by A. H. Kim
“You know I think the world of your brother,” Martin says. He stops talking and leans back as two waiters arrive with our entrees: filet mignon steak for Martin, truite amandine for me. The waiters stand there like the Queen’s guards, one at either side of the table, and set our plates before us simultaneously.
“As I was saying, you know I think the world of Sam,” Martin continues. He sounds as if he’s returning to a script. Martin doesn’t touch his food, so I don’t either. The buttery aroma of my trout is tantalizing but I don’t want to seem ill-mannered, chomping away like a churl while Martin is trying to have a serious conversation.
“I remember the first time we met,” Martin says. For a moment, I think he means the two of us but quickly realize he’s talking about him and Sam. “Beth didn’t have a lot of boyfriends growing up. The guys she brought home were mostly Eurotrash who’d spend Thanksgiving with us and invite her to Gstaad or Mykonos for Christmas. Beth always had a knack for getting what she wants out of other people.”
I’m mesmerized by Martin. I love the way the words Gstaad and Mykonos roll off his tongue. He reminds me of a news anchor, a hybrid of Peter Jennings and Anderson Cooper.
“Frankly, I was seriously worried that Beth played for the other team, if you know what I mean. The whole family had heard rumors about her exploits at Barnard. So we were delighted when Beth brought Sam to meet the family. Here he was, this good-looking, athletic, charming guy who was obviously smitten by Beth, and she seemed to return the feelings.”
It’s one of my pet peeves when people overuse the word frankly. It’s a verbal tic that people use as empty filler or as an excuse to say something that would otherwise be offensive.
“While everyone agrees that Sam’s a terrific guy, I don’t think it’s a secret that Beth has always been the main breadwinner in the family. These past couple years have been really rough on them financially. Beth stopped making an income. Their lawyer bills and the huge restitution payments ate through their savings.”
My heart stops. This lunch isn’t about family. This lunch is about money.
“Frankly, it was an uncomfortable situation. When I first convinced Beth to help form EMC Partners, I promised her that Chaz and I would do all the work—she could just be a silent partner. And for the past fifteen years, I’ve been true to my word.”
“Chaz? Who’s Chaz?”
“Charles Butterworth III. He’s a fraternity brother of mine from Dartmouth and a genius with the numbers. He’s the C in EMC Partners.”
“And Beth is the E,” I say, the picture suddenly clear.
“Yes, EMC Partners is Elisabeth, Martin and Charles. Beth provides the cash, Chaz provides the financial acumen and I’m the customer relations interface.”
“And who are your customers?”
“We work with a number of major corporations. They want to do business with the federal government, and the federal government wants to do business with them. But here’s the thing, the bleeding-heart liberals have imposed certain minority quotas—what they call ‘supplier diversity targets’—on every federal agency. That’s where EMC comes in. We get a contract with the agency to supply the products they want, and we subcontract with the major corporations in exchange for a share of the revenues. Win-win.”
I’m familiar with supplier diversity targets. At my law firm, we’re always getting pressure from our corporate clients to subcontract work to minority-owned firms. The managing partner once suggested converting Tracy and me into subcontractors and counting our librarian services toward our supplier diversity targets, but Old Man Barker interceded on our behalf.
“Sorry if this sounds rude, but how is your business diverse?” I ask. The Lindstroms are perhaps the whitest family I’ve ever met.
“Chaz is part black, and Beth is a woman, so we’re well over the 50 percent diversity threshold. When Beth got wind that she might be in legal trouble, she signed over her share of EMC to Sam. Thanks to Sam’s Oriental status, we’re able to maintain our diverse credentials.”
I see the butter has started to congeal, the transparent sheen on the trout now taking on an unpleasant opacity.
“I don’t need to tell you Beth’s legal troubles have been devastating for the entire family. At one point, the prosecutors even put me on their witness list, threatening to open up EMC’s business to public scrutiny. We weren’t doing anything wrong, mind you, but your Average Joe doesn’t have a clue how things get done in Washington. Once there’s blood in the water, the media sharks will swarm in, and then it’s all over. Nobody wants to do business with you again. We avoided that trouble when Beth pled guilty.
“Anyway, I’ve been lying low for a year because I wanted to give Sam time to get back on his feet. Now that things have settled down, we need Sam to provide some short-term cash to make payroll. That’s what Beth always did when we were waiting for our bids to come through. This past year, though, Sam hasn’t paid a single cent toward the business. With Chaz out on medical leave, I’ve had to cover all of EMC’s costs.
“At last count, Sam owes the business over half a million bucks. I’ve asked him a couple times to pay, but he keeps putting me off. I know how much he values your opinion, and I was hoping you could talk to him about it. Frankly, I’m sorry Sam has put us both in this awkward position.”
In my mind, I hear Karen at Claire’s school performance. You probably don’t know, Hannah, but Sam owes us quite a lot of money. Something clicks into place. And with that, Martin saws off a chunk of his steak and shovels it into his mouth. The red wine has stained his large, horselike teeth purplish gray. There’s a heavy dusting of dandruff on his sweater, and wiry hairs and blackheads on his nose. I look out the window and notice that the geraniums are fake, made of cheap polyester and plastic. The parking lot is filled with Humvees and other gas-guzzling luxury cars. I wonder how many of the meals in the room are being paid with taxpayer dollars.
I’m not sure how long I’ve been lost in thought when I hear the clatter of Martin’s fork and knife against his plate. He’s practically inhaled his meal and is busy cleaning his top incisors with a wooden toothpick.
“Is something wrong?” the waitress asks. She points to my untouched plate. “Would you like your meal wrapped to go?” I shake my head.
“I’m afraid I may have upset you,” Martin says. He reaches over for my hand. I wait a moment—the minimum that politeness requires—before pulling it away.
“It’s just...” I begin. “It’s just that Sam isn’t exactly in a position to be giving away money. He’s been struggling to make ends meet himself.”
It feels like I’m betraying Sam, admitting his weakness to Beth’s older brother, but I also want to protect Sam from any further financial pressure. The corners of my mouth quiver as I struggle to contain tears. I’m embarrassed by my show of emotion.
“I know what struggling feels like,” Martin murmurs. It makes me wonder: Is this the real Martin, or the customer relations professional? “Like I said before, I’ve been lying low this past year to give Sam some time to recover. But meanwhile, I haven’t been able to bring home a single regular paycheck. Karen and I have eaten through our savings. We’ve taken out a second mortgage on our house. We haven’t gone on a real vacation in over two years. Karen and I are even thinking about pulling the girls out of their school, but we hate to separate them from their friends.”
I think back to that sunny morning at Le Refuge when I made Mickey Mouse pancakes with Karen and Martin’s daughters. They’ve always been such affectionate girls, full of sweet smiles and generous hugs. They even call me Auntie Hannah, like a true blood relative. My heart aches at the thought of them suffering.
“Can I interest either of you in dessert?” the waitress asks as the busboy clears away the dishes. We both decline.
“Will you at least think about it?” Martin asks.
I nod compliantl
y. I feel like a fraud, but I don’t know what else I can do. When the check comes, Martin insists on paying.
He puts it on his corporate card.
* * *
New Year’s Eve has always been one of my least favorite holidays. It’s right down there with Valentine’s Day and Mother’s Day—the other annual reminders of my spinsterhood—but recently, it’s taken on an even worse connotation. It was New Year’s Eve exactly one year ago that Sam first told me about Beth’s legal troubles.
I’m sitting in my condo watching an old movie on cable when the phone rings. I know it’s Sam because I programmed my home phone to play “The Entertainer” whenever he calls, although it’s not like I need a musical cue. Except for telemarketers, Sam is the only one who ever calls my landline.
“Hey, stranger,” I say. “What a treat to hear from you.”
“Hey, Hannah. Happy New Year’s Eve. Are you doing anything special tonight?”
Sam knows the answer. If it had been anyone else, the question would be cruel, but with Sam, I know he’s just being lazy, making small talk.
“Nah, you know me—Little Miss Homebody. Just staying home and watching TV, the usual stuff. How about you? Don’t you have a gala event or something fabulous tonight?”
“Not really. Beth and I are staying home and spending a quiet New Year’s Eve with the girls. We promised Claire that she could stay up past midnight, so we’re camping in the living room. Pillows and stuffed animals everywhere.”
It’s nice to imagine the scene. Sam and Beth had been going through a rough patch, so I’m relieved to hear they’re a happy family again.
“Listen, Hannah, I have something I need to ask you,” Sam says.
“Sure,” I say. “What’s up?”
“Are you sitting down?”
“Sam, you’re scaring me. What is it?”
“Is there any way you can loan us a million dollars?”
“Ha ha, very funny,” I respond—a response I instantly regret when Sam fails to say anything. “You’re kidding, right?”
“I wish I were.”
“What in the world do you need a million dollars for?”
“Hannah, I know you’re not going to believe this, but Beth’s going to prison. The feds are planning to issue a press release about it in the next couple days.”
“Sam, if this is some sick joke, I don’t get it.”
“I wish it were a joke. Beth and her company have been talking with the feds for months. She’s been accused of all sorts of crazy stuff. Beth and I were going to fight it to the end, but...well, things just started to look bad. Beth’s lawyers convinced her to plead guilty. If we can raise a couple million dollars before her sentencing hearing, we might be able to reduce her time in prison.”
“What are you talking about, Sam?” I ask. “What kind of crime could Beth possibly be accused of? And why in the world would Beth plead guilty?”
Sam describes the whistle-blower lawsuit. Lise, their Swedish au pair, has accused Beth and her company of illegally marketing Metamin-G for off-label uses. The Justice Department has been investigating the allegations and gotten the federal grand jury to return an indictment against both Beth and the company’s CEO. It takes me a while to let Sam’s words sink in.
“But companies get caught for stuff like that all the time,” I say. “I’ve read about these cases at work. The company pays a fine, maybe a couple people lose their jobs. No one ever goes to prison.”
“That’s not happening here, Hannah. The government’s looking to send a message to the public, and those fuckers at God Hälsa are handing them Beth’s head on a platter.”
“Wait, wait, wait,” I say. “This doesn’t make any sense to me. Whistle-blower lawsuits don’t result in prison time, just financial penalties.”
“I haven’t told you the worst part, Hannah. They’re not just accusing Beth of fraud against the Medicaid and Medicare system. They’re talking obstruction of justice. Securities fraud. Even manslaughter. Beth could face up to thirty years in prison.”
“Oh my God, Sam,” I say. My head starts to throb.
“Apparently, a bunch of girls became anorexic—one girl even died—while taking Metamin-G, and they’re trying to say that Beth knew about the potential side effects and marketed the drug anyway.”
“Come on, that’s ridiculous. There’s no way they could prove that.”
There’s silence on the line. I wonder if our connection’s gone dead.
“Sam, are you still there?” I ask.
“Yeah,” Sam grunts.
“What evidence could they possibly have?”
Sam refuses to answer.
“Sam, do you know what evidence they have?”
“My lawyer said the deposition was just a formality,” Sam finally says. His voice is barely audible.
“Deposition? What deposition?”
“It was a disaster,” Sam continues. “The lead prosecutor was this total bitch—this total manipulative, tricky bitch. She showed me some family pictures and caught me off guard with her questions. She asked me about Claire and Eva, stupid shit that Beth would sometimes say. You know Beth—she’d tease them about their weight but never meant anything by it. She was just joking around. But the prosecutor would twist my words around—make it sound like Beth was some sort of monster. Like she was guilty.”
My brain struggles to process Sam’s words.
“I know I should have come to you before,” Sam apologizes. “I wanted to ask for your advice as soon as we found out about the lawsuit, but—I don’t know—I guess I thought I should be able to handle it on my own.”
“Sam, slow down and listen to me. Didn’t your lawyer tell you that you didn’t have to be deposed? You’re Beth’s husband. You have the spousal privilege. That means they can’t call you into court to testify against Beth, and they can’t ask you questions in a deposition about anything the two of you talked about as a couple. You have the right to just say no.”
“Yeah, I know, but they offered me immunity, Hannah.”
Sam’s not making sense. Why would the federal prosecutors offer him immunity? Then I realize Sam’s probably just confused. He’s not a lawyer. He doesn’t know the difference between privilege and immunity. He doesn’t know what these legal words mean.
“You don’t need immunity, Sam,” I say slowly. “You’re not the one being prosecuted. The only reason you need immunity is if you’re at risk of being prosecuted and put into prison.”
“That’s the whole point, Hannah,” Sam says. “They said if I agreed to be deposed, then they wouldn’t prosecute me.”
As soon as the words come out of Sam’s mouth, I feel a chill come over me. My poor, sweet, gullible brother. Of course he’d somehow get himself accidentally into trouble.
“Okay, Sam,” I say, “what did you do?”
“It wasn’t me, it was Alex,” he says. Sam’s defensive tone reminds me of when he was a little boy and would break a vase, a window, a promise. It was never his fault.
Sam goes on to confess his crimes.
“I can help,” I say. “The lawyers at my firm used to work at the Supreme Court. They could probably find a way to challenge the admissibility of your deposition at trial. Or they could hold up Beth’s case on appeal.”
“It’s over, Hannah,” Sam says. “Beth’s already pled guilty. There’s nothing more to be done. Beth is going to prison. And it’s all my fault.”
I rack my brains for something to say. Some way to fix this broken, terrible mess.
“Hannah, believe me when I say I didn’t want to testify against her,” Sam says.
In the background, I can make out Claire and Ally shrieking and giggling. His voice cracking, Sam says, “But Beth told me to do it. She told me to do it for the girls.”
beth
nineteen
“Need any help?” Deb asks.
“I could use another box of pads,” Juanita says. She points to the pile of maxi-pads in the trash bin. “These things are so cheap, they fall apart as soon as they get wet.”
“Not the best quality in a maxi-pad,” I say.
“Hey, Lindstrom, why don’t ya come with me,” Deb says. She gives me a little shove as she squirms out of the bunk.
We walk together down the long hallway. Past the bus stop and the guards’ desk to the storage closet by the bathrooms. As the head of cottage maintenance, Deb’s literally got the keys to a lifetime supply of bleach, single-ply toilet paper and off-brand maxi-pads.
Deb opens the door, and I step inside. The storage space is stacked from floor to ceiling with brown cardboard boxes. Along the wall nearest the door is an open box filled with wooden handles. The kind you attach to a black rubber suction cup to use as a plunger. The kind Deb used to threaten Meatloaf Mary just weeks before she died.
Deb pulls the door shut behind us. The closet suddenly feels very small.
“You know, I’m not dumb,” Deb says. “I know what people been sayin’.”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“About Meatloaf. About how she died.”
“I thought no one knew how she died,” I say.
“C’mon, you know people think I had somethin’ to do with it.”
It’s true. Gossip and rumor spread quickly at Alderson. First, we heard the COs found a broken plunger handle in Mary’s bunk. Then we heard the handle had traces of blood and shit on it. Then we heard Mary died choking on her own vomit.