Charley's Web

by Joy Fielding

  Oh, well, she could always use that line to begin an upcoming column, she decided. She retrieved her cell phone from the bed and slipped it inside the back pocket of her jeans, then threw the bed’s plain white comforter across the plain white sheets, so that at least it looked as if it had been made. One day I’ll get my life in order, she was thinking as she scooped her purse off the uncarpeted hardwood floor and headed down the hall. I’ll get nice sheets, I’ll buy a rug, I’ll wear some grown-up clothes.

  Except what constituted grown-up clothes these days? Charley wondered. It seemed everybody wore the same things. There was no longer any dress code, no distinction between the generations. Three-year-olds wore the same styles as thirty-year-olds. Even seventy-year-olds dressed like thirty-year-olds. And thirty-year-olds dressed like teenagers. No wonder everybody was so confused.

  “Times have certainly changed,” her mother commented recently while shopping for a birthday gift for Franny. “When I was young, I wouldn’t have dreamed of raiding my mother’s closet for something to wear.”

  “I wouldn’t know,” Charley told her. “Your closet was empty.”

  The conversation had come to an abrupt end.

  Had this blurring of the generations, this reluctance to let go of one’s youth, the outright refusal to get old, contributed in some way to the increased sexualization of the young? Could current trends in fashion, reflective as they were of society’s attitudes toward larger issues, be at least partly responsible for what had happened to little Tammy Barnet or Noah and Sara Starkey?

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Charley muttered, pausing for a minute in the kitchen to jot down these ideas. (She kept pads of paper in every room in the house for whenever inspiration struck.) Even half-baked, the ideas were provocative enough to make for an interesting column at some future date. And it looked as if Charley’s future was going to be a little more free than she’d imagined last night.

  “It just wasn’t meant to be,” she repeated once more as she opened her front door, shielding her eyes from the bright sun that had replaced yesterday’s gloom. When she looked up, she saw Gabe Lopez in her driveway, leaning against her car. The pinched expression on his face told her he wasn’t waiting to wish her a good morning. What had she done now? “Something I can do for you, Mr. Lopez?” she asked, approaching cautiously.

  “You can stop harassing my workers,” he told her, his dark sunglasses preventing her from seeing his eyes. “I’m not running a dating service.”

  Charley felt every muscle in her body tense. “Okay. I guess that’s good to know.” She gritted her teeth to keep the word asshole from escaping. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to get to work.”

  “I suggest you prowl for boyfriends in the personal columns,” Gabe Lopez continued, as if not convinced he’d made his point.

  “And I suggest you get the hell out of my way.”

  Gabe Lopez stepped back just enough to allow Charley room to open her car door. “Jackass,” she muttered, her fingers trembling as she pushed her key into the ignition. Backing out of her driveway and onto the street, she saw the worker in the yellow hard hat watching her from the roof. When she turned the corner, she glanced back. The worker was still there, still watching.

  “Mr. Prescott is in court this morning,” his secretary told Charley at just past eleven o’clock, “and I’m afraid he’s fully booked this afternoon.”

  Charley was somewhat gratified to note that although the forty-something-year-old woman was indeed an icy blonde, her hair was cut at an unflattering angle that accentuated her square jaw and did nothing at all for her overly tanned complexion. Her manicured nails, however, were a perfect match for the deep coral of her lips. “I was hoping I might catch him between appointments. Is he expected back before lunch?”

  The secretary checked her watch. “It’s possible. But he’ll be in and out. Why don’t I make you an appointment for later in the week?”

  “If it’s all right with you, I’d rather wait.”

  “I think you’ll just be wasting your time.”

  “I’ll take my chances.” Charley perched on the end of one of four dark green chairs that sat against the pale green wall.

  The secretary shrugged and turned her attention to her computer, trying to look busy.

  How did we ever manage without computers? Charley wondered absently, picking up a recent copy of Time from the stack of magazines on the small table beside her and thumbing listlessly through it. I certainly couldn’t function without mine, she thought, trying to think of anybody who could.

  Her mother, she thought.

  Elizabeth worked at a small gift store on Worth Avenue three afternoons a week, selling “traveling jewelry,” which was the Palm Beach way of saying “fakes,” but that was more for something to occupy her time than because she actually needed to work. Her former “life partner,” the woman with whom she’d escaped to the Australian outback, had died three years ago of cancer, leaving Elizabeth Webb her entire—and surprisingly considerable—estate. Elizabeth had immediately packed her bags and headed back to the States, with the highly unrealistic idea of dividing her time equally among her four previously discarded children and their offspring. Had she really expected them to tumble gratefully into her arms?

  Charley shook her head in an effort to shake her mother from her thoughts, and focused all her attention on an article about a recent study on bone density that—surprise!—completely contradicted all previous studies. It seemed that the simple pill that had been touted as the miracle cure for osteoporosis might not be such a godsend after all. In fact, it might be more of a curse, responsible for a little something called necrosis of the jawbone. Even stopping the drug was pointless. Once the damn thing was in your system, it stayed there. Rather like mothers, Charley thought, catching a whiff of Elizabeth Webb’s favorite perfume as she returned the magazine to the table. “I think my mother wears the same perfume you do,” she told the secretary.

  “Chanel Number Five,” the secretary said without looking over. “It’s been around forever.”

  Charley reached for the latest copy of Vogue, thinking it was very considerate of Alex Prescott to keep his magazines so up-to-date. She flipped it open, immediately zeroing in on a beautiful white lace blouse by Oscar de la Renta. “Only six thousand dollars,” she noted wryly.

  “I’m sorry. Did you say something?” the secretary asked.

  “There’s a blouse here for six thousand dollars.”

  “Amazing.”

  “And this purse,” she sputtered seconds later, “this purse is seventy-five thousand. Seventy-five thousand dollars! Who pays seventy-five thousand dollars for a purse?”

  “As my mother used to say, the rich are different from you and me,” the secretary said.

  “F. Scott Fitzgerald,” Charley said.

  “What?”

  “‘The very rich are different from you and me.’ F. Scott Fitzgerald said it in The Great Gatsby.”

  “He did? Well, he must have borrowed it from my mother.”

  Charley chuckled. It always comes back to mothers, she was thinking, as the door to Alex Prescott’s office opened and a handsome blur in a dark blue suit burst across the room.

  “Shit, what a morning,” he exclaimed, striding past his secretary’s desk and into his inner office without so much as a glance in Charley’s direction. Seconds later, the secretary’s intercom buzzed and a disembodied voice asked, “Did I see somebody sitting out there?”

  The secretary smiled indulgently. “She was hoping you might be able to fit her in.”

  “Not a chance. I’m up to my eyeballs. Have her make an appointment.”

  “Mr. Prescott, wait.” Charley jumped to her feet, the magazine falling to the floor. “My name is Charley Webb. I was hoping to talk to you about…”

  The door to Alex Prescott’s inner office opened instantly. “The Charley Webb?” A smile played with his lips. “Well, then, how can I refuse? Hold my calls,” he inst
ructed his secretary as Charley picked up the magazine and tossed it on a chair on her way into his office. “Oh, and phone Cliff Marcus. Tell him I’ll be a few minutes late for lunch. Please have a seat,” he instructed Charley as he closed the door behind her. Settling into the chair behind his desk seconds later, he pushed his light brown hair away from his forehead, and stared at her with piercing blue eyes.

  “Are you always this…busy?” Charley asked. She noticed his desk was immaculately clean and void of any family photographs.

  “You meant ‘manic,’ didn’t you?”

  Charley smiled. “Actually, you remind me a bit of my son.”

  “Receding hairline, long nose, slight paunch?”

  This time Charley laughed. “I didn’t notice a paunch.”

  “Good. My trainer will be pleased. What can I do for you, Charley Webb?”

  Charley took a breath for both of them. “It’s about one of your clients.”

  “Jill Rohmer,” he acknowledged.

  “She wrote to me.”

  “She wants you to write her story.”

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t think you should do it,” he told her.

  “What?”

  “I don’t think you should do it.”

  Charley didn’t bother masking her surprise. “May I ask why?”

  “Please don’t take this the wrong way….”

  “But?”

  “But I just don’t think you’re the right person to tell Jill’s story.”

  “May I ask why?” Charley said again.

  “Look, I’m a big fan,” he began. “I read your column religiously every week. I find you provocative and entertaining, but…”

  “…shallow and lightweight,” Charley finished for him.

  “Well, I wouldn’t have put it quite so harshly.”

  “But that’s what you would have meant,” Charley said, trying not to bristle at the all-too-familiar assessment.

  “I’m not saying you don’t write well. You do. It’s just that Jill Rohmer is a very complicated young woman.”

  “And I’m too simple to grasp all that complexity,” Charley stated.

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “You didn’t have to.”

  “Have you ever written a book before, Miss Webb?”

  “I’ve been writing my column for three years.”

  “Not exactly the same thing. Look, I can understand what would appeal to you about this project.”

  “You can?”

  “Of course. It’s dark. It’s fascinating. It’s sexy, in a sick, perverted way….”

  “You think sick and perverted appeals to me?” Charley folded her arms across the skull and crossbones on the front of her T-shirt.

  “It’s high-profile,” he continued, ignoring her interruption. “It’ll get you tons of publicity, maybe even make you a star.”

  “Only if I do a good job.”

  “Why would you even want this job?”

  “I’m not sure I do.”

  “Then what are you doing here?”

  “I had a few questions.”

  “Fire away.”

  Charley took another deep breath. Alex Prescott was exhausting, she thought, watching as he loosened his blue patterned tie and leaned back in his chair. He couldn’t be much older than she was, she was thinking as she tried to formulate her first question. “In terms of this book, what do you think Jill has in mind?”

  Alex Prescott paused, looked toward the window of his small, nondescript office. There wasn’t even a painting on the wall, Charley realized. “I imagine she wants her side of the story to come out,” he said.

  “You think she has a side?”

  “I think she has many sides.”

  “All of them guilty,” Charley said.

  “See. Now, that’s just the kind of thing I’m talking about.”

  “What kind of thing?”

  “Why you’re not the right person to tell her story.”

  “Because I think she’s guilty?”

  “Because you won’t give her a fair hearing.”

  “She’s already had a fair trial.”

  “Jill’s never been treated fairly in her entire life.”

  “You’re trying to tell me she’s innocent?” Charley heard the incredulousness in her voice.

  “I’m saying there’s a lot you don’t know, a lot the jury didn’t hear.”

  Charley squirmed in her chair, trying to contain her growing interest. “How did you get involved in this case, Mr. Prescott?”

  “I believe in our court system,” he answered, evading the question ever-so-slightly. “Even accused child-murderers are entitled to the best possible defense.”

  “How did Jill find you?” Charley pressed, trying to get him back on track.

  “I’m not sure I understand the question.”

  “Well, Jill Rohmer has no money, you don’t work for the public defender’s office, and you weren’t appointed by the court. I checked the records first thing this morning.”

  “I’m impressed.”

  “So, what brought the two of you together?”

  A slight pause, then, “The fact is I offered my services.”

  “You offered your services?” Charley repeated.

  “Free of charge.”

  “Even though this type of case is a little out of your bailiwick?”

  “I’d tried a number of murder cases before this one.”

  “But never anything as ‘complicated,’” she said, using his word. “Or as high-profile.”

  “True enough.”

  “So why would you volunteer to take it on?”

  He shrugged. “I guess because I thought it would make an interesting case.”

  “Or maybe because you thought it might get you a lot of publicity. Maybe even make you a star,” she stated, again borrowing his words.

  He smiled. “That might have had something to do with it.”

  “The details of this case didn’t repulse you?”

  “On the contrary, they repulsed me very much.”

  “Did you think Jill was guilty when you first met her?”

  “I have to confess I did, yes.”

  “But you took the case anyway. The fact you thought she was guilty didn’t stop you from giving her the best possible defense under the law.”

  “If anything, it made me even more determined to do a good job.”

  “Okay,” Charley said. “To recap: You volunteered your services, you took the case despite the fact you had no real experience with crimes of this magnitude, and the fact it was high-profile and might make you famous admittedly crossed your mind. So, no disrespect intended, but what the hell gives you the right to sit in judgment of me? What gives you the right to question my motives and tell me I’m not qualified to write this book? Whether or not I think Jill Rohmer is guilty is beside the point. The point is that I’m the one she wants. Your client is sitting on death row, Mr. Prescott. What makes you think I could do any worse a job telling her story than you did?”

  She released a deep breath. He did the same.

  “That was some closing argument,” he said with obvious admiration.

  “Thank you.”

  “Anybody ever tell you you would make an excellent attorney?”

  “My father wanted me to be a lawyer.”

  “But you never listened to your father, did you?”

  Again Charley squirmed in her seat. “The only thing I’d enjoy about being a lawyer would be staring down some lowlife and saying, ‘Tell it to the judge.’”

  Alex laughed. “Doesn’t happen very often.”

  “If I were to do this book,” Charley said, returning to the original subject, “I’d have to have total access to Jill Rohmer’s files.”

  “What’s mine is yours.”

  “I’ll also need the transcripts of the trial.”

  “You’ll have them by the end of the day.”

  “I’ll need to talk to her fa
mily and friends.”

  “I’ll see what I can do.”

  “And, of course, I’ll require access to Jill on a regular basis.”

  “We’ll have to work that out with the prison officials.”

  “I insist on total freedom and absolute control. Jill has to understand she might not like the end result.”

  “You’ll have to talk to Jill about that.”

  “When can you arrange a meeting?”

  “How does Saturday afternoon work for you?”

  Charley knew both Franny and James would be spending the weekend with their respective fathers, but her mother had mentioned treating Charley to a day at a spa, six uninterrupted hours of mother-daughter bonding. Charley smiled across the desk at Alex. “It works fine,” she said.

  CHAPTER 7

  WEBB SITE

  During a recent visit to a lawyer’s office, I had time to glance through a number of magazines. Luckily for me, they were all recent editions, so I didn’t have to waste time wondering why the movie world was just mourning the loss of Marlon Brando when I was pretty sure he’d died a few years ago.

  Several items quickly caught my eye. One was a disturbing article about a popular drug for osteoporosis and a heretofore unknown side effect of this widely prescribed pill, a little thing called “necrosis of the jawbone,” which has been occurring in an alarming number of women who’ve just had oral surgery. The dentist I subsequently contacted tells me it’s every bit as awful as it sounds. “The jawbone literally disintegrates,” Dr. Samuel Keller informed me. “Any woman on this drug who needs to have something as simple as a tooth extraction will be faced with a terrible dilemma.”

  That’s not the only terrible dilemma women are facing these days.

  “Okay,” Charley said, rereading the opening paragraphs she’d written for this Sunday’s column. “So far, so good.”

  Another dilemma is the price of tea in China. Or more to the point, the price of a purse on Worth Avenue. More precisely, the price of a cherry-red crocodile bag that, size wise, isn’t even all that big by today’s exaggerated standards, but that sells for the whopping figure of seventy-five thousand dollars.