A Good Family

by A. H. Kim

  An unmarked door behind the reception desk opens, and a strikingly beautiful African American woman emerges. An adorable little girl with deep dimples and two tightly wrapped braids jumps from the lap of a weary-faced woman and calls out, “Mommy, Mommy, Mommy!” The younger woman scoops up her daughter and bursts into sobs, and I’m on the verge of tears myself even though the mother and child are complete strangers to me.

  About ten minutes later, the slender figure of Beth appears in the window. She strides down the hill toward the visitors’ building and disappears through a side door. A few minutes pass until Beth enters the visiting room through the unmarked door. She surprises me again with the intensity of her embrace.

  “Hannah, I’m so glad to see you,” Beth says.

  “It’s nice to see you, too.”

  “Let’s go sit in the back,” Beth suggests, scanning the crowded room. “We should have more privacy there.”

  As Beth leads the way past the vending machines and into the back room, I’m struck by her confidence. Despite being new to Alderson, Beth walks the visitors’ building with such grace and ease. Then again, Beth has always moved with grace and ease. I guess it’s what comes from a lifetime of privilege.

  In the back of the visitors’ building is a large room with padded vinyl chairs, a couple microwaves and a gray metal cabinet filled with board games and jigsaw puzzles. Distracted by the library cart of Alcoholics Anonymous booklets, I bump into a muscular man pulling a burger out of the microwave. His arms are tattooed up and down.

  “Pardon me, ma’am,” the man says. He holds my elbow to gently steer me away from the open microwave door. He closes the door, grabs a pile of dirt-brown paper towels from a nearby dispenser and walks over to a grandmotherly-looking inmate who takes the hamburger from him and starts gobbling like she hasn’t eaten in weeks. It’s humbling. I was the one at fault and yet this man—someone I would have been afraid to meet in a dark alley and probably dismissed as poor white trash if I met him in a Walmart—exhibits more gallantry than my brother or any of his country-club friends have ever shown me.

  I walk over to Beth, who has located two chairs in a quiet corner.

  “Is this okay with you?” Beth asks, gesturing to the seats.

  “You sound like the hostess at some fancy hot spot,” I say. “Next thing, you’re going to ask me if I want still or sparkling.” We both laugh. It feels good to laugh with Beth.

  “Speaking of which, I’m dying for a Diet Coke,” Beth says.

  “Oh, of course,” I say. I reach into my Ziploc and offer her a handful of quarters. Beth shrinks back as if the coins were made of kryptonite.

  “Oh my God, I’m so sorry,” I say. My new surroundings had me so flustered that I forgot the cardinal rule of prison visitation: inmates aren’t allowed to touch money. I look around to see if any of the guards saw me.

  “That’s okay,” Beth reassures me. “Let’s go together.” Beth spreads her fleece jacket on the chairs to reserve them, and we walk over together to the vending machine room. We buy two Diet Cokes, a small package of Chicken of the Sea tuna with Ritz crackers and a bag of Life Savers Gummies.

  “Thank you for taking time to come all this way,” Beth says. She settles into her chair and scoots closer to me. “I know you don’t like to drive by yourself, and it’s a long way from New York to here.” I’m touched by Beth’s acknowledgment of my sacrifice and her pretense that I live in New York rather than Hoboken.

  “You look good, Beth. Honestly, you look a lot better than I thought you would.” Beth’s fair skin looks dewy fresh, her long lashes are tastefully accented with mascara and her lips are softly enhanced with matte pink lipstick.

  “Thanks,” Beth replies with the casual tone of a woman used to accepting compliments. “It was hard the first week, but I adjusted pretty quickly. You’d be amazed how much less stress you feel when you don’t have to worry about taking care of two young children, holding down a full-time job and fighting off creditors, all at the same time.”

  You mean like my poor brother has to do? I think. Then I feel guilty. Beth doesn’t deserve any more judgment. After all, she’s in prison.

  “How’s your cellmate?” I ask.

  “My bunkie? She’s great. Her name’s Juanita, and she’s smart as a whip. I’ve learned a lot from her already.”

  We spend the next couple hours chatting. I fill Beth in on Claire’s and Ally’s activities, and Beth describes the colorful characters that make up Alderson’s population: Meatloaf Mary, Deb the Destroyer and Runaround Sue. Time passes quickly.

  “Hannah, we’ve only got a few more minutes before visiting hours end,” Beth says, “so I should explain why I asked you here.”

  “Okay,” I say, trying to keep the edge of disappointment out of my voice. I thought Beth just wanted someone to talk to; I didn’t realize there was a reason Beth asked me here.

  “Over the past few months,” Beth says, “even before I got to Alderson, I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about Lise.”

  Just hearing Lise’s name makes my blood pressure spike. Lise was a sweet teenager from a small town in Sweden when Beth hired her several years ago to be Claire’s au pair. After Ally was born a couple years later, Lise became even more integrated into Beth and Sam’s life. Lise did everything, went everywhere, with them. She was practically a member of their family. Then last year, Lise filed a whistle-blower lawsuit against Beth and her pharmaceutical company. Lise provided hours of testimony in depositions about the details of Beth’s personal and professional life. Lise gave the federal prosecutors all the evidence they needed to prove Beth was personally responsible for the fraudulent marketing activities that netted her company billions of dollars in ill-gotten gains.

  “What about Lise?” I ask.

  “Well, Lise was a sweet girl,” Beth says, “but you know as well as I do—she wasn’t very bright. I’ve been talking to Juanita about my case, and there’s one thing neither of us can figure out. How in the world did someone like Lise—a foreigner with barely a high school education—even get the idea to file a whistle-blower lawsuit?”

  That’s a good question. I can’t believe I didn’t think of it myself.

  “The only answer we could come up with,” Beth says, leaning into me, “is that someone—or maybe someones—must have put her up to it. And, Hannah, I need you to help me figure out who it is.”

  “Hey, you two, not so close,” the guard barks at us.

  I quickly pull myself away from Beth. My cheeks feel flushed.

  “Why?” I ask.

  “Why would someone want to send me to prison?” Beth asks. “You tell me. Jealousy? The multimillion-dollar reward? Who knows?”

  “No, I mean...your case is closed. You can’t undo your plea. So what does it matter?”

  “You’re right—the government’s case against me is closed,” Beth says, “but remember that girl in California? The one who died?”

  How could I forget about the girl in California—a fresh-faced teenager from a town outside Bakersfield who died of anorexia, allegedly caused by the drugs that Beth’s company manufactured and sold. How could anyone forget? The girl’s grieving parents have become regular fixtures on cable news, sharing their unthinkable loss in front of a phalanx of cameras.

  “My lawyers are worried they’re going to file a wrongful death lawsuit against me,” Beth says, “and that they’ll find a witness who’ll corroborate their claims.”

  I know from my work at the law firm that private lawsuits for wrongful death have a lower standard of proof than criminal prosecutions—preponderance of evidence rather than beyond a reasonable doubt—and California’s liberal juries are infamous for granting huge damage awards. A jury verdict could wipe out whatever is left of Beth and Sam’s savings. It could ruin them forever.

  “What’s the statute of limitations on wrongful death?”
I ask.

  “In California, two years from the date of death,” Beth says, “which means there’s still over a year on the clock for the girl’s family to file suit. Over a year for them to find a witness who’ll testify against me.”

  “Do you think Lise would testify?” I ask.

  “They can’t force her to testify, and she has no reason to do it. Lise’s already gotten her millions in whistle-blower reward and hightailed it back to Sweden. I’m not worried about her. I’m worried she had an accomplice.”

  “But why ask me? I’m not a lawyer.”

  “I don’t need a lawyer. I need someone to help me find Lise’s accomplice so I can get to them before the other side’s lawyers do.”

  “I’m not a detective either.”

  “Hannah, let me be blunt. Based on the government’s case against me, I’m pretty sure someone very close to me convinced Lise to blow the whistle. Whoever that person is, I need to get to them first, before the girl’s family in California does, so I can convince them not to testify. All I’m asking is that you keep an eye out and let me know if anyone acts suspicious.”

  “Five minutes,” the guard calls out.

  The other inmates start saying goodbye to their guests. There’s a flurry of activity all around. I try to stand up to leave, but Beth won’t let me.

  “Hannah,” she says, “there’s no one else I can ask. Will you help me?”

  * * *

  “I don’t get it,” Tracy says. “Who’d want to send your sister-in-law to prison?”

  Tracy is the assistant librarian at my law firm and one of my few friends at work. I don’t usually talk about my personal life with my coworkers, but Tracy’s curiosity was piqued by my back-to-back vacations. I’ve never taken so much time off from work before. Tracy kept poking and prodding until I finally had to confess about Beth being in prison.

  “Shh, please be quiet,” I say. “I don’t want it to get around the office.”

  “Why not?” Tracy asks. “It’s not like you did anything wrong. Besides, people are totally fascinated by prison these days. Think about Martha Stewart and that Real Housewife from New Jersey. Not to mention all the shows on HBO and Netflix. And here you are, with a front-row view of the action. It must be kinda exciting.”

  “There’s still a stigma to having a felon in the family,” I say. “I don’t want people at the firm to know about this. Seriously, Tracy, promise me you won’t tell anyone.”

  “Oh, all right,” Tracy agrees. “I won’t tell a soul.” Just when I think the matter’s settled, Tracy whispers, “But you can’t deny me a little curiosity. Who do you think ratted on her?”

  “Well,” I sigh, “the whistle-blower lawsuit was filed by Beth’s au pair, Lise.”

  “Her au pair?” Tracy interrupts. “How does an au pair even know about whistle-blower lawsuits?” Tracy never ceases to impress me. Even though she only has a two-year associate’s degree in library science from some online university, Tracy is quicker than most of the Harvard Law School–educated lawyers who join Drinker, Barker and Horne every fall.

  “Beth asked the same thing,” I say. “She thinks someone conspired with Lise.”

  “A conspiracy? Now that’s interesting. A real-life whodunit.”

  “I wouldn’t get so excited,” I say. “Beth doesn’t have evidence that anyone conspired with Lise. I think she’s probably got too much time on her hands and is letting her imagination go wild.”

  “In the movies, it’s usually the husband,” Tracy says, ignoring me.

  “It wasn’t Sam.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “I just am.”

  “Love can sometimes blind you to the truth,” Tracy says.

  “What would Sam have to gain by sending his wife to prison?” I ask, appealing to her reason. “Beth was the primary breadwinner in the family. The legal defense costs have nearly wiped out their savings. Not to mention that Sam is madly in love with Beth. It makes no sense for Sam to have conspired with Lise.”

  “Okay, let’s set Sam aside for now,” Tracy says. “But who else could it be? Did Beth give you any ideas? Who’s on the top of her most-wanted list?”

  I stand up and start rearranging the books on the library cart. The mindlessness of the task helps me to think.

  “Beth thinks it might have been someone close to her, maybe someone in the family, but I think it could just as easily have been one of her colleagues at God Hälsa.” God Hälsa is the Swedish pharmaceutical corporation that Beth worked for, the company accused of engaging in misleading marketing practices and bilking the federal Medicare and Medicaid system of billions of dollars.

  “Let’s think about this logically,” Tracy says. “We know Lise was the whistle-blower. So the obvious question is who had access to Lise? And who had a motive to put Beth away?”

  My mind flashes through a series of images: the gorgeous guests at Sam and Beth’s extravagant Hamptons summer soirees; the cutthroat competitions at the annual Lindstrom family reunions; the hundreds of pictures in Beth’s meticulously curated photo albums.

  “Well,” I say, “a few names do come to mind.”

  beth

  six

  Charlotte Von Maur and I met almost twenty years ago on our first day of work at God Hälsa. That day—with its PowerPoint presentations and catered spa meals—was a far cry from today, which I’m sure will be crappy.

  Literally.

  I’ve been in Alderson for a little over a week, and I just found out I’ve been assigned to be a cottage maintenance worker. That’s the BOP’s way of saying I’m a janitor. My entire life, I’ve been leaving messes for other people to deal with, and now I’m supposed to clean up after petty thieves and drug addicts.

  The irony is rich.

  “Meet your crew at the bus stop tomorrow at 7:00 a.m.,” the corrections officer told me on the last day of prison orientation classes.

  The bus stop is the cluster of beds right in front of the guards’ station. It’s where the inmates who’ve gotten in trouble have to sleep. Being sent to the bus stop is kind of like being sent to detention in high school, but instead of getting caught smoking weed or cutting class, bus stop residents are more likely to have gotten caught with a bottle of moonshine—old-timers call it White Thunder—or running an underground gambling ring.

  “Hey, Blondie, listen up,” the janitorial crew lead yells at me. My bunkie, Juanita, told me the crew lead’s name is Deb, who’s known around camp as Deb the Destroyer. It’s Deb’s third time in prison, she can bench-press two hundred pounds without breaking a sweat, and everyone’s been staying the hell out of her way since her longtime girlfriend back in Ohio died of an overdose. The rumor is that she did it on purpose.

  “Three times a day, we clean the toilets, sinks and showers,” Deb yells, “and morning shift is usually the worst. Especially if dinner the night before was three-bean chili or kung pao chicken.”

  The other crew members laugh out loud. They’re a lovely bunch: a collection of bad dye jobs and crumbling gray teeth. The biggest gals quickly grab a mop bucket and roll them down toward the bathroom. The others pick up industrial-size laundry bags of rags and spray bottles of bleach solution. The only equipment left is a plastic caddy holding a well-used toilet brush, black rubber plunger and extra large canister of Ajax.

  “Whatcha waiting for, Blondie?” Deb yells.

  I pick up the toilet caddy, which smells of shit and bleach.

  “Do we get rubber gloves?” I ask.

  “Nah, they kept getting stolen by the gals for making hooch or sticking up their cooches, so the warden got rid of them.”

  I take a moment to check my reflection in the mirror by the bus stop.

  “Let’s get moving, Blondie,” she says. “We ain’t payin’ ya to look pretty.”

  I used to get paid for looki
ng pretty. In fact, that was the chief qualification for my first job out of college. Like most pharma companies, God Hälsa trolls the college circuit every year for pretty young things willing to suffer twelve-hour days in four-inch heels, size two suits in one-hundred-degree temps and enough full-on hair and makeup to make a drag queen wince.

  It’s my first day of employee orientation at God Hälsa. The windowless conference room reeks of cheap perfume and Final Net hair spray. I notice several girls show up wearing the same St. John knockoff suit featured in the window displays of every Ann Taylor store in America.

  Two clueless coeds enter the conference room wearing nothing on their legs but cheap chemical self-tanner. They look like fucking Oompa Loompas.

  I spot one particularly pathetic hopeful who wears her ambitions—as well as the 50 percent silk-blend label—on her proverbial and literal sleeve. The poor girl is politely but firmly told to seek her fortunes elsewhere before the first day even ends.

  At midday, we’re herded like kitten-heeled cattle into the executive dining room for a light luncheon and official welcome.

  “Iced tea, miss?” the white-jacketed server asks.

  “Please,” I murmur. I stifle my sigh at the limp iceberg salad.

  “Is this seat taken?” a voice asks.

  I look up and see a green-eyed beauty. Her God Hälsa identification badge identifies her as Charlotte. The badge dangles from a lanyard and nestles in her creamy cleavage.

  I move my Prada handbag off the next chair and onto the floor.

  “Iced tea, miss?” the server asks after giving Charlotte a moment to settle in. She rests her Gucci handbag on the empty chair next to her.

  I notice that Charlotte nods in the same polite but distant way I did.

  I hate when people are overly solicitous of waitstaff. It betrays a false humility, a deceptive democratic sensibility, a kind of modern-day noblesse oblige.