The Underwriting

by Michelle Miller

  Juan looked up; Josh didn’t seem like the symphony type.

  “Sure,” Juan said, “but you know I’ve never been to the symphony, so if you want to give it to someone who’ll appreciate it more, I’d—”

  “No, I’d like you to come,” Josh said.

  “Sure,” Juan said. “Sounds good.”

  “Great. See you tomorrow.” Josh turned to leave.

  “Yep,” Juan said, forcing a smile while he waited for the door to slam. As soon as it did, he collapsed back into his chair. Kelly Jacobson wasn’t alone when she died: But who had she been with? And who did he have to tell?

  CHARLIE

  FRIDAY, APRIL 11; PALO ALTO, CALIFORNIA

  Charlie refreshed the browser on his laptop to watch the YouTube video of the chemical attack in Talmenes again, and felt heaviness hit from every direction. He was angry for the victims, but also for himself. If Kelly hadn’t died, it would have been his story. If Raj had let him go back when he’d asked, Charlie might have written a story that prevented it. Or he might have been there and suffocated in the fumes. But at least if Kelly hadn’t died, he’d have been doing something instead of sitting here in California, waiting.

  There was no reason for him to be here, but he didn’t know where else to go.

  He couldn’t stay in his parents’ apartment, watching the twenty-four-hour news cycle. His mother barely moved from the sofa, just sat there getting upset every time another pundit passed judgment on his sister’s morality, then got equally upset when an afternoon went by and no one mentioned her daughter, as if Kelly’s life had been irrelevant.

  He walked down University Avenue and found a table at a café, pulling the yellow notebook out of his bag. He’d decided to read Kelly’s journal all the way through. He wasn’t spying on her; he’d just realized that he’d missed certain details of her life, and he wanted to know she’d been okay.

  September 23, 2010

  Oh my god I love Stanford SO much. I can’t believe I ever thought I knew happiness before college—nothing compares to this. We had this dorm meeting tonight—like an orientation meeting to tell us all the rules, except there really aren’t any rules. Like our RAs basically told us we won’t get in trouble for drinking, even though we’re underage, because they’d rather we tell them when someone’s had too much than have someone die because we’re too afraid they’ll get in trouble. I love that they trust us like that—it makes so much sense, right? Not that I’m planning to start drinking, but I just think that’s totally the right attitude, to let people be responsible for themselves and their friends. Anyway! We’re in this orientation meeting and then this whistle blows and all our RAs jump up and all of a sudden these people dressed all crazy with instruments come running into the lobby, playing music, and it’s the Stanford Band. Oh My God they are CRAZY. Like, this one guy was totally naked, playing a saxophone. It was so gross, but I couldn’t stop looking!! And the tree was dancing—I LOVE that our mascot is a tree!!!—and—

  “What can I get you?”

  “What?” Charlie looked up, startled. The waitress indicated the menu. “Oh,” he said, “just a coffee and the omelet.”

  The waitress left and he flipped forward in the journal.

  November 5, 2010

  So I lost my virginity tonight. Why did I think it would be a bigger deal than this? I don’t love Jamie. I think that’s why I did it: because I know I don’t love him and won’t love him and so I won’t attach a lot of significance to his being my first. Like, I think it’s a mistake when girls wait for true love to lose their virginity because then if it doesn’t work out it’s not just that you loved him, it’s that you lost your virginity to him and then it becomes this really big deal. And it’s not. Or it wasn’t. It didn’t hurt as much as I expected, but it definitely didn’t feel good. Jamie said it gets better. He lost his virginity when he was fourteen. Can you believe that? That a guy that got into Stanford was having sex when he was fourteen? I guess that’s what happens when you go to boarding school. Anyway, it didn’t feel good, so I hope it gets better. It does make me think about how glad I am I didn’t wait until marriage. Can you imagine if you did? If you had this magical, blissful wedding day and had been looking forward to this magical, blissful moment afterward, and then it felt like that? What a terrible way to start a marriage. And kind of weirdly male-dominating, right? Like starting a marriage with the man hurting you?

  “Here you go,” the waitress said, sliding a plate of eggs in front of him, and Charlie stopped, grateful for the interruption.

  “Thanks.”

  Charlie’s phone rang as he cut into his eggs. “Hello?”

  “Did you see the story?” Johnny asked through the phone.

  “Is it out?” Charlie sat forward in his seat.

  “Front page, above the fold.” Johnny’s voice was proud.

  Johnny had already told him the narrative that had unfolded as he’d interviewed Kelly’s friends about her death. Not only did Robby Goodman, as RA, have a key to her room, he’d had a crush on Kelly and been devastated that afternoon when he found out she was moving to New York after graduation. He’d started recklessly partying a few hours later for a rugby team reunion, an all-night debacle that he’d left, wasted, around two a.m. It wasn’t hard to imagine that he’d wanted to see Kelly when he’d come home and had used his RA key to get into her room. From there, he’d given her the water laced with Molly, forced himself on her, passed out and, when he came to, panicked and taken her to the hospital.

  “They’ve already got Robby in custody,” Johnny said. “You’ll probably want to get an attorney, if you haven’t already.”

  “Yeah, that’s a good idea,” Charlie said, standing up to get the waitress’s attention for the bill, grateful to Johnny for giving him something to do.

  TARA

  FRIDAY, APRIL 11; SAN FRANCISCO, CALIFORNIA

  “So I slept with Todd last night,” Rachel said with the nonchalance of reporting what she’d eaten for breakfast, her eyes on the wine list. “We’ll have a bottle of the Trefethen Riesling, please.”

  “W-w-w-wait,” Tara said. “You slept with Todd Kent? Like, my Todd Kent?” She felt her chest tighten: she and Todd had come back to the hotel from Hook’s office at ten o’clock last night. Tara had worked until two a.m. in her room, bingeing on a pack of peanut M&M’s from the minibar, which she’d run an extra mile for this morning to burn off. Had he really gone back out and had sex with their pseudo-client?

  “Oh, have you two hooked up?” Rachel asked, unaffected by the probability that the two women had slept with the same man. Her silky hair was pinned back in a carefully constructed sloppy bun, and she had pristinely painted lines around her lids and lips.

  “No.” Tara shook her head. “Well, yes, I mean, back at Stanford. It was nothing,” she lied.

  “College hookup comes back around,” Rachel said, smiling. “I love that story.” She tasted the wine the bartender had poured and nodded with approval.

  “I’ll just have a sparkling water,” Tara said. She hadn’t had a drink since the Frick.

  Rachel shot her a look. “You think Todd is out drinking water tonight?”

  “The stakes are higher for me.”

  “One glass?” Rachel pushed.

  “Sorry.” Tara shrugged, declining.

  “Suit yourself,” Rachel said. “Anyway, it was terrible.”

  Tara coughed. “What?”

  “Like, literally the worst sex I’ve ever had. Like having sex with a gorilla. Was he that bad in college?”

  Tara felt her mouth drop and she laughed: if Rachel didn’t think it was weird, she guessed she didn’t have to, either. Tara had always thought she preferred working with men, but she really liked Rachel. She was confident and cool and didn’t get distracted by gossip or take it as an insult to her own talent if Tara had a good idea.


  “You know, I don’t really remember,” Tara answered Rachel’s question honestly. She had never thought to consider whether Todd Kent had had any skill at sex. In fact, she had never thought about whether any of the men she’d slept with were good or bad at it, she’d just always focused on whether or not she was okay.

  Rachel looked at her, confused. “I guess you were young,” she rationalized. She took a sip of her wine. “Or maybe that’s what New York does to guys,” she said, thinking out loud. “Like, has Todd ever been in a relationship?”

  Tara shrugged again. “Not since I’ve known him.”

  “So maybe he’s never actually learned. I mean, he’s had a lot of sex, but only one-off interactions, so he’s never gotten any feedback.”

  Tara pressed her lips and took a sip of her water. “Do you think women know, though, if that’s the case?”

  “What?”

  “Whether it’s good or not?”

  “Are you serious?”

  “It’s just that if a girl only ever has sex with guys like Todd,” she said, “maybe that’s what she thinks it’s supposed to be like.”

  “No way. Girls have vibrators,” she said. “They know what it’s supposed to feel like.”

  “But a lot of women can’t have orgasms from normal sex,” Tara said. “There was that study—”

  Rachel shook her head. “I don’t buy it.” She paused. “I think it’s men like Todd doing the studies who want to justify their own inabilities,” she said, then noticed Tara’s face. “Oh my god, you’ve never had an orgasm with a man!”

  Tara swallowed. “Yes, I have.” Then she added, “Well, I think I have.”

  “You think you have?” Rachel glared at her, then punched her arm. “Oh my god, you poor thing! No wonder you’re so miserable!”

  “I’m not miserable,” Tara corrected, sipping her water.

  “I thought it was just your awful job, but that and no good sex? Jesus, I’d kill myself.”

  “A,” Tara said, lifting a finger, “my job is not awful. And B, I just haven’t found someone I’m really comfortable with. And C, I am not miserable.”

  “A, it is; C, you are; and B, you haven’t gotten comfortable with yourself.”

  “I’m—”

  “Drinking water on a Friday night. You’re miserable.”

  Tara paused, looking at Rachel and taking the thought in. “Fine,” she said. “Can I have a glass of wine, please?” she asked, turning to the bartender.

  “Now, that’ s a start.” Rachel patted Tara’s arm. “As for your orgasm problem, you have to go older,” she coached. “Older men have been around long enough to know what else is out there and appreciate you, instead of comparing you to some fantasy they think exists because they watch a lot of YouPorn.”

  The guy at the bar looked over his shoulder to acknowledge he was listening to the whole thing, disgusted.

  “What?” Rachel asked him pointedly. “Oh, hello!” Rachel exclaimed. “What about Callum? He’d be perfect.”

  Tara blushed. “I told you, he’s a client.”

  “I’m more of a client than Callum is, and Todd slept with me.”

  “It’s different for girls,” Tara said. “You know that.”

  “Why does everyone say that?” Rachel said. “It’s only different if you let it be.”

  Tara drank a sip of her wine. Rachel grinned. “You totally like him.”

  “I don’t know him,” Tara corrected.

  “And you won’t,” Rachel said, “if you don’t give him a chance. Come on, you’re totally his type anyway.”

  “That’s what Josh said, too,” Tara confided.

  “What?” Rachel’s eyes got serious. “What did Josh say?”

  “That Callum would like me because he likes girls with control issues.” Tara rolled her eyes, remembering the first meeting. “That’s what he made you all leave the fishbowl to tell me. Also to make sure I knew my sole purpose in the deal is to distract men with my appearance.”

  “Fuck Josh,” Rachel said angrily. It was the first time Tara had seen Rachel look discomposed. “Josh is a misogynist prick.”

  Tara turned to look at Rachel, interested.

  “I think the only reason he created Hook is to make women feel cheap.”

  “Why do you say that?” Tara asked carefully.

  “I’ve seen the way he treats women. He’s a total creep. He has no respect for other human beings, just treats them like objects or pawns. He’s like a sociopathic robot.”

  “Why do you work for him, then?”

  “Phil Dalton pays me an ungodly amount.”

  “To protect Josh’s public image?”

  “It’s a big job.”

  “Do you use Hook?” Tara asked, suddenly curious.

  “Absolutely not,” Rachel said.

  “But you’re so—” Tara started, looking for words that wouldn’t offend.

  “Liberated?” Rachel helped her. “There’s a difference between unemotional sex that’s respectful and transactional sex that’s orchestrated by an app,” she said, finishing her wine and looking at the empty bottle. “Which is a nuance Josh doesn’t understand. Do you have dinner plans? I’m in the mood for Terzo.”

  “I should get back to work,” Tara said.

  “Have I taught you nothing tonight?”

  Tara thought about Todd’s night out yesterday. “Fine,” she said. “Let’s go.”

  AMANDA

  FRIDAY, APRIL 11; SAN FRANCISCO, CALIFORNIA

  Amanda handed Juan a beer and plopped down on the sofa beside him. She had an hour to kill before her first San Francisco date with a guy she’d met on Hook and she was in a great mood.

  “Are you watching porn?” Amanda laughed at how glued he was to the TV, then bit her lip when she realized he was watching a story about Kelly Jacobson.

  “No,” Juan said but didn’t smile.

  She liked Juan a lot. Last Friday, she’d come home from her first day of work to a surprise dinner party that he and Julie had prepared to welcome her to the city. He’d cooked empanadas that were better than she’d ever had at a Mexican restaurant, and he’d asked questions in a way that made her feel like he genuinely wanted to get to know her.

  “What’s the news?” she asked, noting the headline, Breaking News: Jacobson Death Ruled Suspicious; Suspect in Custody.

  “They think it was murder,” Juan said. “They think her RA gave her drugs and made her overdose.”

  “What made them—”

  “Shhh,” he commanded, turning up the volume as the suspect came on the screen.

  “Police today arrested Robby Goodman, a Stanford senior who was Kelly Jacobson’s RA. An anonymous tip to a reporter at the New York Times led the university to open an investigation into the girl’s death. The police have reason to believe the girl did not willingly take the drugs that killed her, as originally thought.

  “We’re still learning about Robby Goodman, but it appears he was actively involved in rugby, a sport that’s been relegated to club status at most American universities owing to its extraordinary aggression. Here’s Mr. Goodman’s attorney.”

  “There is absolutely no basis for this accusation. Police have no information to prove my client was with Kelly that night. This is a witch hunt, trying to vindicate a girl’s purity by vilifying an innocent man.”

  “Are you okay?” Amanda said softly. Juan’s face was white.

  “Yeah,” he said.

  “You’re a lawyer, right?” he asked after a pause.

  “A paralegal,” she corrected. “I don’t know whether I’m going to law school or not.”

  “So can I ask you a legal question, hypothetically?”

  “Shoot.”

  “If someone had information that could help in a murder investigation, a
re they, like, legally, required to tell?”

  “Legally, only if they’re indicted. But ethically, they probably should.”

  “What if they aren’t supposed to have the information?”

  “Doesn’t change the fact they have it and it could help.”

  “But what if they don’t know if it could help?”

  “What are you trying to get at?”

  “I think Kelly was logged into Hook when she died and I think it might help the investigation if they knew,” he blurted, then brought his hand to his mouth in surprise he’d let it out.

  “How do you know?” She sat forward. “Can you look up people’s histories?”

  He bit his lip. “I can’t tell you.”

  “Holy shit!” She punched him, excited. “Can you look up this guy I used to—”

  “Please don’t say anything.” He cut her off. “It’s super confidential.”

  “Well, yeah.”

  “So you think I should tell someone? About Kelly?”

  “Only if you want to be responsible for ruining your IPO.”

  “What?”

  “No one’s going to invest in a company potentially wrapped up in a murder investigation.”

  “But Hook had nothing to do with it. She just happened to be logged in.” He was getting defensive. “It’s just a coincidence.”

  “Doesn’t matter. The only thing that matters to public markets is perception. The minute investors hear ‘Hook’ in the same sentence as ‘Kelly Jacobson,’ they’ll run.”

  Juan checked his watch. “Shit, I’ve got to go. Please, please, please don’t say anything about this.”

  She lifted her hands. “I consider this client-attorney confidentiality.”

  “But you wouldn’t say anything?” he asked. “If you were me?”

  “Kelly was probably logged into Facebook, too,” she said. “And Twitter and Spotify and a hundred other apps. It doesn’t have anything to do with anything.”

  “Yeah, I guess you’re right,” he said, but he didn’t look like he believed her. “Can you run out and tell Josh I’ll be right there?”