Hard Feelings: A Novel

by Jason Starr

  “We understand you were in Michael Rudnick’s office last Thursday morning,” Freemont said.

  I glanced toward the balcony, shaking my head, then I looked down at my lap. I let a good ten seconds go by before I said, “Yes—I was in Michael Rudnick’s office.”

  “Did you kill him?” Burroughs asked.

  “What’s going on here?”

  Paula had come out of the bedroom and was standing to my right. She had changed out of her work clothes into shorts and a T-shirt.

  “Nothing,” I said. “There just seems to be a big misunderstanding here. These men are detectives from the Jersey police.”

  “The police?” Paula said. “Why are the—”

  “Are you Mr. Segal’s wife?” Burroughs asked.

  “Yes,” Paula said.

  “Do you mind joining us?”

  “Why does she have to be here for this?” I asked.

  “What’s going on here?” Paula demanded.

  “A friend of your husband was murdered,” Freemont said.

  “He wasn’t my friend . . . He was just an acquaintance. An old acquaintance.”

  “Who?” Paula asked.

  “Michael Rudnick,” Burroughs said.

  “Who’s Michael Rudnick?” Paula asked.

  “He’s a guy who grew up across the street from me in Brooklyn,” I said.

  “I never heard you mention him before.”

  “Maybe you’d like to take a seat and join us, ma’am,” Freemont said to Paula.

  “Can you please tell me what’s going on? Right this instant,” Paula said to me.

  “I went to see Michael Rudnick last Thursday at his office.”

  “Why did you go there?”

  “Does she really have to be here for this?” I asked the detectives.

  “Yes,” Burroughs said.

  I let out a breath, then said, “I ran into him on the street one day last week and started talking computers with him. He was running some outdated system at his office, so I thought I could sell him an upgrade—you know, get some business out of it.”

  “Cut the crap,” Burroughs said.

  “It’s the God’s honest truth,” I said.

  “We know why you were there,” Freemont said. “We just want to hear it from you—in your own words.”

  “I still don’t understand what any of this has to do with a murder,” Paula said.

  “It doesn’t,” I said.

  “Tell us what really happened in Rudnick’s office,” Burroughs said, “or, I don’t care, we’ll all go to Jersey.”

  “I told you what happened,” I said. “I was trying to sell him a computer network.”

  “Yeah?” Burroughs said. “And how about how you accused him of molesting you?”

  I stared at Burroughs with a blank expression. Then I started to feel queasy, like I was passing out.

  “Is that true?”

  I had the sense that Paula had asked me this question already, at least once.

  “Is it?” she asked impatiently.

  I knew I couldn’t keep it a secret any longer. Looking down at my lap, I nodded slowly. For about a minute, no one spoke. Paula sat in a chair next to me. Although I was looking down, I sensed everyone watching me, waiting for me to answer.

  “Why didn’t you tell us this right away?” Burroughs asked.

  “Why the hell do you think?” I said, still looking at my lap.

  “I wish you’d told me,” Paula said coldly.

  I looked over at the detectives. “Do you have any other questions to ask me or can you leave us alone now?”

  “Don’t worry, we’ll tell you when we’re through,” Burroughs said. “Why don’t you tell us the whole story now, starting with why you decided to go to Michael Rudnick’s office last week and what exactly went on between you two.”

  I was silent for several seconds, then I told an abbreviated version of how I’d run into Rudnick on the street one day and how, later, I’d started having flashbacks of what he had done to me. I explained how I was just going to forget about the memories at first, but then I decided to go to Rudnick’s office to get an apology.

  “And when he wouldn’t apologize you attacked him,” Burroughs said.

  “I never attacked him,” I said.

  “According to Rudnick’s wife you did.”

  “Rudnick’s wife?” I said. “What does she have to do with this?”

  “On Thursday night, when Rudnick returned home from work, he told his wife how you came to his office that morning, accusing him of molesting you, and how you attacked him.”

  This explained how the police had known to look for a Richard Segal in Manhattan, but I was surprised Rudnick had told his wife about me. Wouldn’t he have wanted to keep me a secret?

  “Well, that’s not what happened,” I said.

  I looked over at Paula for support. She was still standing up, her arms crossed in front of her chest now, still seeming semishocked by the whole situation.

  “Then why don’t you give me your version,” Burroughs said.

  “I went to his office to talk to him,” I said. “He got angry and started screaming at me, and then he tried to hit me. What was I going to do, just stand there? So I pushed him off me, onto his desk, and that’s when the maintenance guy or whoever came in to break it up.”

  Burroughs and Freemont didn’t seem convinced.

  “Did you know that Michael Rudnick was accused of child molestation once before?” Burroughs said.

  I didn’t know if this was some kind of trick question.

  “No,” I said.

  “Three years ago,” Burroughs said. “A kid on a soccer team Rudnick coached made the accusation. It made the local papers.”

  I saw myself in the parking lot, coming at Rudnick with the knife.

  “What happened?” I asked.

  “Kid changed his story,” Burroughs said. “No charges were filed.”

  “So what does this have to do with me?”

  “Maybe you heard about what happened with the kid and it caused these ‘flashbacks’ you had.”

  “I told you, I know nothing about any kid.”

  “What time did you come home from work last Friday night?” Burroughs asked.

  “Friday night?” I said. “Why Friday night?”

  “Just answer the question, please.”

  I thought quickly. I knew I couldn’t tell the detectives the truth, that I came home that night at around ten-thirty. But, with Paula sitting right there, I couldn’t lie and say I was home at five or six either.

  “I don’t know. Late,” I said.

  “How late?”

  “I don’t know—nineish,” I said, taking a chance that Paula might have forgotten the actual time.

  “Where were you before that?” Burroughs asked.

  “Drinking,” I said.

  “Drinking?” Burroughs said as if he didn’t believe me. “Where were you drinking?”

  “At a bar,” I said.

  “What bar?”

  “The Old Stand. On Second Avenue.”

  Freemont was writing in his pad as Burroughs asked me, “When did you get there?”

  “I went right after work—around five-thirty, I guess.”

  “And how long did you stay?”

  “Until about eight-thirty or so.”

  “Were you with anybody?”

  “No,” I said.

  “Is this typical behavior? Drinking alone on a Friday night?”

  “Unfortunately, yes,” I said, looking at Paula. “I’m an alcoholic.”

  Paula half-smiled, obviously pleased to hear her husband admit for the first time that he had a drinking problem.

  “Can anybody vouch for you?” Freemont asked. “Somebody else in the bar maybe.”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I mean there were a lot of people there. It’s possible.”

  “What about the bartender?” Freemont asked me. “You think he might remember you?”

&
nbsp; “Maybe,” I said, “but the place was crowded. I really don’t know.”

  “Describe the bartender who served you,” Burroughs said.

  “I’m not sure who served me.”

  “Had you been to this bar before?”

  “Yes, but they have a lot of bartenders there. I know there’s an old Irish guy and a young guy with blond hair and sometimes there’s a woman with dark hair there. Actually, I think a combination of people might have served me that night.”

  “A combination of people,” Burroughs said skeptically.

  “That’s right,” I said. “A combination of people.”

  “Mrs. Segal,” Burroughs said, turning to Paula.

  “Borowski,” Paula said.

  “Pardon?”

  “My last name’s Borowski, not Segal. I kept my maiden name.”

  “I’m sorry—Ms. Borowski. When did you see your husband on Friday evening?”

  Paula and I made brief eye contact. She shifted uncomfortably then said, “Around the time he said he got home— about nine o’clock.”

  I blinked slowly, letting out my relief.

  “Did your husband seem like he had been drinking?” Burroughs asked.

  “Yes,” Paula said. “As a matter of fact, he did.”

  “Did he tell you he had been to the Old Stand?”

  “No,” Paula said. “But I know he’s gone to that bar before. I mean, he’s mentioned the name to me.”

  “Well, I guess we’ll just have to look into this ourselves,” Burroughs said. Turning back to me, he added, “Do you own any large knives, Mr. Segal?”

  “Sure,” I said. My mouth was suddenly dry. “I mean it depends what you consider large.”

  “One with at least a four- or five-inch blade.”

  “Maybe,” I said.

  “Of course we do,” Paula said to me.

  “You mind if we take a look in your kitchen?” Burroughs asked.

  “No, go right ahead,” Paula said.

  “Yes, we mind,” I said. “You’re not looking at anything in this apartment without a search warrant or until I talk to a lawyer. What else do you want?”

  Burroughs smiled, and then he stood up. Freemont stood too, closing his notepad.

  “I guess there’s no use wasting any more of our time,” Burroughs said to me. “After all, you have an alibi. We’ll just see if any of the bartenders at this bar remember you from Friday night. You’ll have to give us a picture of yourself, though, unless you want to come to Jersey and meet our photographer.”

  “I’ll give you a picture,” I said.

  “I’ll get one,” Paula said, and headed toward the bedroom.

  “A clear one,” Burroughs added.

  I walked ahead of the detectives, leading them toward the foyer. From behind me, Burroughs said, “I see you bought the Times last Sunday.”

  I turned around slowly and saw him standing over the basket of newspapers in the corner.

  “Yeah,” I said, wondering what he was he getting at. “So?”

  “Just an observation,” Burroughs said. “I noticed the Metro section is on top—that’s the section where the story on the stabbing appeared.”

  “So?”

  “So did you read the Metro section or not?”

  “I only read the Business section and the Week in Review,” I said.

  “Me, too,” Burroughs said, smiling.

  There was awkward silence and I tried to avoid eye contact. Finally, Paula returned with a few photos and said, “Are these any good?” Then she said to me directly, “They’re from the Berkshires.”

  “This one should do,” Burroughs said, picking one of me in front of the Red Lion Inn, taken right after we’d checked out.

  At the door, Burroughs said to me, “Last question—do you happen to know a teenaged boy with a ponytail and a goatee?”

  “No,” I said. “Why do you ask that?”

  “No reason,” he said, smiling again. “We’ll definitely be in touch again soon.”

  When the detectives were gone I said to Paula, “Can you believe this shit? They’re really trying to pin a murder on me—a murder.”

  “Why did they ask if you knew that teenager?”

  “I have no idea,” I said. “This whole thing is so crazy, like a nightmare. I come back from my first A.A. meeting and next thing I know I’m being accused of murder.”

  “Want me to make some tea?”

  “Whatever,” I said.

  I went into the bathroom and leaned over the sink, splashing cold water against my face. My mind was spinning but I was finally able to relax. I figured that the detectives would come back after they talked to the bartenders at the Old Stand, but at least I had bought a little more time. What worried me was why the police had decided to question me at all. I didn’t know if it was just a routine part of their investigation, or if they knew that Rudnick had lied about the teenager.

  Heading back toward the kitchen I heard one of the counter drawers closing. When I entered the kitchen, Paula was trying to look busy, removing dishes from the dishwasher.

  “You were looking at the knives, weren’t you?” I said.

  “No,” Paula said. “I was just putting away dishes.”

  “Please don’t lie to me,” I said.

  She continued to stack dishes for several seconds, then she stopped what she was doing and said, “Why did you pack a suitcase on Saturday?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “There was a packed suitcase on the bed on Saturday. Were you planning to go somewhere?”

  “Yes, I was, actually,” I said. “I was thinking about moving to a hotel for a few days.”

  “Why?”

  “Why do you think? You were locking me out of the bedroom—I thought we could use some time apart . . . What’s this all about anyway? You think I killed him, don’t you?”

  “Of course I don’t—”

  “Then why are you acting like this?”

  “I’m not sure.” She looked away for several seconds, covering her eyes, then turned back and said, “Of course I don’t think you’re a killer, Richard, but things have been so screwed up between us lately I don’t know what’s going on anymore.”

  “Look,” I said, “everything’s gonna be okay. They’re gone now and they’re not gonna come back.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Tell you what?”

  The tea kettle started to whistle. Paula turned the flame off and I asked her to make me a cup of Earl Grey. A few minutes later she brought the filled mug to me at the dining room table, then she sat down across from me with her own mugful.

  “Maybe the kid’s father killed him,” I said.

  “What are you talking about?” Paula said.

  “Rudnick,” I said. “The police said the soccer-team kid changed his story, but let’s say Rudnick really did it. Maybe the father killed him—getting revenge.”

  “Tell me what happened,” Paula said.

  “What do you think of my theory?” I said.

  “I think it’s possible,” she said.

  She waited, staring at me.

  “I really don’t remember anything more than I told the detectives,” I said. “It happened and it’s over and I just want to forget about it.”

  My hand was gripping the handle of the mug. Paula reached over and put her hand around mine and said, “It wasn’t your fault.”

  “I know,” I said.

  “Sometimes people tend to blame themselves instead of the other person.”

  “Believe me, I don’t.”

  “You don’t have to feel ashamed—”

  “I’m not.”

  “Or guilty.”

  “I don’t. Really—I’m okay. I mean I understand what you’re saying, but it happened a long time ago and it’s over now. I guess it’s really over since Michael Rudnick’s dead.”

  “You might think it’s over,” Paula said, “but something like this won’t just go away. It m
ight take years until you understand how you really feel.”

  “I don’t need therapy.”

  “I’m not saying you do—”

  “That might work for you, but it won’t for me. Believe me, I’m a lot better off just working things out myself. I know it wasn’t my fault, that it had nothing to do with me. I know all that crap. Who knows? Maybe if I never remembered what happened, I would’ve had more problems to deal with. But now I know I’m over it.”

  “You might not be,” Paula said. She let go of my hand and sat up straight. “I’m not going to tell you to see a therapist, so just hear me out, okay? I think therapy would help you, but if you don’t want to do it, then don’t do it—that’s completely up to you. It probably wouldn’t help anyway, if you didn’t believe in it. But you should definitely open up about your feelings more. If you don’t talk to someone about things like this it can cause other problems in your life.”

  “But isn’t that what we’re doing now . . . talking?”

  “I mean all the time. From now on we can’t just . . . I mean look at us lately. I can’t remember the last time we had a serious talk about anything. We have to be closer. It’s not good for two people in a marriage to be acting the way we’ve been acting. And especially now—with this whole crazy situation with this guy winding up dead. You’re going to have a lot of issues coming up—scary issues—and you can’t keep them to yourself.”

  Paula looked down and I realized she’d started to cry. Suddenly, everything made sense. This was her “big issue” that she talked about with her therapist, but that she never wanted to discuss with me. It also explained why she used to tell me she always had “trouble getting close to people.”

  Paula was quiet for a while, then she told me how when she was nine her uncle Jimmy had abused her. Whenever Paula went over to her cousin’s house to sleep over, Jimmy would tell her to bring a homework assignment. Then Jimmy would take her into his office, explaining to the other kid that they needed privacy. After Jimmy helped Paula with her homework he would force her to give him a hand job. Paula never told on Jimmy for the usual reasons—guilt, fear, shame—but unlike me, she didn’t block out the memories for years. As a teenager, she remembered everything that had happened to her, in vivid detail.

  “I’m glad I didn’t repress any of it,” she said, “or who knows? Maybe I would’ve become a drug addict or a prostitute. Or maybe I would’ve gone crazy.”