Philanthropist

by Larry Hill

A small window several feet beyond the reach of the tallest inmate gave the men their only indication of the time of day; anyone with a watch was relieved of it at check-in. Klein had assumed that he’d be bailed out quickly after the door slammed behind him, but light gave way to dusk and it was clear that Greenberg wasn’t going to be there either for him or his embezzler buddy. “Don’t I get a telephone call?” he asked the decrepit old man who brought his evening meal of chicken soup and sourdough.

  “Beats me. I just deliver the shitty food and mop the fuckin’ floors.”

  “Ask one of the cops to come here so I can talk to him.”

  “Big chance that anybody’d listen to me.”

  “Just do it. Tell them that Fred Klein asked.” He thought that there was at least a slight chance that the cop at the desk would know him from his community activities.

  “Sure.” It was obvious that the food guy wouldn’t say a thing to anybody.

  Dusk progressed to moonless darkness. Only two bare sixty watt bulbs, perpetually lit, offered any light to let the residents of the holding cell know where they could sit or lie and how they could get to the toilet. Klein saw a spot on a bench, rose from his seat on the floor like the old man he was and sat on it. Seconds later a black man fifty years younger, a hundred pounds heavier, and six inches taller than he, with biceps and triceps the size of pomelos, confronted him, “That’s my seat, muthafucka. Just comin’ back from da shitter.” No amount of reasoning or pointing out that nobody has reservation on any seat was going to have an effect. Klein pushed himself up with his arms and returned to his seat on the concrete floor. He yearned for his iPod – no way was he going to get to sleep. The only inmates lucky enough to sleep were the ones that were boozed or drugged out. On second thought, he was glad he didn’t bring his iPod recently given him by his granddaughter – it was pink, not a safe color in most slammers.

  THE NEW WIDOWER

  Mark Spencer, venture capitalist, was elegantly housed in a suite at the five-star Golf Hotel in Abidjan, Ivory Coast. Fearful of falling victim to the widespread and unpredictable violence of the beautiful but now lawless nation, his venturing out of his hotel room was limited to the times he could arrange body guards and an armored vehicle. He had been there only one day, but had made progress in trying to wrap up contracts for most of the cocoa production of a large portion of the northern half of the francophone West African nation. Hating the concept of eating alone in a restaurant, he’d order off the room service menu when he didn’t have a business meeting. Occasionally on his foreign forays, he’d work it out with a doorman to have a young woman come up to his room for a bit of interracial frolicking. That night however he was too tired, having weathered the agonizingly long entry process at the airport the previous evening. He had long since recognized that the countries that you were not anxious to go to were the ones that made it hardest to enter. France and New Zealand were a breeze, Zimbabwe and Tajikistan hardly worth the effort. Dining alone, he was watching CNN International when his phone rang. He figured that he was going to hear about a pickup time for the following morning, but instead he heard the unmistakable voice of Jack Jensen, his brother-in-law, who to Mark’s chagrin had recently moved into a home only a block from their Cow Hollow mansion.

  “Mark, I’ve got bad news.”

  “What is it, Jack? Is it Meagan?” He always worried about crib death, even though his only daughter was well out of the crib.

  “No, it’s Teresa. She’s been in an accident. She’s at General Hospital in pretty bad shape.”

  “Oh, God. What happened?”

  “Some asshole in a Cadillac ran into her outside her car on California Street.”

  “Huh, what was she doing there? When did it happen? How bad is it? Is Meagan OK?”

  “Yeah, Meagan’s just fine. She was in the car with Teresa. We don’t know what they were doing. It happened early this evening – like about seven. Nobody knows why she was out of her car in the street. It’s real bad, Mark. She’s in coma.”

  “Jesus Christ! Did they operate on her? Is she going to make it?”

  “I sure as hell hope so. The only operation they did was to put a drain in her skull to keep the pressure down. She has really bad swelling of the brain. Her coma’s pretty deep – she doesn’t respond to anything.”

  “Who did it? Is the son-of-a-bitch in jail?”

  “The cops don’t know. He didn’t even stop. Drove right on. Some woman saw it from across the street and said he didn’t slow down, or speed up – just kept on driving, almost like he didn’t know anything had happened. Had to be a drunk, but a rich one. They’ll catch him.”

  ‘Who’s with her?”

  “Maggie’s been there since we found out late last night. Ashley’s taking care of Meagan.” Maggie, Jack’s wife, was Teresa’s older sister and Ashley, the Jensen’s 17-year-old daughter.

  “I’ll get there as soon as I can find a plane out. They don’t come into this war zone very often.” For the first time since he left SFO, he thought about something other than getting even wealthier. “Give me your cell phone number and I’ll call when I know when I’m getting in. And, Jack...don’t let her die.”

  “We’ll do whatever we can. We’re praying.”

  Mark elevatored down to the ground floor to speak to a concierge; there was none as the desk stopped services at 6 PM. There weren’t a lot of foreigners in Cote d’Ivoire to service, thanks to the political turmoil of the past two years. He considered himself fortunate to find an English-speaker at the check-in, check-out desk. There was nobody checking in or out. The hotel had only about 20 guests in its 300 rooms. The one employee was able to determine that an Air France plane to Paris was scheduled to leave early the following morning. There’d be no trouble getting on – flights in and out of Abidjan flew nearly empty. He’d be able to find a flight to the US easily when he got to De Gaulle. He arranged for a taxi to pick him up at four AM, four hours before the flight, reckoning that road blocks and snipers, so prevalent recently, were unlikely to post a threat at that hour.

  The following morning he arrived before 4:30 at Houphouet Boigny International Airport, named after the beloved autocrat who served for decades after independence from France. Papa Houphouet made international fame by ordering and overseeing the construction of the largest church in Christendom in the dusty town of Yamoussoukro, in a country that has three times as many Muslims as Christians. Nobody was manning the counters. Nobody was there to sell a cup of coffee, let alone duty-free alcohol. Nobody was present to guard the security of people or things. Aside from the scores of non-traveling Ivoirians sleeping on chairs and floors to get a bit of safety from the lawlessness of the city, nobody was there.

  At 6 AM, a shoddily uniformed young man with wings on his food-stained lapel showed up behind the Air France departure counter. He pushed buttons to first light up, then add information to, the Arrivals and Departures information board. FLIGHT 6 - PARIS – DELAYED. In the departure time column, 8 AM was replaced by 11:30 AM. Flight 6 was the only flight of the day to Europe on any airline. Between Spencer’s arrival and the announcement of delay, some three dozen people, about 50/50 black and white, had arrived to check into Flight 6. Many lugged multiple suitcases; others dragged luggage while having infants strapped to their backs. All badly wanted out of the hell-hole and all expressed their displeasure on hearing the news of the postponement. The young airline employee was overwhelmed, unwilling, or unable to give adequate responses to the voiced and unvoiced anger. He left his post, going through an unmarked door behind the baggage belt, slamming it behind him and locking it. All the chairs outside of immigration were filled by the sleeping masses; no customs officials were present, for obvious reason – there were no flights. Therefore, there was no access to the plusher seating in the pre-boarding facilities. There wasn’t even anybody, since the departure of the Air France man, for Mark Spencer and the other well-healed travelers to bribe. Luggage turned into makeshift chairs. Dirty clothes b
ecame pillows for those willing to lie on the filthy linoleum. And, as far as Spencer knew, his wife was dying and he couldn’t get out of Africa to be with her.

  At 11 AM, the flight was further delayed. No explanation was offered, either in French or English. There was no food available and Mark found the three toilets to all be in desperate need of the attention of a plumber. Rumor had it that the women’s room was equally foul. At 4 PM, an Air France 747 landed; fewer than a dozen people from a plane that had a capacity of more than 300 deplaned. An hour later, Spencer was on his way to Paris, first class. It was policy at his firm, Spencer, Bowman and Clark to use only economy class but he calculated the circumstances warranted the expensive upgrade. It had been 20 hours since he learned of his wife’s catastrophe. By the time he landed at De Gaulle Airport, it was nearly midnight in France, 3 PM in San Francisco. Not wanting to hear any news before he booked his way to the US, he approached the United Airlines desk and found he could take the first flight to San Francisco, at 8 the next morning. He took a room at the in-airport hotel and dialed his brother-in-law.

  “She died this morning. Meagan’s with us.”

  Jason Klein, Fred and Barbara’s first-born, appeared on the scene at Cedars-Sinai Hospital, a building considered by LA’s Westside Jews to be the spiritual near-equivalent of the First and Second Temples of Jerusalem. The couple battled over a name – she lobbied for Abram, after her late grandfather who died in Dachau; he preferred Ethan Klein which he figured would facilitate his acceptance into the Ivy League and set him up should he opt for a career in film. Neither accepted the other’s choice; Jason, a name then beginning to appear on the top fifty lists, was the eventual compromise.

  Bar Mitzvah by his own choice, he pleased his parents religiously but was less successful academically. A public high school graduate – the folks thought the Westside LA schools to be more than adequate – he had a good, not great, GPA, and lacked the skills to compete on any of the high priority athletic fields. His SATs were excellent, giving him some optimism about his chances of being accepted to a top university. Rejections came from Harvard, Yale, Princeton, and Brown. He made waiting list at Cornell and Penn but had heard nothing more by the time he needed to accept or decline an offer from UC Berkeley. He chose yes, a fortuitous decision as his wait-listed name was not reached at either Ithaca or Philadelphia.

  He did well at Berkeley and was very glad that he had not ended up on the East Coast. He was only a bit jealous when Robert, one of the twins, two years after Jason’s rejection, was accepted at both Yale and Brown. His grades were good and he learned that he could score with women, both Jews and goyim. During the holidays of his junior year, he brought home a Cohen, first name Deena. The parents were ecstatic, both sets, but it didn’t last. He told his folks that it was a mutual decision, but they suspected otherwise when they learned that Deena became Mrs. Weinberg the following summer.

  Jason applied to law schools – again, he was turned down at both Harvard and Yale, but had a variety of high level acceptances, ultimately matriculating at Columbia Law. There he met a classmate, Chan-sook Park, known outside her immediate family as Emily. She made Law Review; he did not, but they fell for each other and he took her home to meet the parents. She certainly was no Deena Cohen and their immediate reaction was lukewarm. Knowing better than to speak disparagingly about his choice, they said nothing. Jason interpreted the silence as negativity but dismissed its importance and three months later he and Emily announced their engagement. The summer after graduation, the Park parents, wealthy by way of the chemical industry, put on a huge fete in Newport, RI. The already diminishing bright skies of familial relationships began to become partly cloudy in Rhode Island. Father Park was a Republican of few words and the words of Mother Park were laced with saccharine that overwhelmed the taste buds of Fred and Barbara alike. The father shook his counterpart’s hands with a manly grip accompanied by a barely perceptible upturn of the lips, his best attempt at a smile. The mother, with previous coaching by her daughter, hugged both Kleins, welcoming them to their manse and talked at great length about the wonderful past, present, and future of the betrothed couple. A record hot spell rolled into coastal New England the day before the big day. The oppressive heat put a damper on what the Parks, and the Kleins, hoped to be a crowning occasion, the pairing of the only child and first born. Nonetheless, the extravagant meal and wedding went off without embarrassment; in fact, a fine time was had by all. A Korean Presbyterian minister and a Reform rabbi mutually officiated. The second series of handshakes and hugs followed the lavish reception with both parental couples assuming that there would not likely be any follow-up meetings, at least until an offspring was christened, named, confirmed, bar- or bat Mitzvah, or graduated. The Kleins did not know what their son and future daughter-in-law planned in terms of a religious upbringing for their future kids; they said to each other that they didn’t care, but both did.

  Emily accepted a clerkship with a Federal Appellate judge in Washington. Jason did not aim that high, knowing that his chances of hitting the target were low, and took a job at the Justice Department in the Office of Legislative Affairs. There he honed his schmoozing skills dealing with congressional aides, most of whom were his age or younger. After Emily’s two year clerkship concluded, she had a wide scope of options in both DC and the nation at-large. She was disturbed by the preponderance of Democrats in the District of Columbia and silently held at least some interest in seeking elected office. Jason was congenitally a Democrat, but learned early in his relationship with Emily to temper his overt enthusiasm, keeping his view on the major issues of the day to himself. He had no problems with her desire to leave the land inside the Beltway; his father had the best of Southern California connections and, as Emily could essentially write her own ticket, they decided to take their talents to Los Angeles. Both joined prestigious law firms that owned conjoining tall buildings on Wilshire Blvd. Hers specialized in mergers and acquisitions, his in entertainment. Both took home handsome salaries, but they had not accumulated enough to put a down payment on a home equal to their status-to-be. The father of the bride offered to pony up the full sum, but the Kleins did not want to be outdone and negotiated a deal whereby each pair of parents proffered a sizable chunk of cash, readily accepted by the young marrieds. Repayment documents were neither requested nor offered. The purchased property was a five bedroom four bath Tudor place in Holmby Hills, a block from UCLA and a short walk from the Playboy Mansion. It was ten minutes by car from the Kleins, five and a half hours by plane from the Parks. The gross inequality of distances was to prove problematic.

  HOUDINI

  The morning after the incarceration began, the food guy, while collecting the paper plates and plastic utensils from breakfast, called out, “Fred Klein?” It was almost 9 AM.

  “Yeah, that’s me.”

  “Your lawyer is waiting for you. Somebody’ll come get you in a couple minutes.”

  At 9:45, a uniformed woman appeared, called for Klein and led him down the hall, through the heavy iron door to a small, unadorned room with a table and four chairs. A portly, mostly bald man dressed in a suit that Klein recognized as Italian and exclusive, sat at one end of the table. He stood as his client entered, extended his hand and made definite eye contact. “Fred, I’m Irving Greenberg.”

  “Where were you, sir?” Klein responded to this man, at least two decades younger than he. “I’m not real happy having been locked up with those stinking slime balls for an entire night. I couldn’t sleep…”

  “I’m sorry Fred. I couldn’t get here yesterday. I had an MRI yesterday afternoon. Just after you and I talked, my doctor called and told me there was a problem with my blood tests – they thought I might have a liver tumor. Thank God they were wrong. Sorry to say that I was so freaked out having cancer that I forgot everything about coming over here. Plus, I’ve got another client in lock-up – did you meet him?”

  “Yeah, I did. He’s really pissed.”

&
nbsp; “Let’s get you out of here. We’ll go before the judge who handles this stuff. I’d predict you are going to have to come up with three hundred thousand bucks, as this involves a death. They are going to charge you with vehicular manslaughter and that’s the number listed on the bail schedule of the county. I’ll try to get her to lower the bail, but am not optimistic. Can you write a check for that?”

  “Hell no, I can’t. Can’t I just give them a deed to my house or a bunch of stock certificates? I’m not a poor man – three hundred G’s is not a big deal. I just don’t have it in cash.”

  “We better work through a bail bondsman – arranging something with your house or your securities would take a few days and you’d have to stay where you are.”

  “Me and a bail bondsman? They are all scumbags who work for even scummier crooks, no?”

  “Some of their clients are innocent, some are scumbags, and some are both. And then there is a group of reasonable citizens that are not innocent.”

  “Me.”

  Greenberg grimaced, glancing at the four corners of the room implying that his client should say nothing that he’d regret hearing later. “We go to the bail hearing in ten minutes. You should be out of here soon. Just don’t argue your case in front of the judge; she’s only going to set bail and you don’t want to piss her off. Keep your hands at your sides, not in your pockets and not folded in front of you. ‘Yes, your honor. No, your honor.’ That should be the sum total of your testimony. I’ll do the talking.”

  Resplendent in his orange outfit, un-cuffed Klein, Greenberg, and the uniformed woman walked to the elevators and on to the courtroom where there were about a dozen men, half of whom were in cuffs, and two women, all in orange, plus four or five suited individuals who had presumably all passed the California Bar exam. Klein rightfully assumed that there were fewer lawyers than arrestees because many of the latter were represented by the same public defender. Judge Katherine Wang brought to his mind his daughter-in-law Emily - young, attractive, and mean; he had a viscerally negative response. He could feel his heart thumping on his rib cage and he had pain in his chest, minor but no doubt real. It was minutes after he entered the court room that he noticed his wife seated in the gallery. She was dressed as if she were going to the opera. Greenberg approached her as she and her husband communicated without words. She handed him a folder of papers, presumably attesting to their financial stability and his lofty role in the community.