Everybody Rise

by Stephanie Clifford

  “Now, you have sat in the courtroom as I’ve argued case after case. You have listened to the witnesses, the expert witnesses. You have listened to the judge. You know how the whole process goes. Why did I bring up expert witnesses? Well, we need those witnesses—often doctors—to explain to the jury the effects that some of the drugs can have on our clients.”

  “Right,” said Evelyn, wary.

  “Do you remember the Oney case, Peg Oney out of Cresheim? Remember her, the Wallen Pharma case?”

  “Yes,” Evelyn said. She had been in middle school then, and she and Barbara had traveled to Pennsylvania to watch her father give opening arguments in the case. The lawsuit was over Wallen knowing but not disclosing side effects for one of its drugs. The case was complicated, full of chemistry and drug-development procedures, but her father made it simple. He had started by describing how Peg lost feeling in her fingertips as a result of taking the drug. “Now, fingertips mightn’t seem like much,” he said in his thick Carolina accent. “It’s not a leg. Not an arm. Not even a hand. But when Peg holds her hand in front of a candle, she doesn’t feel warmth. When she goes to pat her dog Scout, she can’t feel his fur. When she touches her one-year-old baby’s cheek, she doesn’t feel his soft skin. Fingertips are just the tips, but fingertips are also the world.” He had made every juror feel just what it was like to be Peg, and then he left the podium, walking close enough to the jury box that the jurors in front could touch him. “Right here, in this courtroom, you people of Pennsylvania get to say today to this huge conglomerate, ‘We’ve had enough. You don’t get to take our senses from us. You don’t get to tell us we can’t feel warmth, we can’t pat our dog, we can’t touch our baby. We’ve been misled enough, we’ve been fooled enough, we’ve been lied to enough. It stops here. It stops today.’” It took jurors fewer than three hours to award Peg Oney an enormous sum.

  “Peg’s injuries, the effect on her body, were complicated,” Dale was saying now as he neatened his stack of papers. “To hold Wallen responsible, we had to have experts tracing exactly what Wallen had tested, exactly what they knew, exactly what the effects were on Peg and the other plaintiffs. You’ve got to have good experts and we searched high and low for the right ones, a doctor and a chemist, who offered very compelling trial testimony. The award in that case, Evie, was significant for the Oneys. Very significant.”

  And for us, Evelyn thought; she remembered overhearing her parents discussing the millions her father had won as his portion in that case, and her mother had hired an interior designer to revamp Sag Neck, from wallpaper to chandeliers, just after that. “So what’s the issue?” she said.

  “Peg’s husband, ex-husband by then, later asked us to look into another pharmaceutical case. I don’t think he saw much of the verdict money, and he was angry. He was hurt. He, I now believe, was seeking revenge on Peg, and he chose us for his revenge. He told us at the time that he was doing some pharmaceutical investments and uncovered what he thought were questionable quality-control policies at one of the big firms and came to us with the hopes that we could make a case out of it. We looked into it and filed a case, and it ended up settling fast. The ex-husband apparently was not satisfied, though we’d done our damnedest to help him and his family and his town. When the government came knocking he said that we, that Leiberg Channing, were bribing these experts to give the testimony they gave. The Wallen Pharma case didn’t fall within the statute of limitations, but he alleged that these payoffs occurred in his second case. I think he had little more than a single e-mail where we’d talked about paying these experts, which of course is perfectly legal.” Dale leaned back in his chair, as carefree as if he were out tanning on spring break.

  “But the government can’t make a case out of that,” Evelyn said.

  Dale directed a smile toward her mother’s back that dropped like an unreturned serve. “That’s right. I knew you’d get it. There isn’t”—he pronounced it “idn’t”—“anything there. The pharmaceutical companies are major donors to the Bush administration, and all these Bush prosecutors with their Ivy League schools want to go after the small fry like me who are helping everyday Americans. But the joke’s on them, honey. All they’ve been able to produce after their big investigation is a single ex-husband of an old client who says that we did something illegal years ago. The Bush administration and the Republicans want nothing more than—”

  A thwack of a hand against glass. Barbara, at the window: “Will you stop blaming your problems on a Republican conspiracy?”

  Dale flipped his palms up to signal that he was being open. “Barbara, we can argue about this all over hell and half of Georgia, but when federal prosecutors can subpoena whatever they like and whoever they like to investigate a firm that is notably hated by their major Republican donors, the connection is not hard to make.”

  Evelyn looked to her mother, but Barbara was staring down a squirrel outside. Evelyn turned her head back to her father, who was wearing a bright green polo shirt made of a too-thin jersey material that emphasized his ribby midsection.

  “So what’s going to happen?” Evelyn said.

  Dale propped a leg on the coffee table. “They haven’t charged the firm or any of the partners, because the evidence—or what they think passes for evidence—is thin grits and they know they can’t get anywhere with it. I—your mother, mostly—thought you should hear about this from us, though.”

  “Then why don’t you tell her what’s actually happening?” Barbara said, spitting out the words. “Or tell her what to say when she’s ignored at the Channings’ party today. That’s right, you didn’t mention that part, did you? Why don’t you tell your daughter all about how these Republican prosecutors seem to be focusing on you? Not Tommy Channing, not Larry Leiberg? Or tell her what the government’s really looking into—that your firm was doing large-scale bribes, giving the experts a cut of the jury verdict or the settlement, so that maybe, just maybe, they might overemphasize what happened to poor Peg Oney, or poor whomever you’re representing?” She was talking so fast that her words slammed together, and when she was done, she leaned against the window frame, looking exhausted.

  Dale blinked, the pleasant smile on his face not changing. After a minute, he picked up the conversation again. “Well, secret’s out, I guess. Because I was the lawyer handling these cases, from what we can put together, it looks like some of the focus may be on me. Let me be clear, the three of us—Larry, Tommy, and myself—all worked together on all the cases.”

  “The charges,” Evelyn said quickly, shaking her head. “Valeriya. Valeriya said you’ve been home since Wednesday. That’s not normal for you. God. She meant legal charges. What are they?”

  “There’s a grand jury. Your father is being investigated by a grand jury,” Barbara said.

  Evelyn stood up so fast that the chair’s wooden legs shrieked over the floor. “A grand jury? How long have you known about this?”

  “Well, this is an ongoing investigation,” Dale said.

  “Yes, I understand that. But how long have you known about the grand jury?”

  “Months,” Barbara said.

  “Barbara, many grand jury investigations go on for months,” Dale said, his voice sharp. “It doesn’t mean it’s going to go anywhere.”

  Evelyn gripped the chair’s back. “This doesn’t make sense.”

  “It doesn’t,” Dale said. He’d modulated his voice now, and it was all brown sugar. “I’m sorry we’re just springing it on you now, honey. We didn’t think it would go anywhere, and we still don’t, but the government’s been leaking things to the press, and it was bound to get out.”

  Barbara turned from the window. “This shouldn’t have happened,” she said. Her hand was shaking, but her body was still. “This shouldn’t have happened.”

  “Well, it did happen. It is happening.” Evelyn was trying to keep her voice even, but it kept modulating unpredictably as though someone else were controlling the volume knob. “It happens that
Dale Beegan is being investigated by a grand jury. It happens that maybe you should mention that to your child before several months have gone by. Maybe that would be a good idea.”

  “We didn’t think it was necessary—” Dale said.

  “Well, it was. It was necessary.”

  “Evie, don’t get all worked up. The investigation seems stalled in its tracks except for this one unemployed fellow making false claims. We thought we’d talk to you about it in person because we knew you were coming down for the party—”

  “And what a lovely party it will be!” Barbara cried, ridding herself of the slight Baltimore accent that she sometimes sank into when tired or angry, and plowing into her Sag Neck chatelaine voice, long Katharine Hepburn vowels mixed with the nasality of Ethel Merman. “Now, Evelyn, what do you say, shall we go to the Channings’ party in our Fourth dresses and pretend as though nobody knows your father is being investigated for—what would it be? Money laundering? Bribery? Doesn’t that sound like a lark? I’m sure Sally Channing will be just delighted to see us there, this trio of Dale Beegan and his wife and daughter, and give us a warm welcome. Sally’s friends will be delighted to see us, too, after reading the fascinating newspaper accounts of how the United States government says you’ve been breaking the law.”

  “Barbara. That’s enough. I told you, if you want to skip the party, you can,” Dale said.

  There was something especially troubling in what they had said, swirling above the upside-down idea that her father was being investigated by a grand jury, above the tension in the room, above the dreadful day that was ahead where Evelyn would either be forced to go to this party or forced to stay home with her furious parents. That was it. Newspaper accounts. If this was getting coverage, all her friends could potentially know about it already. They could’ve been emailing it around in the days since Lake James; she could practically see Nick’s message: “Looks like someone’s life is less perfect than she’s pretending.” Camilla, too, might be a newspaper reader, and even if she wasn’t, with the way everything went online and spread quickly these days, there was no controlling or predicting what would be read by whom. Evelyn would be laughed at. “This is in the papers?” she said in a small voice.

  Her mother let out a high-pitched “Ha!”

  Her father ran his tongue over his front teeth. “That’s what papers do, Evelyn. They try to make something out of nothing.”

  “In New York? New York papers aren’t writing about this, right?”

  “I haven’t followed it that closely, honey.”

  “Oh. No.” Evelyn backed a few steps away from him and from her mother, moving back toward the thick wooden door to the foyer. “Dad, you’re not serious, right? This has been written about? With your name in it?”

  “The newspapers are writing about pure speculation. Pure speculation.”

  “Is your name in it? In the pieces?”

  He squinted at her with a big grin, the one he used in summations that she had long ago termed the Bedazzler. “I don’t recall whether the papers said my name or the firm’s name. It doesn’t matter. We all know the truth.”

  “Do we?” said Barbara as Evelyn backed up a few more steps; she figured if she could just get to the door frame, she could leave without their noticing. She wanted to Google it; she didn’t want to Google it. Someone would have said something to her if they’d heard about it in New York. Preston or Charlotte would’ve mentioned it, and Nick and Scot probably read only about finance. Definitely only finance. Camilla couldn’t be a newspaper reader. Camilla probably didn’t even know Evelyn’s last name. New York blogs wouldn’t care about a Maryland lawyer. It was all right. It would be fine.

  “The truth,” Barbara was saying loudly, “is that every single person in Bibville knows about what your father has done. Leiberg Channing, champion of the tort cases, darling of the Democratic Party, finally brought to its knees by the Republican government it so hates. Or, let me be specific, not Leiberg, not Channing, but Dale Beegan, who never could manage to get his name on the plaque at 422 North Market.”

  This stilled the room. Barbara was staring at her husband with eyes that had lost their light. Dale had stopped his fidgeting and was studying his locked-together hands. Evelyn felt the energy draining from her, and the orange-wax smell that Valeriya must have put on the wooden floors seemed like it was getting stronger.

  It was her father who finally broke the silence by clearing his throat. He patted his knees. “Well, I’d best be returning to preparing for this deposition. Got any other questions?”

  Evelyn shook her head no and raised her eyes toward her mother, who was now looking lost and distracted in the living room. Evelyn tiptoed backward and turned off the lights as she exited.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Social History

  Upstairs, Evelyn sat cross-legged in the window seat of her childhood bedroom, looking out toward the creek and the bay grass, watching the neighbors’ affenpinscher tussle with a branch just outside of a clump of trees.

  Peg Oney’s case. That was when her father’s career was starting to take off. He came home on weekends sometimes, but just as often he stayed in Beaumont, Texas, or Caddo, Arkansas, or Tallahassee, Florida, places Evelyn looked up in the giant atlas in the piano room. She still thought her father was glamorous then, that his double-breasted suits were fancy and his styled hair made him look like Howard Keel, not that the suits were tacky and the hair was overdone. Sometimes she wished she could still see him like that, like when she was a little girl and she’d slip into his study and pat his smooth leather briefcase as he’d pass her a butterscotch with a wink. She would stay there for a long time sometimes, quietly braiding the fringe of his rug as she listened to him scribble on his yellow pad.

  Her parents had met in her mother’s sophomore fall at Hollins, a small, horsey college in Virginia. Barbara Topfer had been born in Baltimore but her family left Peabody Heights for the suburbs in the 1950s. Her father ran off with a young secretary at his shipping company when Barbara was a teenager. He sent enough money that Barbara and her mother were comfortable, but Barbara saw his absence as a shame and a judgment. Stranded with her mother in Towson, Barbara watched movies, and Barbara read books, and Barbara was pretty, and Barbara decided her destiny was greater than to stay where she was. She applied to Hollins College, and by the time she got there, she had her story all worked out: she was from old shipping money, and her father hadn’t run off with a secretary but had died young, leaving Barbara a great fortune. (Evelyn had been startled to hear this version of events from a friend of her mother’s from Hollins.)

  Barbara’s sophomore fall, she’d gone to a University of North Carolina homecoming and met Dale Beegan. Dale, who’d gotten a scholarship to NC State for college and had near-perfect grades there, had made it to UNC for law school, where he was a star. Barbara’s date for the weekend was one of the preppy classmates Dale couldn’t stand, so he took great pleasure in wooing her away. Barbara was easily wooed; she thought his ambition, charm, and blue-collar roots made for a political cocktail. She once told Evelyn that she’d believed Dale was on his way to becoming an ambassador or a senator or even president. Barbara had ambition, too, raw ambition that she as a girl wasn’t allowed to admit to. In Hollins in the 1960s, that ambition was allowed to go precisely one place: wifehood. If Barbara couldn’t drive the car, she wanted to sit in the passenger seat. They married after Dale’s law-school graduation; Barbara never finished college.

  It wasn’t until Evelyn was at Sheffield that Evelyn deduced that something must have happened to explain the twelve-year gap between her parents’ wedding and her birth, when Barbara was an ancient-for-Hollins-girls thirty-three. She found out what that was one afternoon on summer break from Sheffield, when Barbara, deep into a bottle of white wine, called her to the terrace to warn her that women’s fertility does not last long.

  Barbara had trouble getting pregnant once she and Dale decided to try, she told Evelyn, who win
ced and turned toward the creek. The weeks stretched to an unbelievable length as she followed her doctor’s advice of carefully prescribed intercourse (“Mom!” Evelyn said, but that did not stop Barbara’s speech), waited, and wondered if she felt especially tired, then felt the regular cramps and disappointment return. It took a year until Barbara was finally pregnant.

  When Barbara told Dale, after a doctor’s appointment, that the baby was now the size of a pea, Dale took to calling the baby Li’l Pea. As Barbara relayed this anecdote to Evelyn, Evelyn heard her mother’s voice catch.

  Barbara was three months pregnant and blotting white paint for a sheep’s fleece onto a mural in the baby’s room when she started bleeding. There were cramps and dried blood in her underwear, Barbara said—and here Evelyn again tried to make her stop, but Barbara, who had barely acknowledged the existence of bodily functions in her life, seemed insistent on giving Evelyn every detail of the miscarriage without betraying any emotion about it. She drove herself to the hospital, as Dale was trying a case in California, and was given sedatives. When she awoke, the doctor told her that she had lost the baby—that she had lost the baby.

  The bleeding went on for more than two weeks, when Barbara would awake after a restless tossing sleep in the middle of the night to more cramps, more expulsion, waiting for her body and her baby to disintegrate. Each new cramp mocked her body’s inhospitableness, her inability to do this one simple and basic thing that women all over the world could do and she could not. At Dale’s urging, she went to church after the miscarriage, but left when the priest asked the congregation to pray for the people who have died, and she didn’t know whether the church thought that the collection of cells inside her had been a person who had died.