by Meghan March
YOURS,
CHARLIE
I dropped my head against the metal bars of Huck’s crate, grateful I was already on my knees. The words were unapologetically Charlie. After reading it three more times, I pushed to my feet and turned to the door. Con was standing there, watching me. I should have hated him seeing my lowest moment, but I couldn’t bring myself to care. Every thought and emotion was focused on Charlie. Finding her. Bringing her back to me.
“Where is she?” I would beg if I had to. And if that didn’t work, I’d beat it out of him.
“She went to make things right.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“It’s what she said when she tossed a backpack into my Tahoe and handed me that letter. I assumed she meant she was going back to New York to turn herself over to the FBI.”
A solid chunk of ice formed in my gut. “And you let her go?”
“Didn’t have a choice. You ever try to stop that woman from doing anything?”
He had a point. I looked at my watch. It was just past one o’clock in the morning. I could get a flight out first thing tomorrow. Or maybe I could charter a private plane and get there sooner…
Con interrupted my thoughts. “Taking a wild guess, but you’re thinking about how fast you can get to New York.”
I met his stare. “Wouldn’t you be?”
“Sure, I’d want to. But what are you really going to be able to do for her? Hold her hand while they slide the cuffs on? You’d be better served sending her a lawyer than going yourself.”
Again, he had a point. But I could do both. I wasn’t letting her face this by herself. No way in hell.
Then Delilah popped her head around the corner and added her two cents. “I think it’s all very white knight of you to want to go rescue her, but did you ever think that maybe this is something she needs to do herself? I mean, you didn’t see her when she left. Charlie was determined. She’s nobody’s fool, and she doesn’t need anyone holding her purse while she tells the FBI to go to hell.”
“I don’t care if all I do is stand behind her so she knows she’s not alone in this anymore. I’m going.”
Con smirked. “Yeah, you just might do, Duchesne.”
I threw random shit into my overnight bag and checked my watch. It’d been four hours since I’d last seen Charlie, and it was still four hours until my flight. I’d be in New York by nine.
I didn’t care how long I’d have to cool my heels on a bench in front of the FBI field office; I’d be there when she showed up. And then I’d talk some fucking sense into her. She wasn’t going within fifty yards of the FBI without a shark of a lawyer at her side and me at her back.
My cell buzzed from its perch on the nightstand. I lunged for it, hoping it was Charlie.
I looked down at the screen as I answered. Mom?
I tensed. A phone call at three AM from my mother couldn’t mean anything good.
“Mom? Is everything okay?”
It was my father’s voice that replied. “I need you to come to the house.”
I ran for the stairs.
“What happened?”
There was no answer. He’d already hung up.
I slammed out the door and raced across the lawn. I heard sirens wailing in the distance. They were growing louder and louder.
Oh fuck.
I ripped open the front door and sprinted up the stairs to my parents’ bedroom.
My dad was holding my mother against his chest, tears running down his face. He was speaking softly to her unconscious form.
“Maggie, please. You’ve got to wake up, my love.” They were the pleas of a desperate man.
I dropped to my knees beside the bed.
“What happened?”
“I don't know. She woke me up. Her face looked funny. Then she passed out. I think … I think it was a stroke. I called 911. And then you.” The words tumbled disjointedly from his lips.
He rocked my mother’s still body in his arms. “Maggie … please.”
The sirens blared from the street. I didn’t want to leave them, but I knew someone had to let the paramedics in.
“I’ll be right back. With help.”
I clung to the railing as I stumbled down the stairs. The thick, jasmine-scented night air clogged my lungs. I focused on the flashing red and white lights. I opened the gate and gripped the wrought iron with both hands as the ambulance surged up to the front of the house. I pulled myself together, knowing I needed to be my father’s strength. I’d never seen him look so lost and broken.
I couldn’t lose her, too. Not my mother.
I released my grasp on the metal bars and ran back toward the house to lead the EMTs up the stairs.
One thing was certain: I wasn’t going to New York.
Twenty-four hours was a long time to think about all of the things you could have done differently. Should’ve done differently. By the time I pulled into long-term parking at JFK, I was ready to stop replaying all of the moments I could have spoken up and told Simon the truth. I couldn’t take back the choices I’d made, and now I had to live with them.
I left the keys in Con’s magnetic case under the back bumper. I wasn’t sure if he’d actually come get it or not, but it was the plan we’d agreed on. I would have offered to return it myself, but I think we both knew I might not be coming back. Harriet was holding on to all of my stuff, but I wasn’t holding my breath. My lack of progress with the composition book, along with my strong suspicions about what it contained, made me wary of what I was about to do. But I was running out of options. As much as I wanted to consider the possibility, I couldn’t run forever.
I worked my way through the busy station to board a train toward Manhattan. Even though I had been a lifelong New Yorker, this was my very first subway ride. Like my first flight in coach—it wasn’t something I was proud of. I could only hope this wouldn’t be my last new adventure as a free woman.
I made one detour before re-boarding the train toward Federal Plaza. I rubbed my sweaty hands against my jeans as I ran through my plan. After what felt like a million stops, I exited the subway carrying only my real license and a hundred dollars in cash.
It was strange to be back in New York. It smelled different than New Orleans. The people were all rushing around with places to go. No one moved at the leisurely pace to which I’d become accustomed.
I looked down at my outfit. I had dressed up for the occasion: black skinny jeans and Chucks paired with my vintage Black Sabbath Heaven + Hell Tour T-shirt. It reminded me that I’d been duped just like everyone else. It was a subtle proclamation of my innocence.
I walked through the metal detector, ignored the curious stares, and ducked into the elevator. On the twenty-third floor, I stepped out and stared at the glass doors in front of me. Once I stepped through those doors, my choice would be irrevocable. I squeezed my eyes shut and fought the urge to turn around, get back in the elevator, and keep running. I knew how to disappear. I could do it again. I could start over somewhere else.
I pressed a hand against the cool glass. It was time to stop running.
I pushed the door open.
At the reception desk, an older woman with silver streaks in her dark hair perched on a chair. She held up a finger and gestured to her headset. I waited until she transferred the call and looked up again.
“Can I help you?” Her expression was skeptical as she took in my full sleeves and choice of apparel.
“I’d like to see one of the special agents in charge, please.” She raised an eyebrow at my request.
“Do you have an appointment?”
“I’m pretty sure I don’t need one.”
She shifted in her chair, looking like she was five seconds away from calling security.
“Excuse me?”
“My name is Charlotte Agoston. I believe they’d like to speak with me.”
I sat in a small, windowless room with the requisite one-way mirror. For a moment I wondered who was behi
nd it, but then decided it didn’t matter. I would say only what I intended to say, regardless of the questions asked.
The door opened, and a barrel-chested man in a navy blue suit, white shirt, and red striped tie walked in. A second, taller man in a similar uniform followed. The first man held out his hand.
“Lou Childers, Special Agent in Charge.”
I shook his hand and watched his eyes rake over my tattoos.
“Those real?”
I smiled. “As real it gets.”
He nodded. “You did a good job staying under the radar. You’re a tough woman to find.”
“I was just trying to get on with my life.”
“So, New Orleans?” he asked.
“It seemed like as good a place as any.”
“Never been. But Mardi Gras always looked like a fun time.”
“It is.”
I put an end to the small talk.
“So, you have questions.”
“That we do.” His entire demeanor shifted.
He read me my Miranda rights, and shit got real.
“What do you mean you can’t get in to see her?” I tried to keep my voice low as I paced the hallway of the intensive care wing. A woman in flower print scrubs stared at me as she hurried down the hallway. My attempt at outward calm was failing.
“Mr. Duchesne,” Andrew Ivers’s tone was cool and professional, “unless Ms. Agoston affirmatively requests an attorney, there’s nothing I can do. I have a junior associate sitting in the lobby, waiting to call me the moment we have any indication that she has exercised her right to counsel.”
The thought that Charlie hadn’t asked for a lawyer made me hope that things weren’t as bad as I was imaging. She was smart. I was pretty damn sure if things went sideways, she’d ask for one. Still, Ivers had fucked up my well-orchestrated plan.
“You were supposed to stop her from going in alone.” I raked a hand through my already disheveled hair. “I don’t understand what the fuck happened.”
Ivers paused before speaking, as if choosing his words carefully. “We sincerely apologize. I had another urgent client matter, and the associate I sent over this morning was detained. He was there by nine o’clock, but she must have gotten there first.”
I blew out a frustrated breath. “Well, she has to leave sometime, so you better have someone there, waiting. I don’t care what your associate has to say to them. He better make it fucking clear to the FBI that your firm represents her, and she’s not being questioned again without a lawyer present.”
“I’ll send a second associate down, just to be certain.”
“Just make sure they don’t fuck it up again. Hell, after this morning, I’d expect you to go take care of it yourself.”
“As I said, you have our sincerest apologies, Mr. Duchesne.” He sounded like his teeth were grinding when he added, “I’d be happy to go wait myself. I’ll be in touch as soon as we’ve made contact with Ms. Agoston.”
Ending the call, I sagged against the wall. I bent my knees and slid down the plaster until I sat on the industrial gray linoleum. Resting my elbows on my knees, I dropped my head into my hands.
I wasn’t sure how much more I could handle.
My mother was down the hall, in a coma, hooked up to too many beeping machines. The doctors had run all sorts of tests and had shared theories and ideas, but the bottom line: all we could do was wait.
I didn’t know if I could take another day of sitting across from my father. With each hour that passed without any sign of improvement, he looked more and more like a shell of the man he’d been.
My father had always been larger than life. Confident. In command. But this experience had exposed him as all too human. For two days I’d listened to him speak to my mother’s unconscious form while clutching her hand, and I’d come to realize that much of my father’s strength stemmed from his love for my mother. And without her standing next to him, he was … broken.
I pushed up off the floor and started back down the hall. I’d give him another few hours and then I’d try, once again, to convince him to go home, shower, and get some rest. So far, we’d both been terrified to leave her side for more than a few moments at a time, certain that without us there, she’d just slip away.
Settling myself back into my chair at my mother’s bedside, I listened to my father launch into another trip down memory lane. This time about how angry Mom had been when Dad had laughed after she’d burned their first dinner as a married couple, and how he’d told her he’d eat charred meatloaf for the rest of his damned life and smile while it crunched. His quiet words washed over me, and I couldn’t help but wonder if I’d have a chance to make those kinds of memories with Charlie. I stared down at my phone, willing it to ring.
It didn’t.
There are experiences in life that make you question everything you thought you knew about yourself.
Like watching your father be led away in handcuffs after learning that he allegedly committed the largest financial fraud in the history of the world.
Like arriving in a new city, a fake ID in your pocket, and realizing the rest of your life would be built on a lie.
Like meeting someone who made you want more than the half-life you’d thought would be enough.
Like today. Today had made me question everything.
My strength, my fortitude, my intelligence, my sanity.
I sat huddled on a steel bench in “the bin” at Rikers Island, my body shuddering as the adrenaline seeped away. I brought my knees up and wrapped my arms around them. Tears tracked down my aching face to soak into the gray cotton of my jumpsuit. My left eye had already swelled shut.
The last eighteen hours had taken me down the rabbit hole, and I was fairly certain I would never find my way back. And let me tell you, this rabbit hole was fucking scary.
How did I find myself in solitary at Rikers? I’d like to say it’s a long story, but it really wasn’t. It was the result of the dangerous combination of my own arrogance and ignorance.
I’d been so cocky and self-assured as I’d sat in the interrogation room at the FBI field office, making my demands before I’d deign to speak to them about what I knew. I could only imagine how stupid they’d thought I was.
First lesson learned today: an immunity, or proffer, agreement didn’t mean shit. I’d confidently signed my name—my real name—across the bottom and told the FBI the locker number and combination where they could find the notebook, along with my backpack. Nine hours of questioning later, Childers had said we were done. I’d stood to leave, but the door had opened and two of New York’s Finest had walked in. When I looked questioningly at Childers, one of the officers had said: “You’re under arrest for conspiracy to commit grand larceny in the first degree.” He’d followed those chilling words with another recitation of my Miranda rights.
Second lesson learned today: if the FBI wasn’t done questioning you, but didn’t want to let you go because they were afraid you’d run, they’d contact the district attorney and have state law charges filed against you. Childers was kind enough to explain this to me as the cold metal of the handcuffs closed around my wrists.
Third lesson learned today: I didn’t deserve Simon. He’d once again proven he was too good for me. As the two NYPD officers were leading me through the lobby, a distinguished-looking man in a pricey tailored suit had stopped them.
“My name is Andrew Ivers,” he’d said. “Simon Duchesne has arranged for me to represent you, Ms. Agoston. I apologize for not intercepting you on your way into the building this morning.”
I’d wondered if I would have listened to him even if he had stopped me earlier. But it didn’t matter. What was done was done.
Ivers had exchanged a few words with Childers and was up to speed within moments. He’d promised to be present at my arraignment.
Yeah.
My arraignment.
It didn’t get any more real than that.
After a short ride in the backseat of
a police car, the officers hauled me into a precinct where I was booked—fingerprints, mug shot, the works. Then I was shuttled to Central Booking at the New York City Criminal Court for further processing. After being shoved into a holding cell with a dozen other women who, from the looks of them, were primarily hookers and crack addicts, I waited. And waited. A few hours later I was escorted into a courtroom that looked altogether too much like the one I had escaped from over a year before. The difference between then and now? I wasn’t leaving this room a free woman.
The arraignment hadn’t lasted more than five minutes. Ivers and the prosecutor had spoken rapidly, firing words at the judge. I caught phrases like one-ninety-fifty and remand. It was yet another code I couldn’t crack. All too quickly, I was being led out of the courtroom, and Ivers had followed me into a small room. His explanation of what had just happened, and what was going to happen next, had scared the hell out of me.
I’d been denied bail. Ivers had argued for an astronomical figure, but given the flight risk I presented, the judge had been resolute.
Nothing Ivers could have said would have prepared me for the reality of being chained to the arm of another woman as the bus chugged toward Rikers and then, upon arrival, being stripped of my clothes and my dignity. But three things he’d said stuck with me. First, his phone number, not that I could make calls from the bin. Second, Simon had ordered him to do whatever he could to help me. And third, I only had to endure this hell for 144 hours. Then they either had to indict me or conduct a preliminary hearing in front of a judge. Six days. I could survive anything for six days. I hoped. The second bit of information was all that was holding me together at that moment. The knowledge that even though he knew everything, Simon hadn’t given up on me yet. Which meant I wasn’t giving up either.
I wanted to smile at the thought of Simon, but my busted lip hurt too much. I rested my chin on my bent knees and tried to block out the woman screaming obscenities at me from where she was locked across the hall. It hadn’t taken more than twenty minutes for shit to unravel once I’d been escorted to the large bunkroom-type cell. I could still hear the ripple of whispers as my identity was passed from one inmate to the next. And then Bertha, as I’d dubbed her, had stepped up and told me that no skinny, rich, poser bitch was going to look sideways at her. I was still having a what the fuck are you talking about moment when her Mack truck of a fist had connected with my cheekbone. White spots had burst in my vision as she’d tackled me to the floor. The guards had been slow to pull her off me, and my scalp stung where she had ripped out a chunk of my hair. I’d gotten a few elbows in, but there was no question that I’d been the loser in that exchange.