A Girl's Best Friend

by Kristin Billerbeck

  I feel panic for only a moment, then I actually wonder what it would be like to have a father who lost at something. Not a father in jail—I don’t imagine that part—but to have a daddy who had time to listen to me because he hadn’t celebrated his latest win. A daddy who didn’t have a meeting to attend or a city hall battle to create. When I hear emotion in his voice, all the possibilities come to mind, and mostly, I wonder what if my dad might ever share my faith. Granted, it’s a huge leap from a speck of emotion to salvation, but as I’ve stated, I’m ever hopeful.

  But my hope is quickly doused like baking soda to the flame.

  “They’re saying we owe more than I ever made. They’ll ruin me, Morgan.” His sense of entitlement is back with a wave of saliva. I hear him spit his words.

  “Daddy, it won’t be that bad. We’ll pay them what we owe, and we’ll start again. We can’t possibly owe it all, and you know the diamond business better than anyone. That’s never going to change.”

  “Morgan, I need you to come home. I have some papers we need to shred, and there’s a litany of items we need to go through before we meet with that idiot lawyer.”

  For a moment I set aside the thought that my father actually used the words “papers to shred.” “I thought you said he was the best?”

  “Which means he’s a great white among tiger sharks. Still a shark. It’s not a compliment. He’s still a lawyer. He’s still a leech making a buck off my money.” I can hear the muffled words coming through his clenched teeth, and I can picture that vein bulging in his neck.

  “Daddy, you’re getting too upset. You need to calm down. We’ll work this out. I’ll be home after this job interview I have right now.”

  He starts to series-curse, stringing together a litany of swear words in something that sounds like Chris Rock’s monologue. And then there’s silence followed by a loud thump.

  “Daddy?” I call. “Daddy!” I say more frantically. No answer. “Mrs. Henry!” I start to yell into the phone. “Mrs. Henry! Oh my gosh,” I rake my hand through my hair and try to figure out what to do next. I’m just standing in the hallway, confused about what to do, who to call. I try to imagine my father is just playing chicken with me, to get me to do what he wants. He’s just pretending, I tell myself while he shreds documents and my future. That’s all this is. He’s buying time to make me feel sorry for him.

  But I continue to hear the deafening silence at the other end of the phone line, and I start to run back towards the door, grabbing Poppy’s hand as I go. “Poppy, you have to get me home. Right now!” I hang up and dial back, but I only get a persistent busy signal. I pull Poppy along behind me down the hallway, hitting redial all the way. “Pick up, Daddy. Pick up the phone! Poppy, hurry!”

  “Morgan, what can I do?” Poppy questions.

  “I think something’s happened to my father. He was screaming like he does, then it sounded like he fell down. We’ve got to get home.”

  We tear down the street to her car, and Poppy starts to shout-pray again, but this time I don’t mind. This time, I know my father is in deep trouble, and it has nothing to do with his bank statements.

  I continue to dial the house until it finally occurs to me to call 911. I dial and relay my fears to an overly calm operator, who takes my words down as though I’m giving her the weather report on a sunny day.

  “Are you on a cell phone?” the operator asks.

  “Yes! Yes, I am on a cell phone, but my father isn’t with me. The address is what I gave you. Do you have the address?”

  “I have the address, ma’am. The paramedics are on their way now. Do you want me to stay on the line with you?”

  “No, no. Just get them to the apartment!”

  I clip my phone shut and tap my foot against the floorboard of the car. I’ve seen the ambulances try to get through San Francisco. I’ve always hoped that I would never need their services, as the city dwellers can rarely be bothered to move over for emergency vehicles. They’d rather allow innocents to bleed in the street than be late for a personal shopping appointment. “Come on, come on. Step on it, Poppy!”

  “I’m going as fast as I can,” she says as we go airborne over a San Francisco hill, hitting the roadway with a hard wallop as we come down. Driving up Hyde, the cable car lumbers up in front of us, slowing traffic, and Poppy’s right behind the old-fashioned trolley. As cars pass us to the right, I notice the tourists gaily taking pictures and pointing at the beautiful view I’ve taken for granted my whole life. Time seems to have stopped for me, but I can see by the enthusiastic expressions and cameras flashing that it does indeed go on. I hear my own heartbeat in my head, praying for my father to hold on, and wondering if a tourist will get home to Japan and see our Subaru driving erratically up Russian Hill, my frantic face in his viewfinder.

  “Come on, come on, come on!”

  As Poppy drives around the cable car, the first sight of my building comes into view, and I can see that the paramedics aren’t there yet. Poppy drives the remaining block on the wrong side of the street, and we pull into the underground parking with enough force to bring the entire garage staff out to see the ruckus. I don’t stop to speak with them. I just tear out of Poppy’s vehicle and fumble for my elevator key, stabbing it into the wall of silver buttons. As the elevator climbs ever so slowly, it finally reaches the top floor with a subtle ding. I run into the penthouse to find the phone off the hook, but my father missing.

  “Daddy?” I call and hear myself echoing off the travertine. “Daddy?” His papers are strewn about the floor near the phone, and I gather them up, stuffing them into a briefcase that’s beside the phone. “Mrs. Henry?”

  The elevator dings again, and two firemen stand there alongside Poppy.

  “He’s gone,” I say. “He’s not here.”

  “I’ll check the hospitals,” Poppy says, rushing to the phone and putting it back on its cradle. The fireman, always the first to arrive, check out the bedrooms, just to ensure that I’m correct.

  Sticking out of the briefcase, I see the following heading on a long, ghostly sheet of legal paper: “UNITED STATES OF AMERICA VS. MORGAN MALLIARD. At all times relevant to this information, the defendant, Morgan Malliard, was a resident of California.”

  What? I search for my father’s name on the papers, but instead find only count after count naming me as the defendant. My eyes scan the paperwork, falling on the number “$2, 546, 750.” My stated income for the year. Hello? I definitely would have bought more shoes if I made that!

  I feel myself fall against the couch and look up to see two men in suits enter into the penthouse, flashing some type of badge at me.

  “Morgan Malliard?”

  “Yes, do you know where my father is?”

  “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say or do—”

  “What?” I ask, totally flustered, and yet partially relieved they aren’t from the morgue.

  “We have a warrant for your arrest for charges of tax fraud and tax evasion. You have the right to remain . . .”

  As they spout their mantra, I allow the two burly men, whom I can only assume are federal agents, to clip shut the handcuffs around my wrists. When I was talking about accessories earlier? This is not what I had in mind.

  “Help me, Poppy!” I wail as I’m herded into the elevator while the cop continues to shout my Miranda rights.

  chapter 18

  When we arrive downstairs, it is to paparazzi snapping off pictures in rapid succession, shouting horrible questions at me. Clearly, they were forewarned about the agents’ coming.

  “Where’s your father?”

  “How much do you owe?”

  “Where’s the money gone?”

  “Did you overcharge rent in Union Square?”

  It’s clear that the feds purposely parked outside the garage. It occurs to me that once again Lilly’s clothes will be featured on the front page, and I’m starting to get suspicious. I wear her clothes, I end up in some scandal. This time
in handcuffs. But I’m more numb than anything. I have no idea where my father is, or if he’s safe, and that’s my priority. The truth is I’d rather be seen in handcuffs than a wedding gown I haven’t used for marital purposes. Neither event is a great Christian witness, but what’s a girl to do? I imagine the handcuffs are doing nothing for my job prospects either.

  When I’m hustled into a Town Car between the two agents, I finally speak. “Do you know where my father is?”

  The man, a middle-aged suit without a speck of expression or emotion says, “No, miss.”

  “He’s not under arrest somewhere else?”

  The man shakes his head ever so slightly. I feel like I’ve been abducted and these aliens lack what we humans know as personality. “He will be arrested when we find him. You’ll appear before a grand jury to have the charges read in detail.”

  My heart plummets in a freefall. At least if he were in jail, I’d know my father was safe. “Can I call my lawyer?”

  “He’s already been made aware of your situation. He’ll meet you at our office.”

  “I’m not going to jail?”

  “Not yet, miss. We have questions for you.” I can tell the man is trying to be kind, as best as his type can, but white-collar crime is not something that speaks to the heart of the masses, and I’m already on shaky ground. I always wanted to be Martha Stewart but not really in this capacity. I was hoping I’d know how to whiten antique linens or something.

  We drive to an ominous cement building, and I’m escorted out of the car with one man at each elbow. Once inside the building, the suit removes my handcuffs, which were apparently just for the pictures. It’s the criminal’s version of theme park photos of you screaming before the roller coaster thrusts you over its edge. Smile for the camera.

  Inside the building, George Gentry is pacing outside the office I’m heading towards with my escorts. His perfect abs are covered by a well-made European suit, which tells me more than I want to know. Lawyers in good suits are expensive, and if I need an expensive lawyer, things do not look good. Of course, I imagine my name on an indictment and getting carted off in handcuffs should have been my first clue. Well, I think. This is it. I truly can’t sink any deeper now.

  George Gentry grabs me by the arm, ever so gently. “I’ll need some time with my client.” He pulls me into a room, and I focus on his perfect teeth. I wonder if they’re paid for. They’re not horse-sized like the fake ones, but they are definitely white. Hauntingly so.

  “I just had them whitened, is that what you’re looking at? Too much coffee and late-night studying. On to the next thing, all right?”

  I cover my mouth as I laugh, and I can only imagine from his frown that it’s coming across as hysterical. Which, in fact, it is. “I’m in some major trouble here, aren’t I?”

  “Tax evasion is very hard to prove. The burden of proof falls on the government. Had I been hired earlier in the process, I don’t think we’d be here. We can prove your innocence by a lack of motive and lack of knowledge of certain bank accounts. You just hired me late.”

  “I didn’t hire you at all. George, my father may be sick. I know this is serious in terms of what kind of trouble I might be in, but my father’s health is more important. Is there a way I can find out where he is?”

  “I’ll do what I can, but Morgan, we need to focus. I don’t think I’m going to be able to represent both you and your father. I’ve looked over the paperwork, and I think if you are both listed, the burden of proof is much easier against your father.”

  “We didn’t do anything wrong. Maybe my father made a mistake and took a write-off he shouldn’t have, but people don’t go to jail for mistakes.”

  “They do, Morgan. Every day. I think we need to separate these cases.”

  “Are you firing me?”

  “No.” He looks around the room. “I’m firing your father. Did you know about the offshore bank accounts?”

  Now, how do I answer this without looking like a complete idiot? “Daddy gave me a Visa, and access to the Bank of America account. So I used an ATM. Is that what you’re asking?”

  He sighs huskily. “I need to know where these earnings went, Morgan. Over two million dollars last year alone. Where is it?”

  I just shake my head and shrug. “I never made a salary that I know of, George. I spent money, and my father paid the bills. He kept money in my checking account, and I just never thought to ask.”

  “How did you get the car?”

  “It was my birthday present last year.”

  “Is this your signature?” He shows me copies of the backs of checks.

  “It is, but Daddy put it straight in the bank. My dad’s not going to go to jail, is he? He wouldn’t do anything illegal.” Of course, as I say it, I think about the black-market incident that landed him in a Russian prison and put him at the mercy of Marcus.

  “I think we need to worry about you, Morgan. Your father’s lawyer will have—”

  “You are my father’s lawyer. He hired you, so I’m assuming you’re the best. Take his case. I’ll find someone else.” I stand up, only to have George stand and press on my shoulder.

  “Sit down. I don’t know where you think you’re going, anyway. You’ve been arrested. You just can’t walk out of here.” He pulls out my Visa statements, or rather copies of them, and there it is, in black and white. What I spend in a month totaled out for the year. Ouch.

  “You spent nearly $148,000 last year, Morgan. There’s a lot of money missing here for me to believe this story. You made over two million. Where is it?”

  “I have the right to remain silent, is that right?”

  “To the police, Morgan. Not to your lawyer if you want me to help you. Morgan, where is that money? It’s imperative you tell me so I can get you out on bail and back home tonight.”

  I have no idea where the money is, none whatsoever. And if my father is lying in a hospital bed, I’m certainly not going to send him to jail over something as mundane as money. “I assume it’s in some of my offshore accounts,” I say emphatically, trying to sound like I have some idea of the offshore accounts.

  George leans back, looking as though I slapped him. “I thought you didn’t know anything about those accounts.”

  “I know Daddy believed in diversifying.” In my brain, I’m thinking, How can I get to my father’s paperwork? How can I find out where he’s hidden the money and pay it before any of this gets any worse? “Is there an amount I owe? A number the government is naming?”

  George rifles through the indictment and comes to the last page, where an amount is stated. “You alone owe $640,000 in back taxes, but the fraud investigation could net them more, especially with added fines. I’m sure the newspapers will be happy to let us know what that is. Your father owes a small percentage of that. But the chance of them letting you out of here when we don’t know where your father is—” He shakes his head back and forth. “It’s very slim. His absence makes you a flight risk.”

  “I have to get home, George. I’ll find out where my dad is. Just make them let me out.”

  “What do you have for collateral?”

  “I have the deed for the penthouse.” I wither at this statement. “But it’s in my father’s name. Wait!” I lift up a finger. “I have the Beamer. It’s brand new, all paid for, and the title is in my name.”

  George nods. “Do you have any cash to live on? If you’re set free on bail, your accounts will be frozen.”

  “I’ll be fine.” I swallow hard at the amount they say I owe. I couldn’t possibly owe that in the last year; I didn’t even have a job. Never did, even though the paper trail tells an entirely different story. But I know Daddy wouldn’t leave me out to dry like this.

  Oh Lord, let him be all right so I can kill him when all this is over.

  chapter 19

  I ’m thinking I really deserve my own bed at the next Spa Weekend. George Gentry is bent over the mounds of paperwork, and he’s loosened his tie and unbut
toned the top button on his business shirt. This is not what a person in trouble with the law wants to see out of her lawyer. I want him to look up and say, “Oh, big mistake. I’ll get you out of here immediately.”

  No wonder our country is in debt. Did they really need that much paperwork to come after moi? The occasional sigh emanates from George, and he shows his frustration by gazing up at me and shaking his head in repulsion. He’s not looking nearly so handsome at the moment. I’m just seeing him as annoying and somewhat arrogant.

  Still, I’m glad my dad got me a gorgeous lawyer because he is the only thing to gaze upon here in this gray government office. How do people actually work in government offices? There is not one iota of personality in the building, and I’m thinking it explains why the feds are so stereotyped. They live in a colorless, bland world. They’re the human equivalent of potato soup without cheese, cabbage stew without meat. Imagine what it would be like to not realize paintings or surroundings affect the personality. It’s like The Wizard of Oz in here before the color part.

  “Are you almost done?” I ask.

  “Are you in a hurry to get to prison?” he shoots back.

  Now that was rude. “You haven’t even tried to call my father,” I accuse.

  “Morgan, I’m your lawyer; I’m not a babysitter. I don’t know where your father is, and I don’t have time to track him down. Have you noticed the size of your indictment? I have enough to do right here.” He lifts up the mound of paperwork and drops it to the desk with a loud thump. “I’ve got a call in to the partners to take on your father’s case.”

  “If your father was out there somewhere in the hospital, you wouldn’t care if he was alive or dead? You seem to think I’m somehow not human here, George. This is my father, not some defendant.” I start to pace the small, boxy room.

  Another big sigh from George. “All right.” He slaps his hand against the table. “I’ll be back.” He stands up and leaves me alone in my stark quarters. There are windows in the room that I can’t see out of. I suppose this is an interrogation room. It would be really cool if I wasn’t under arrest. I can picture myself in Alias mode, kicking some booty and crashing my way out of the building. Yeah, that would be cool.