victims, which meant more settlements, which meant he’d have to wire more money to guess who? Carter & Associates. If he thinks he can pull a sting on me, Sherman thought, he doesn’t know who he’s dealing with.
* * *
Michael Carter walked slowly across the parking lot as he approached the black Mercedes. It would be his first face-to-face meeting with Sherman since his session in the back of the car with Carlyle Junior. Frankly, he was tired of getting jerked around. He should have stood his ground with Sherman on the phone. His wife had given him a litany of complaints when he announced he would miss the last soccer game of the season. His son had a different way of showing displeasure. He refused to come out of his room to say goodbye when Carter left the apartment. I’m doing all this work to solve other people’s problems, he thought, and all I’m getting in return is grief.
“Change of plans, Carter. I wired twelve million dollars to you and now you say you need more. What kind of idiot do you think I am? Starting right now I want to know everything. I want copies of the settlement agreements you’ve reached and copies of wire transactions you’ve sent to victims. I want to know who you’re negotiating with and any outside expenses you’re incurring. After I get all that, we can talk about whether it’s necessary for me to get you more money.”
Carter’s first impression was that this conversation was eerily similar to the one in the back of the car with Junior. Why? He thinks I’m stealing the money, that’s why, he told himself. How ironic! he thought. According to Junior, Sherman was in cahoots with Matthews to enrich themselves at REL’s expense, and now Sherman was worried that somebody else was pocketing money that belonged to REL.
Chess ma
tch, he reminded himself. Think several moves ahead. He could tell Sherman, Go to hell, but then what? If Sherman fired him and got somebody else to pursue the settlements, he wouldn’t be of any use to Carlyle Junior. And Junior had just started to use him to make payments to confidential sources. That could be a line of work that would last a long time.
“Fair enough,” Carter said. “I’ll get you the documents you want showing how the money was spent. While we’re here, I’ll give you a quick rundown on what I’ve been doing. You know Lauren Pomerantz settled. Pomerantz named Meg Williamson as the one who tipped her off to tape her encounter with Matthews. When Williamson settled, she gave me another name, Cathy Ryan. I’ve exchanged a few messages with her but progress is slow.”
“Will she settle?”
“Eventually, but it’s hard to tell when. When we were with Matthews at the club, he named Paula Stephenson. I went to Ohio right afterward and settled with her. Matthews gave us two other names, Christina Neumann and Mel Carroll. I just located Neumann, who got married and is living in Montana. No trace of Carroll yet, but I’ll find her.
“You asked me why I told you I’m going to need more money.” Carter counted on his fingers for emphasis. “Pomerantz, Williamson, Ryan, Stephenson, Neumann, Carroll. That’s six victims at two million dollars a pop. So the twelve million you sent me and more is already spoken for. And that’s before my compensation and expenses. When I find these women, they’re likely going to name others. Not to mention we know Matthews lied to us. At some point we’ll need to hold his feet to the fire to give us the full list.”
“Is there any chance you can settle with some of them for less than two million?”
Kiss the Girls and Make Them Cry Page 13