The Big Exit

by David Carnoy

  She stared at him for a moment before her mouth gradually broke into a smile.

  “I suppose you’d be willing to start Monday.”

  “Or now,” he said.

  “Monday’s okay.”

  He stood up and shook her hand. The interview was over. He’d crushed it.

  “Monday it is then,” he said.

  2/ MATH FOR THE

  REPRODUCTIVELY CHALLANGED

  CAROLYN DUPUY STANDS IN HER BATHROOM, STARING DOWN AT A capped syringe filled with clear fluid lying on the counter next to the sink. Blood doesn’t bother her, not even puddles of it. The inside of a human body isn’t a problem either. But needles are. Having someone poke her with a syringe makes her queasy. And it’s worse if she’s having her blood drawn. The sight of the dark burgundy liquid rising slowly in the nurse’s syringe makes her want to retch.

  This isn’t about that, though. Nothing’s coming out, it’s going in. All she has to do is pull the cap off the syringe, pinch a little skin next her belly button, and jab the layer of fat between her fingers with the short needle. She’s done it two nights in a row (the first night she’d had some help from a friend), but it isn’t getting any easier. For the first time in her life, she wishes she weren’t as thin as she is. At forty, she’s not the stick she once was, but when she pinches the skin between her fingers, what she gets doesn’t feel substantial enough—there isn’t enough meat there—and she’s worried that if she doesn’t make the jab just right, she might come in at the wrong angle and that instead of getting buried in her skin, the needle will end up poking out the other side.

  She looks in the mirror and takes a deep breath. It’s just after nine and she’s already in her pajamas, a pink flannel set that’s entirely—and absurdly—covered with lipstick-colored kisses. Her nieces gave her the pajamas for her last birthday, and with her fine dark hair pulled back in a ponytail, she notes how girlish she looks. Her olive skin and brown eyes have always lent her a Mediterranean appearance, and there’s something mildly and comfortably exotic about her. She’s never been someone who’s had to put a lot of work into how she looks, and while she’s never considered herself beautiful, she does think she’s naturally pretty and likes how her face is able show a range of expressions. So many women are pretty—but pretty in a dull way. And she knows that men find it exciting that on the one hand she comes off as restrained and sophisticated (or even downright aloof), she is also capable of exhibiting a more playful and combative side that tends to be enhanced with a drink or two.

  Yes, the years of failing to respect the sun have begun to take their toll. The moons under her eyes are present and accounted for, the crow’s-feet impossible to miss. But for a fleeting instant, she believes her eternally optimistic, touch-me-and-I-breed sister is right. Sure, on paper she’s forty, but all the exercise and good eating have to count for something. Maybe it’s true. Maybe she really does have the reproductive system of a thirty-five-year-old.

  Three months ago she was laid off from her job at Clark, Kirshner, and Dupuy. That’s what she’s been telling people anyway, even though it’s not entirely accurate. Technically, you haven’t been laid off when you’re still on the company’s healthcare plan and your name’s still on the company stationery. But her fellow partners at the firm strongly encouraged her to take some time off.

  “We’re not forcing you out, Carolyn,” Steve Clark insisted.

  “Last I checked, Steve, ‘unpaid leave of absence’ was wussy for bye-bye. I didn’t know you spoke that language.”

  He said he knew she was upset, but it was for her own good. She needed to get her shit together. Never mind that she’d become completely unreliable, coming and going as she pleased. But you just couldn’t have criminal defense attorneys pulling DUIs.

  “It doesn’t work, Carolyn,” he said. “You’re better than this.”

  “I didn’t get a DUI.”

  “You should have.”

  He was right about that.

  Now, three months later, here she is, still at home. The time off had only hardened her resolve to become a mom. She’d met three times with a fertility doctor, done countless hours of research about IVF on the Internet, and filed the requisite paperwork at the donor bank.

  Fuck them, she thinks. Fuck them all.

  She reaches down and picks up the syringe from the counter, which she’s carefully sterilized with rubbing alcohol, not once, but twice, and pulls the cap off, exposing the short needle. She holds the syringe upright and flicks it with her right index finger until a few tiny air bubbles float to the top. Then she pushes up a little on the plunger until a drop of the Ganirelix concoction appears at the tip of the needle.

  Ten, she says to herself. Ten eggs are all she’s asking for. Fifteen would be better, of course. But ten she can live with. Ten will give her a decent shot at getting three to five quality embryos, maybe even a couple more if she’s lucky. That’s the new math she’s mastering. Math for the reproductively challenged.

  With her left hand, she pinches the skin on her stomach and takes another deep breath.

  “Don’t be a pussy, DP,” she says out loud, calling herself by her nickname. “This is nothing.”

  This is just a subcutaneous injection. Back in the day, this was the practice round, the confidence builder. You first injected yourself with drugs that tricked your ovaries into producing several eggs instead of one. Then, after the extraction (which required more drugs), you pumped yourself up with progesterone to make your womb cozy and “sticky” and primed to host an embryo or two—or three. The only problem was the progesterone was mixed with sesame oil and you had to inject it intramuscularly with a 1.5-inch needle. Just right for a horse.

  She remembers her friend Susan, years ago, showing her the discolored marks on her butt and thighs. They looked like serious insect bites. Her friend said that sometimes the oil would ooze out of the hole after her husband pulled the needle out. Often she’d cry afterwards.

  Carolyn almost cried listening to her. She could never imagine having to do IVF, no way. But now here she is.

  What the fuck happened? Circumstances changed, that’s what the fuck happened. And so, fortunately, did the science. Now you can get all the progesterone you need through a suppository and not some big-ass needle. The hard part has been eliminated. Now if they could just eliminate the easy part, she thinks.

  “You can do this,” she says aloud, reciting the mantra that has gotten her through the last three nights. “You can fucking do this.”

  But just as she’s about to make the jab, her cell phone, sitting on the counter on the opposite side of the sink, rings. In the caller ID window, there is a number she doesn’t recognize. Her first impulse is to ignore it, but then she thinks better of it, welcoming the intrusion.

  She holds the syringe upright and puts the phone to her ear.

  “Hello,” she says.

  “Carolyn?”

  “Yes.”

  “This is Beth. Beth Hill. From the club. I’m sorry to bother you so late.”

  She knows who it is, but it doesn’t make sense that Beth Hill—the one she knows, the one who hates her—would be calling. Years ago, as an assistant DA, she’d prosecuted Hill’s fiancé, Richie Forman, in a vehicular manslaughter case. She wonders how she got her cell number.

  “Oh, yes. How are you?”

  “Not so good. Which is why I’m calling. My husband’s been murdered.”

  She says it so matter-of-factly, Carolyn doesn’t know if she’s heard her correctly.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Someone killed my husband.”

  “My God,” Carolyn says. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes. It’s just horrible. I don’t know what to do. The police are here and I think they suspect I had something to do with it. They want to take me to the station house. I need to speak with someone.”

  By someone, she doesn’t mean just anyone.

  “You need an attorney?”

  “Yes
. I didn’t know who else to call. One of the detectives here gave me your cell-phone number. I know you have your own firm now, that you defend people. I read about you and that doctor a few years back.”

  For a second Carolyn can’t accept what’s happening. This has to be a practical joke. Someone’s punking me, she thinks. But instead of calling out her caller, her first reflex is to brush her off.

  “I’m sorry but I’m—”

  Not with my firm anymore. That’s what she wants to say. But at the last second some synapse trips and she realizes she’s about to do something incredibly stupid. And just like that, checked-out Carolyn checks back in.

  “When did this happen, Beth?”

  “About two hours ago. I found him in the garage. There was blood everywhere. It was just horrible. I can’t believe it. It doesn’t seem real. Now I just can’t think straight. I don’t know what to do. Please, I need to talk to someone.”

  She can hear hysteria building in Beth’s voice. She wants to bring her back to the place she was before.

  “Okay, Beth. Has anybody read you your rights?”

  “No, I don’t think so. I just don’t know what to do. Whether I should go or not.”

  “Don’t do anything. Don’t answer any questions. I’m coming right now. Just let the police know I’m coming. They won’t let me through otherwise. Can you do that?”

  She tells her where she lives, then starts to give her more detailed instructions on how to get there. But Carolyn cuts her off, saying she knows the street.

  “I’m sorry to call so late,” Beth says again, her voice quavering.

  “It’s okay.” A beat, then: “Beth?”

  “What?”

  “Who was the detective who gave you my cell number?”

  “The older guy. Madden. He knew Mark from the accident. He thinks I had something to do with this. And that Richie is involved.”

  “Did he say that?”

  “No. I can just tell from his questions. And see it in his eyes. Oh God, I can’t believe this is happening.”

  “Beth, do me a favor.”

  “What?”

  “Take a deep breath. Try to remain calm. Count to five for me.”

  She hit the speakerphone button and laid the phone down on the sink.

  “I’m okay,” she hears Beth’s voice kick in over the speaker.

  Readying herself, Carolyn pinches the skin on her stomach.

  “Just count. Slowly.”

  “One … two … three …”

  On five, she makes a quick jab with the needle, stabbing her skin. When the needle’s set, she exhales hard as she pushes the plunger down gradually, slowly injecting herself.

  After a few seconds of silence, Beth gets concerned. “Carolyn? You still there?”

  “Yeah,” she says. Her hand trembles slightly as she removes the needle and caps it for disposal. “I’m on my way.”

  3/ NOT FADE AWAY

  THE OLDER GUY’S FULL NAME IS HANK MADDEN. DETECTIVE SERGEANT Hank Madden, tall and thin, with a neatly trimmed moustache and a head of receding gray hair that he’s recently taken to cropping very short, stands in the kitchen just down the hall from the family room, where Beth Hill is talking on the phone. It’s not Beth’s kitchen, but her neighbors’, and Madden has his eye on the family-room door, which is only open a crack, making it hard to see anything. All he catches are fleeting glimpses of Beth as she paces back and forth in front of the small opening.

  “Lululemon.”

  Madden looks over. Jeff Billings, the junior detective on their small four-person team has made himself right at home and poured himself a glass of water from a fancy ceramic carafe that’s sitting on the island in the middle of the kitchen. He’s standing there with his thumbs in his belt loops, striking what his fellow officers mockingly refer to as his “cowboy” pose. Billings should have been in the movies; he has the look for it, the strong jaw, small nose, bright blue eyes, and longish straight hair he keeps thoughtfully unkempt. He’s also short. Five-seven tops, and he’s always trying to make up for his lack of stature with some sort of macho pose.

  “What?”

  “The outfit she’s wearing,” Billings says. “It’s Lululemon.”

  “What’s that got to do with anything?”

  “Lot of blood in that garage, Hank. Hard to picture a Lululemon hottie like her doing that kind of damage on her own. I’m just sayin’.”

  He’s right. It is hard to picture. But Madden isn’t thinking about that. He’s going over in his mind exactly what he said to Hill just before she asked for a lawyer. He doesn’t think he pressured her. A few years ago he’d been shocked to learn that she’d married Mark McGregor. As much as he now wanted to ask her how that happened, he held back, inquiring simply how long she’d been married. He mentioned the accident, but only in passing, remarking that he didn’t recognize her right away because she’d changed her hair since the trial.

  At this early juncture all he wanted her to do was tell him what she’d seen and heard, and when. She seemed genuinely distraught. He gave her that. But as soon as he mentioned the possibility of her coming down to the station house, she grew agitated. He didn’t push her; it was more of a gentle prodding. He just said it was important for them to get everything down—record everything—as soon as possible, while it was fresh in her mind.

  For some reason she wasn’t buying it. She said, “You think I had something to do with this, don’t you?”

  The truth was he didn’t know what to think. If a Belle Haven cholo with an attitude and a couple of priors got stabbed multiple times, the easy money was on Drug Deal Gone Bad or Guy Who Stuck His Dick in the Wrong Place. But when a hotshot Internet entrepreneur with a $5 million spread and a bumpy past bought it like this, there weren’t any favorites to bet.

  He didn’t tell her that, though. He just shook his head and said, “I’m not sure what gives you that impression.”

  She nodded, appearing to accept his response. But after mulling it over for a few seconds, she put her hand to her forehead and sat down on the couch. She appeared to be dizzy.

  “I’m sorry. I’m just having trouble thinking straight. My head’s spinning. Maybe it would be best if I speak to someone.”

  “Do you want to speak to a counselor? We have people we can put you in touch with.”

  “Do you know Carolyn Dupuy?” she asked. “I know she has her own practice now.”

  He glanced over at Billings, who flashed a wary return look. They both thought she was looking for psychological, not legal assistance.

  “I know her well,” he said.

  “Do you have a number where I can reach her?”

  Now, thanks to his munificence, Beth Hill is on the phone talking to Carolyn Dupuy. Looking at the family-room door, Madden thinks, Lawyering up after thirty minutes of questioning. You think that’s so smart? What kind of message do you think that sends?

  “Stay here,” he tells Billings. “Keep an eye on her. Don’t let her go anywhere. And call me when Carolyn shows.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “To see if Lyons has anything for us.”

  “Great. So I just gotta stand here?”

  “Sit if you want,” he says, walking out. “Just don’t eat their food.”

  Madden is more than twenty-five years Billings’s senior. In law-enforcement years, he’s ancient, a relic at sixty-two. After his promotion to detective sergeant last year, he retired the gold wire-framed, oversized glasses that his colleagues liked to suggest could be carbon-dated back to somewhere between the Disco and New Wave eras. They’ve been replaced by a more stylish half-rim, gunmetal variety that helps make him look a little younger. When he’s stationary, he can pass for someone in his early to midfifties. But he’s got a limp, so when he moves, people perceive him differently. He looks older, he thinks.

  On his right foot he wears a thick-soled orthopedic shoe. As a young boy he’d contracted polio, one of the last known cases in the United St
ates, the result of which was a drop foot. His handicap was the topic of a few local newspaper articles over the years, and more recently, after he’d shot and killed a deranged college student who’d gravely wounded a classmate, his medical history and revelations of childhood sexual abuse were played out in the national media.

  His minor act of heroism—if it could even be called that—has come to define him, and now part of him regrets not bowing out shortly after the shooting, when his retirement package became fully vested.

  The painful irony is that for all the attention and honors bestowed upon him for his bravado, he’s ended up feeling like a coward for not walking away when he should have. His reticence (or was it ambivalence?) has created problems for him at home. His wife feels that if he wants to continue working, he should retire, take the monthly pension that’s due to him, and pick up some consulting work on the side. They can then use the extra money he makes above and beyond his current salary to help support her family in Nicaragua. He agrees, it makes a lot of sense, but he just isn’t the type of guy who sees himself hustling for consulting or private-eye gigs, which means he’ll be stuck at home having his wife hassle him about getting extra work so they can send more money to her relatives. And he’ll feel guilty if he doesn’t.

  “You’re always complaining about the politics, the silly problems,” she keeps reminding him. “Why do you stay? For what?”

  For this, he thinks, as he exits the neighbors’ home and is greeted by a barrage of flashing red, blue, and white lights. With the help of the fire department and the Atherton police, they’ve closed off the end of the block and set up a wide perimeter. The line extends around the neighboring houses, designated part of the crime scene because the killer could have entered and exited the property from any direction and left trace evidence yards away from the body. From the MPPD, all four on-duty patrol officers, plus three detectives are at the scene, along with half the fire department and two ambulances. And more folks are on the way. While they haven’t had a murder in Menlo Park in over a year, one thing Madden can count on: whenever there is a killing, it’s all hands on deck; everyone wants a piece of the action.