by Gayle Lynds
Then there were David and Brice. David refused to see him, but Brice seemed interested in what he was up to as long as he didn't proselytize. Lyle went to see him every week and they talked. The old man's path was rocky. His inner demons still wanted attention. But with the rock-ribbed will that had always been both his strength and his weakness, he refused to quit. If there was a heaven, he planned to get there.
The attorney looked at Julia. "And you, Ms. Austrian, are signing over your inheritance, which includes the revenues from the sales of your homes and their contents in Manhattan and Southampton."
"That's right. Sam and I can easily live on what we earn." In the past year she'd made a tremendous amount on tour. They had a beautiful old house they were restoring, and she'd moved in several things from the maisonette and Southampton that meant a lot to her—including the Rodin statue and some of her mother's and father's personal belongings. She smiled. "We're comfortable and happy."
"Very well." The attorney opened the door and called in two young associates. Each took the old man and Julia through page after page of legal documents. They had to initial each page and sign and date others. They drank their brandy and stopped to discuss occasional provisions. An hour later they finished and stood up to leave. They shook the attorney's hand and thanked him.
He pursed his lips thoughtfully. This is a landmark. It looks as if it will turn out to be worm nearly twenty-one billion dollars, the largest foundation in the world. The Austrian and Redmond Foundation for Holocaust Victims and their Descendants will help to improve a situation the world has paid lip service to. It's been an honor to work on this project."
They said good-bye and rode back down on the elevator.
As they stepped out of the building, Lyle turned to Julia. "Are you sorry you did it? That's a lot of money to give away."
"Hell, no. Are you sorry?"
"Heck, no." Lyle grinned. He ambled to the curb and raised his hand to hail a taxi. As he climbed into the backseat, he turned. Suddenly he was overcome by it all. "Good-bye, children. I love you." He waved from behind the window, and they watched until his cab disappeared around a snowy block.
Julia and Sam strolled west holding hands. Fresh snowflakes were in the air. They caught the sunlight and glimmered like silver coins as they floated toward the earth. Julia was acutely aware of how lucky she was, not only for Sam but for her sight. She watched the snow and the cars and the faces of people, and she smiled.
Sam asked, "What are you thinking?"
"That this is the first time my grandfather told me he loved me."
He dropped her hand and slid his arm around her waist. They matched their footsteps and strode along together.
MEMOIR ENTRY
It was a little more than a year ago that Creighton Redmond died, as did many of the people who killed for him. Old Lyle and I found salvation together. That comforts me as I reread the memoirs I have compiled in my spiral notebook.
For a long time in my later decades I had a terrible crisis of faith. I was filled with hate. I wanted to kill Daniel Austrian and Lyle Redmond. I wanted them and their families to suffer as my family and I had suffered. Satan appears in many guises, but by helping Lyle turn from sin to love, I helped myself. I pray for his soul, and I know he prays for mine.
I am in Rome now, and the city is vibrant with preparations for Christmas. The Vatican resonates with song and prayers. The cobbled streets outside teem with the faithful and the lost. I am seeking out sinners here. It is a good life, and I am happy for it.
AUTHOR'S NOTE
CONVERSION DISORDER:
Little-known Psychological Malady Usually Strikes Young Women
For those of you as interested as I in this rare ailment, I thought you might like to know a few more facts. According to the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, conversion disorder afflicts only 11 to 300 people out of a general population of 100,000. That's less than 1 percent—just 0.011 to 0.3 percent. Published by the American Psychiatric Association in 1994, the diagnostic manual explains that the problem is so unusual that only 1 to 3 percent of outpatient referrals to mental health clinics in the United States are for conversion disorder.
Although rare, the disorder is painfully real to sufferers and has been studied for more than a century. The onset is usually dramatic and frightening, consisting of a single major symptom such as blindness, paralysis, deafness, hallucinations, or loss of touch or pain sensation, according to this authoritative source for U. S. mental-health professionals.
Two to ten times as many women as men suffer from the disorder, the manual says, and they are struck by it usually between late childhood and early adulthood. Also, identical twins appear to have an increased risk; fraternal twins do not.
Initially, doctors run batteries of tests, looking for a physical—often a neurological—cause. But with conversion disorder, there is none. Sigmund Freud discovered hypnosis could cure the disorder by helping the patient recall the initial trauma or conflict and then express the emotions that accompanied it. If patients do not get to the root of the problem, the manual says their symptoms commonly return, sometimes at regular intervals, other times intermittently, depending on the patient and the circumstances.
In the late 1800s, while Freud was successfully using hypnosis to treat the malady, so was Josef Breuer, a renowned Viennese physician. As a result, Freud and Breuer collaborated on Studien über Hysterie, published in 1895. It became the starting point of modern psychoanalysis.
For further reading, I suggest Molecules and Mental Illness by Samuel H. Barondes, Scientific American Library, 1993.
Gayle Lynds
Beth Convey is a pricey international attorney at the top of her form in Mesmerized, an electrifying new spy thriller by Gayle Lynds. Wealthy, powerful clients demand Beth's services. Her meteoric career has the attention of her firm. Right now, she's on the cusp of winning a difficult case that's headlined by the national media every day.
But Beth's biggest foe isn't in this high-profile Washington, D.C., courtroom. It's an enemy none of us can escape.
Still, maybe Beth can . . . this time. If she does, what waits on the other side may be even more dangerous . . .
From undercover FBI agents to long-ago Soviet defectors, Mesmerized propels readers through the capital's back rooms, hospital rooms, and press rooms in search of a titanic villain with no name, no face, and no history.
It's a passionate love story. An exciting adventure. And a truly thrilling chase.
Here is the first chapter. . . .
She was a star.
Queen of the Cosmos.
She was Beth Convey, killing machine with compassion.
She was in Room 311 of Washington, D.C., Superior Court, facing the monster she planned to slay. "Your younger son Mark is now your designated successor in Philmalee Group Corporation. Is that right, Mr. Philmalee?"
This was no innocent line of questioning. Several hundred million dollars rode on her cross-examination. Everyone else had testified—family, accountants, friends, business acquaintances, children, employees. Now the divorce trial was down to one last witness. Joel Mabbitt Philmalee himself.
Beth studied him as an angry flush appeared above his starched white shirt collar.
Sixty-two years old, trim, and fit, he was leaning back in his chair in the witness stand in a good imitation of unconcern. He was dressed in an expensive Saville Row suit. One arm rested nonchalantly on the rail next to his chair. He had a receding hairline and a weathered face riven with crevices, the result of decades of sailing against the broiling sun and piercing wind. But no sport could command his attention like business.
To Joel Philmalee, losing was unthinkable. He'd made a sensible $50-million settlement offer to his soon-to-be ex-wife. But she wanted far more. Her attorney, Beth Convey, had kept him on the stand all day, and he was fed up. He didn't like anything about Convey, from the short pale hair tucked efficiently around her ears to the scrubbed face.
Her tailored suit, serviceable pumps, and cool expression made it clear she considered herself a contender. That irritated him even more. She thought she could knock him off the mountaintop. She was out of her league.
He glared at his wife, the cause of all this.
Michelle Philmalee glared back across the courtroom. She was a compact, fashionable woman in a quilted black Chanel suit, an Alexander de Paris velvet headband, and round red-rimmed Armani eyeglasses. She raised her brows at her husband and gave a little shrug as if to say, "Screw you."
Joel Philmalee's gruff baritone barely hid his disgust as he answered Beth's question. "My son Mark is well-versed in my company, Ms. Convey. He was the obvious choice."
"Not Justin? Isn't Justin responsible for the tremendous success of Coronet Books?" Justin was the Philmalees's older son, their only other offspring. Beth was sweating. Her heart began to pound. Would Joel Philmalee walk into her trap? She was counting on his inability to share credit—
"No, I am responsible." Joel Philmalee's voice was cutting, and at the sound of his hubris, Beth relaxed a fraction. He'd taken a step in the right direction. "Justin worked for me," he continued angrily. "He did what I told him. Despite what my estranged wife claims, there'd be no Coronet Books without me. No Phil's Drugs. No shopping malls. No Philmalee International. Nothing." He leaned forward, then forced himself back in his chair. His cagey gaze swept the watchful media that filled the back of the courtroom. He played to them, "Without me, my wife wouldn't be able to collect jewels like they were candy wrappers. My grandchildren wouldn't have trust funds in the millions. If you think—" He stopped, blinked. The flush on his throat seemed to darken. He glanced furiously at his wife. "Justin took orders from me. I'm the one responsible for Coronet's success."
Coronet was the national chain that had pioneered discount books. Its meteoric rise had inspired competitors to build superstores across the country, thus revolutionizing the industry. But now Coronet's own fortunes were caught in the firefight of the high-profile Philmalee divorce. It wasn't just a marriage that was receiving last rites in this somber District courtroom, it was one of Washington's most successful private corporations, which included national retail chains, the area's largest portfolio of shopping malls, and an ambitious international arm that had invested heavily in Eastern Europe at the fall of communism. Accountants conservatively estimated the Philmalee holdings at around $850 million, minus debts, of course.
Beth Convey asked quietly, "Just as your son Mark takes your orders?"
"Of course."
That was the admission she needed. Exulting inside, she ignored a sudden rush of nausea. "You recently sold all your majority stake of voting stock in the Philmalee Group to Mark, but you retained the right to vote the stock yourself. You did this without your wife's knowledge or approval?"
"Why should she have approval? I run the business. I've already told you that."
"That's one of the issues we're here to decide, sir. I have a yes-or-no question for you. When you made this transaction, you knew you could expect Mark to do what you told him?"
"Objection!" It was Kaeli Kocourek, Philmalee's lead attorney. "Speculative. My client couldn't 'know' anything about the future."
Beth said quickly, "Goes to intent, Your Honor. What he intended when he made the decision."
Judge Eric Schultz was a huge man with a gravelly voice and thick eyebrows that rested low over a sharp gaze. "Overruled. Answer the question, Mr. Philmalee."
Joel Philmalee shrugged. A small smile played at the corners of his mouth, but his aggravation showed in the fingers that abruptly drummed on the rail beside him. "Mark shares my vision, so of course—"
Beth interrupted. "It was a yes-or-no question, sir. Please answer yes or no: When you sold your majority stake of voting stock in the Philmalee Group to Mark, without your wife's knowledge or approval, it was because you knew Mark would do what you told him, just as you claim Justin used to. Yes or no?"
He looked straight into her eyes. "I assumed—"
"Yes or no?"
His angry gaze moved to his wife. "Yes."
"The result of that transaction is that now you've put assets out of your wife's reach. Yes or no?"
The flush rose higher above his collar. "I suppose you could say—"
"Yes or no?"
"Objection!" Kaeli Kocourek jumped to her feet. "Ms. Convey is badgering the witness."
Beth Convey turned to face the judge. She was asking leading questions, which was allowable on cross-examination. She wasn't, however, badgering, merely not allowing Joel Philmalee to answer. His attorney's objection was a tactic to interrupt the hammering, give the client a chance to take a breath and calm down, and maybe—a big maybe—even get the judge to sustain.
Beth said, "I'm simply asking for a yes-or-no answer, Your Honor. We're entitled to that." Another wave of nausea swept over her. She gripped the podium. What was happening to her?
The judge nodded brusquely. "The witness will answer the question yes or no."
A growl seemed to come deep from Joel Philmalee's throat. "Yes."
Beth inhaled. The nausea had receded again. "Permission to approach the witness, Your Honor?"
A trial like this was uncharted terrain: seldom did the divorces of the super-rich ever reach a courtroom. Most cases settled first to keep what was personal private not only from the public but from business competition. But with hundreds of millions at stake and both sides equally stubborn, two years of legal wrangling had transformed the Philmalees's personal bitterness into public bile.
Beth's back was against the wall on this one. She hadn't wanted the case. She was no divorce or family-law attorney. Her specialty was international law. Which was, oddly, why she'd ended up here representing Michelle Philmalee, a client for whom she'd done so well negotiating and cutting red tape overseas in former Soviet-bloc countries that when Mrs. Philmalee demanded Beth also represent her in the divorce, Beth couldn't talk her out of it.
Now she must win. The firm wanted to continue representing Mrs. Philmalee's vast business interests. Although losing control of half of the Group's companies would not guarantee loss of a partnership in the law firm for Beth, it certainly would delay it. Maybe plant questions in the partners' minds whether she was really up to the responsibilities . . . and the pleasures of profit sharing.
But unlike Texas, California, and other community-property states, the District of Columbia made no assumption there'd be a fifty-fifty split, which was what Michelle Philmalee wanted. Instead, its laws allowed judges to look at "other factors," such as the length of the marriage (thirty-nine years), the sources of income of each spouse (all from Philmalee holdings), each party's contribution to acquiring and building the assets (both had wheeled and dealed; Michelle's schoolteacher salary had financed the first Phil's Drugs four decades ago), and each party's contribution as a homemaker (Joel was on the road; Michelle raised the boys; but now that both sons were grown, Joel's attorneys argued the issue was moot, where hers claimed the free time of the last fifteen childless years had allowed her to play an even bigger role in the Group).
Joel's case was built on his being the primary force, the visionary, the decision maker of the Philmalee Group. His attorneys maintained that without his swaggering, tough-guy style, the corporation would deteriorate.
So that left only one course for Beth, "other factors." Because D.C. law gave judges broad discretion in determining the division of marital property, Beth's only chance to sway Judge Schultz toward an equal division was if he knew that behind the Corinthian columns of the Philmalees's palatial Washington estate, Joel had periodically beaten Michelle ruthlessly.
But Michelle wanted no one to learn she was a victim of domestic violence, not even for $425 million. The battlefields of commerce had taught her it was far better that their war over a financial agreement look like a contest between two titans of industry. In business, she must never look weak.
The judge pursed his lips. "Very
well. You may approach. But move your questioning along, Ms. Convey. Wherever you're aiming, get there quickly."
Beth marched up the burnt-orange carpet toward the witness stand. Her heart was beginning to race again. Last week the doctor had diagnosed stress. He'd told her she had to slow down. Thirty-two years old and already she had to slow down? Nonsense. This trial was too important.
Michelle Philmalee deserved her fifty percent. She'd bought and sold, sat on boards of directors, traveled extensively to evaluate properties, built some companies in the new Philmalee International while spinning off pieces of others. Now Joel had tried to deny her an equal share by giving control to the son who'd do his bidding.
Beth stopped five feet from Joel Philmalee. A faint odor of expensive cologne wafted from him as he adjusted his weight and glowered.
She tapped her foot. "Isn't it true that you gave Coronet Books to Justin all those years ago because it was a small, inconsequential company and you thought he'd fail, not because you ever expected him to make a major success of it? Yes or no."
He frowned. "No!"
"Isn't it true you told your wife you were going to fire him, but she talked you into waiting until the fourth-quarter report was available, which confirmed the success of his strategy? Yes or no."
He shot a look of hatred across the courtroom to Michelle. "No!"
Beth said severely, "I'll remind you, sir, that you're testifying under oath. Didn't you tell your wife you were going to fire him because he was going his own way, not doing what you ordered?"
"Never! Is that good enough? No! Never!"