Disgusting, but clever.
“Why?” Jessica wonders aloud. Her brow wrinkles in confusion. “Why would a gorgeous hot shot like him risk it all to get involved in something so seedy?”
“Arrogance and greed,” I say quietly, but loudly enough that my co-workers hear me. There’s no other logical explanation. He thought he was smarter than the police. He thought he’d get away with it, especially with his tidy cover story about making his fortune in a friend’s hedge fund. And if I know Oscar at all, I bet he was able to convince himself that his role wasn’t so bad. He wasn’t personally perpetrating physical harm on these girls. Just setting up the infrastructure and reaping the profits. My stomach turns with disgust at my own blindness, which was at least partially willful.
I rip the paper from Marvin’s grasp when he pauses to take a breath. My eyes scan the page frantically, but it yields very little new information, except that the Mayor-elect will make a statement at noon.
As I reach the end of the article, Marvin asks, “Are you hanging in there? You’ve had a rougher time in the love department lately than anyone I know. And that’s saying a lot.”
“Strangely, yes. I am okay. I’m too horrified to be devastated. I actually feel relieved that I learned the truth now and not months or years down the road. But tell me, if someone as outwardly perfect as Oscar turns out to be a two-faced misogynist Neanderthal, how am I supposed to trust anyone? Should I just forget about dating, get a bunch of cats and take up needlepoint?”
“I think you need to get a hold of yourself before the Boss Lady comes back and sees you unraveling.” He glances over his shoulder and lowers his voice. “Can I offer you a Xanax? Because I was thinking of indulging myself.” Marvin reaches for his top drawer, brandishes a bottle of pills, and pops a couple without water. I’m not sure what’s stranger: that he thinks I need a sedative or that he has them readily available at the office.
“Um, no thanks. I’ll be alright.”
We refresh the Post’s webpage, and there’s a file photo of Burton Smealey’s arrest several weeks ago. I wish I’d looked at it more closely the first time. They nabbed him on his way into his Wall Street office building. The arresting officer is relieving him of his briefcase, which looks identical to Oscar’s.
The refreshed article reads, “Off-shore banking records seized from Mr. Thornton link him to the largest child sex trafficking ring ever uncovered by the FBI.” It also says that Oscar has been talking as part of a pending plea deal. Smealey supposedly recruited him to the venture at a bachelor party for a mutual friend, where they engaged in a lengthy conversation about “the profit potential of certain areas of the sex trade.” The FBI believes Oscar’s business acumen, language skills and frequent travel to the Far East enabled the enterprise to grow its revenues into the hundreds of millions.
At least that clears up any doubt about why my well-paid, seemingly well-adjusted ex would risk his career and reputation for a life of organized crime.
The final paragraph says Smealey concentrated his recent efforts on recruiting new investors, none of whom were known to each other, or even to Oscar, but all of whom were allegedly “high net worth individuals with a lot to lose.”
Interesting. Maybe Oscar was honestly surprised when news of O’Malley’s investment in the ring broke. Or perhaps he’d gotten a heads up. Not that it matters now.
The FBI source goes on to say that the key players often transferred cash and information by swapping briefcases in crowded public places. Like airports. Or the opera. Their immaculately choreographed arrangement of high- and low-tech communications served them well, allowing them to operate undetected for years. I feel an odd combination of pride, over my small role in exposing Oscar, and shame, because I didn’t catch on sooner.
The rest of the article is re-hash of earlier developments.
Minutes later, an unnamed spokesperson from O’Malley’s transition team says that although Mr. O’Malley denies any “willful unlawful activity,” he will step aside “because doing so is in the best interest of the city.” So that’s it. Kevin will have to reinvent himself with some other, hopefully cleaner, candidate. Probably in some other, hopefully less scandal-plagued, city.
I try to throw myself into my work, but it’s hopeless. My cell phone rings off the hook. After telling the fifth reporter that I have no comment, I turn it off. I stop answering my office phone and I instruct Sybil to tell everyone I’m away from my desk. When I check my voicemail, the first message isn’t business related.
“I am sorry to bother you during such a difficult time,” Olivia Sevigny says formally, in her distinctive accent. “But I felt I had to ring you. To tell you I had no idea. About the children. I would never have kept such a thing private. I am very sorry for you, and I wish I could have warned you.” I feel a minor twinge of guilt as I delete her message, for assuming the worst about her when she tried to warn me about Oscar’s penchant for prostitutes.
Carol storms in at 11:30, barking at her assistant to order her a turkey sandwich with extra lettuce and tomato, and some kind of specific mustard that the deli messed up last week. She plows through the bullpen and launches into one of her stock speeches, bemoaning her perception that nobody does any work when she’s out of the office. She snaps at New Girl that she’ll never be able to pay back her draw if she doesn’t start making more calls, but her assault is tempered compared to her usual ardor, and when I steal a glance, I note that it’s a good make-up day. At noon, she even lets everyone cram inside her office to watch O’Malley give up Gracie Mansion.
O’Malley reads a statement vehemently denying any direct involvement in the trafficking of minors. He regrets not asking more questions when money invested on his behalf by his long-time friend and fundraising chief, Burt Smealey, posted “eye popping returns.” He says he should have taken action when Mr. Smealey borrowed money from the campaign to travel to Asia with Mr. Thornton. O’Malley claims he now regrets choosing to remain silent. “I gave an old friend the benefit of the doubt, based on the sage counsel of a trusted priest, and for that I ask your forgiveness.” He adds that he expects to be exonerated by the ongoing investigation.
“That fucker has balls of steel,” Carol barks from behind her desk. She has the clicker poised to turn off the TV the moment the special report ends.
I think O’Malley looks like he’s trying way too hard to appear contrite, a perfect portrait of a man who’s merely sorry he got caught. Off to the side, Kevin spends most of the speech studying his wingtips. At least that way, the camera can’t hone in on the enormous black circles around his eyes.
O’Malley keeps his remarks brief, and ten minutes later, we’re all filing back into the bullpen.
“Zoë, hang back a second.”
I freeze. My brain flips frenetically through recent events at work as I struggle to realize what I could have done to rattle Carol. I can’t think of anything. I’ve been doing well at work lately. And Carol never harps on the past. Only the here and now, and my here and now looks damn good, if I may say so. I have three commissions invoiced and pending, and seven good candidates out interviewing, despite the lackluster economy. None of the Ivies have rejected Janice yet. She should love me right now. “Close the door,” she instructs.
I do as I’m told and take a seat in one of her new visitor chairs. They were deliberately ordered with short legs, so Carol can look that much more imposing from her perch behind her desk.
“I’m sorry about your boyfriend,” she says, without looking up from her email.
“Thank you.”
“It’s better to find out now. Trust me on that.” She looks away from the screen and studies me for a second. I fight the urge to fidget as I watch her size up my outfit, my haircut and my body language. “I have an opportunity to present to you,” she says finally.
Not what I expected. Besides I’m wary, based on experience, of “opportunities.”
“Carleen in the D.C. office is leaving us at the
end of January.”
I don’t know what comes over me. It must be residual stress. I interrupt my boss. “Carleen Caputo is opting out?” I’m incredulous. Carleen has been with Carol since the D.C. office opened, some ten years ago. She’s the company’s top producer, and Carol trusts her more than she trusts anyone.
“Carleen Caputo Cavendish is opting out. She got pregnant and fucking lost her mind. She even took her husband’s name and, between you and me, the guy is such a total fucking noodle.” Carol shakes her head in disgust. “So I’m offering you her job. I’d need you down there right after the new year, to learn what you could about running the place before the last of Carleen’s brain cells commit suicide.”
“Wow. I don’t know what to say. You’ve caught me way off guard, but of course, I’m flattered. Really, really flattered. But I have to ask, why me?”
Carol shifts effortlessly into sales presentation mode. “Because you’ve managed to have a great year end, in spite of the train wreck that is your personal life. Because I think you’re level-headed and loyal enough to manage the place, with a lot of guidance from me, of course.” She arches her eyebrows at me from across the desk. “And because you don’t have roots here. You could move, and I venture to guess, you might even benefit from a change of scenery.”
“Why not Marvin?” I’m not sure why I blurt this question, but it comes out.
She smiles without parting her lips and I can tell she already asked him. “Marvin’s elderly parents live here in New York. Their declining health makes it a bad time for him to contemplate a move.” She recites this reason as if he made her memorize it. “Plus he drinks too much.”
So she knows about the flask. Not surprising. I’m beginning to think nothing gets past Carol Broadwick. Perhaps she’s not as deranged as we all presume.
Carol waits to see if I’ll verbalize any reaction, and when I don’t, she studies her manicure pointedly and says, “And also because Janice has been accepted early to Yale, which obviously reinforces my faith in your ability to come through under pressure.”
Wow. That’s the biggest compliment she’s ever thrown my way. I’m slowly developing a whole new respect for Carol. Of course she realized all along that the college application assignment was the project from hell. And now I can finally exhale, because a skinny letter, or its modern email equivalent, isn’t going to derail my entire career.
“That’s wonderful news,” I finally manage to say. “Please congratulate your daughter for me.”
“Of course. But can we talk about business now?” This is rhetorical. She knows I have no input about the direction of this or any conversation between us. “It’s a great opportunity I’m offering you, Zoë. You’ll get to develop management skills and cultivate a whole new stable of clients. You’ll work harder, but you’ll make more money. Washington, with all its regulatory work, is far more recession-resistant than New York City, which is not a bad thing. D.C. is the fucking promised land of legal recruiting. I’ll give you until the end of the week to decide, but I’ll tell you right now, you’re a fucking idiot if you don’t say yes.”
I thank her profusely for her confidence in my abilities and promise to give her an answer by Friday. As I let myself out of her office, her comment about possibly benefiting from a change echoes in my ears. A fresh start would make sense on several levels. It hits me for the first time that, whatever happens, I’ll have to move out of my apartment. If it’s even legally mine. For all I know, the police might seize it, like they confiscate yachts and sports cars purchased with drug money. I have no idea how all of that works.
More than the apartment, though, it might be healthy to put some distance between myself and the two men with whom I inextricably associate that particular piece of mid-market Midtown real estate. Maybe it’s time I take a break from dating altogether. I’ve never been alone in my adult life, and while I should be reeling from the collapse of my affair with Oscar, I feel strangely liberated. Yes, I read him wrong. Just like I read Brendan wrong. And Kevin, for that matter. I completely misinterpreted his feelings when to everyone else, they were plain as day.
Maybe I won’t be able to read anyone correctly until I figure out what it is I want from a man. In the cases of both Brendan and Oscar, different as they are from each other, I tried to make myself fit with men whose resumes and outward appearances suited the job description I thought I had to fill. And with Oscar, there was the added factor of the sex haze. I was so thrilled with our physical chemistry after such a long drought, that I ignored other signs of incompatibility. I’m ashamed to admit that I’d be engaged to a child pornographer if I hadn’t opened his briefcase. And though it turned out for the best, I’m equally ashamed that I had to spy on my almost-fiancé, because I was so unsure and insecure about him and the whole relationship.
It’s time for me to confront the crux of the problem. I never figured out what I needed from Brendan or Oscar, or even what I had to give. I’m going to do myself the biggest favor of my life, and give that question some major consideration before throwing myself back out there.
So as unlikely a savior as Carol might be, I find myself considering her offer as I return to my desk and check for urgent messages. Leaving New York wouldn’t be running away since there’s a lucrative and interesting job opportunity at the other end. Wow. That’s a first. I’ve never let myself admit that I find my job, nutty as it is, interesting. Maybe there’s a real career path in this company for me after all, and with my personal life in shambles again, it does seem like an auspicious time to explore that possibility. I’m going to channel my energy into making something of my professional life, instead of feeling like a lowly drone. By the time I’ve finished listening to my voicemail messages, I’ve decided the only variables preventing me from hurrying back into Carol’s office and telling her yes right this minute are Angela and Kevin. I wonder, if I tell them the big news tonight, whether they’ll try to persuade me to stay, or encourage me to go for it.
I stay at work out of fear that reporters have swarmed my apartment. The news is all Oscar and O’Malley, all the time. Around noon, a breathless anchor on CNN breaks the story about Oscar’s polygamist background. My office phone rings off the hook to the point that I reach under the desk and yank the cord from the wall. It’s not like I’ll get any work done anyway. I watch clips of the live coverage on my computer with all my colleagues hovering over my shoulder. Various television shrinks speculate on the permanent psychological damage Oscar’s upbringing could inflict. A legal analyst raises the possibility that his childhood could form the basis of an insanity defense, while another psychiatrist holds forth about sociopaths who lead outwardly upstanding lives. Evidently, the overwhelming majority of such criminals suffered abuse at the hands of their parents. There’s a report that the major booksellers can’t keep up with the flood of orders for Surplus Boys, before yet another television shrink comments on the common maladjustments of people rescued from cults.
Around three in the afternoon, I overhear Jessica telling someone, “Ms. Clark has no comment. She asks that you please respect her privacy during this difficult time.” She clicks over to the other line and repeats her statement. The Town Crier seems so happy in her unofficial role as my press person that I decide to leave her alone, at least as long as she sticks with the no comment script.
About an hour later, Sybil appears at my desk. She tells me she has a woman claiming to be Oscar’s sister on the line.
TWENTY-NINE
I sneak into an empty conference room to take the call away from my colleagues’ ears. Jennifer Thornton sounds more saddened than surprised by the charges against her foster brother. She tells me that she and her mom were always afraid Oscar was hopelessly screwed up by his demented childhood, but her father insisted from the start that Oscar was bright and innately charming enough to overcome his rough start. “Dad always said Oscar would go far, because he possessed an academic’s soul and a fanatic’s drive,” she says, in a mourn
ful voice.
Jennifer catches herself sounding weepy, regroups, and tells me Oscar went through years of intensive therapy as a teenager. Multiple experts told her parents that he displayed signs of difficulty relating to women in a healthy way. She tries to explain what one physician labeled Oscar’s extreme Madonna-whore complex. “Anyway, the real reason I’m calling is because I plan to testify on his behalf, when and if his lawyers mount an insanity defense. I’m hoping I can convince you to do the same. What he did, if it’s true, is disgusting. But I still think, maybe because I’ve known him so long and watched him struggle, the whole situation is more tragic than anything. I spoke to him a half hour ago. He’d love to hear from you, to explain as best he can. I suppose he also wants to apologize. I know it’s a lot to ask, but please think about it. He’s not the monster they say he is on TV. You must know that.” She’s getting choked up again.
I promise to consider her request, but I know when we hang up that I won’t call Oscar. True, he’s a victim of an unspeakable childhood. That may explain why he lacks a moral compass, but it doesn’t excuse his actions. At least not in my mind. I’m shocked at how clear things suddenly seem.
And how unequivocally over.
Still, I’m surprised to feel no yearning for whatever explanation Oscar might offer. Nor do I crave an apology, though I suppose I deserve one. All I feel in this moment is an overwhelming desire to put him in the past, into a little box I can shove to some back corner of my brain, so that I can forge forward with my life.
Oscar’s attorney calls as I’m getting ready to head home. He leaves a message asking to arrange a time to talk. I take a deep breath, press delete, and close that calamitous chapter of my romantic life. I imagine if there’s a trial, I might be required to testify. Until then, I’m washing my hands of Oscar. There’s nothing I can do to change what he did or make any of it better.
The Hazards of Hunting While Heartbroken Page 31