The secretary signaled Russell Plesko. He rose from his seat in the waiting area of the DA’s office and followed her down the hallway. He was back in uniform. It was his lunch hour and he had hustled over for an appointment he had requested. As soon as Christine Lupo revealed her decision, the White Plains Police Department had informed him he was no longer on administrative leave and placed him on desk duty. He had other ideas. The secretary stopped in front of an office and gestured for Russell to enter.
Lou Pagano stood up from behind his desk and stuck out his hand. Russell pumped it.
“Congratulations,” Pagano said. Russell was nervous and waited to see if Pagano would say anything else. He didn’t. But the deputy DA indicated he should sit down.
When they were both seated, Russell said, “I wanted to say thanks in person for shutting down the grand jury.”
“Hey,” Pagano said, with a sharpness that caught Russell by surprise. “No one shut anything down. The facts were the facts. I talked to everyone who was there. I made my recommendation and the DA made her decision.”
“Right, right,” Russell said. “I didn’t mean to imply anything.”
“Okay. So. Officer Plesko.” Russell waited. He had the distinct impression Pagano was sizing him up. “Are you talking to a counselor?”
“I met with a psychologist. The department mandates it.”
“I know it’s mandated. I’m not implying you’re screwy. You had a traumatic experience is all I’m saying.”
“I’m handling it okay.”
“How’s it going out in the world? Any problems?”
“It’s not too bad. Someone smashed my windshield.”
“Were you in the car at the time?”
“No.”
“Then it could’ve been worse. You’re back at work.”
“I am.”
“How’s it going?”
“That’s what I want to talk to you about.”
After lunch, Pagano walked into the office kitchen for his usual black coffee, two sugars. Christine Lupo was rinsing her cup in the sink. Pagano told her he wanted to discuss Russell Plesko. She did not appear happy to hear this.
“Aren’t we done with that guy?”
“He wanted to see me. They’ve got him stuck at headquarters pushing paper around.”
“That’s standard after what he was involved in.”
“Yeah, well, the guy wants to be reassigned,” Pagano informed her.
Lupo dried her cup with a towel and placed it in the cabinet. She had no idea where Pagano was going with this and little interest. She had hoped not to hear the name Russell Plesko for a while.
“Shouldn’t he talk to his supervisor?”
“He’d like to be detailed to our office,” Pagano said. “He’s interested in becoming a lawyer. For what it’s worth, my opinion—he’s all right.”
She thought about what her political consultant had said at the Parkway Diner: Voters have more respect for balls than integrity. The DA had to admire Plesko’s balls. The most controversial police officer on the force and he had the nerve for an ask like this? It was impressive. Hiring Russell Plesko—an unlucky cop who deserved a break—could only solidify her support with the police. But to bring him into her world would be to embrace him and that might further enrage the black community. Wait a minute, though. She was about to throw the black community Jay Gladstone, and that was going to improve her standing significantly. With Gladstone in a courtroom, no one would care who worked in her office.
“You want to help him out,” the DA said, “go ahead.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
For two days, Trey had been at the hospital without a break. Lourawls and Babatunde returned to the mansion in New Jersey at night, but Trey slept in a chair in Dag’s room. He had not changed his clothes and was self-conscious about it when he met the pair of eminent doctors Gladstone had produced. He was exhausted and his back ached. He was scared his brother was going to die and didn’t know what he would do if that happened. Dag was his anchor. He had never had a real job. Being Dag’s brother was Trey’s job, and it was more than a job, it was a purpose, the warp and woof of his life, the boundary that defined his existence. As much as Trey thought about the future—not a great deal, admittedly—it involved his sibling. Dag World was multi-tiered, and as long as Dag was alive, there would always be a place for Trey. If Dag were not alive, that was going to be a problem. As the coma persisted (Didn’t matter if it was “medically induced.” It was still a damn coma.) fear crept into Trey’s consciousness, spreading out, making itself at home. He was not religious, but he prayed. From the chair across from Dag’s bed, he prayed to whatever deity might be tuned in. He prayed for healing. He prayed for healthy brain function. He prayed for Dag to miraculously recover and lead his team to victory in the playoffs. He knew the last request was unlikely to be granted, but he also believed miracles could occur. He prayed for a miracle.
Trey had kicked a pack-a-day habit a few years earlier, but in times of stress he would reach for a cigarette, and after Dag’s first day in the hospital he had bought a pack at a nearby bodega. It was around dinnertime, but he wasn’t hungry. Lourawls and Babatunde had gone out to eat. Their positive chatter had begun to grate. There had been no improvement and listening to those two was getting on his nerves. Trey was intent on remaining upbeat, but he knew the situation could go either way.
His friends would be back in an hour. It was hard to stare at Dag all day, prostrate in bed, hooked up to all of those machines, and try to remain hopeful when what he wanted to do was cry. The room was stuffy and he needed a break, so he rode the elevator down to the lobby. In the twilight, Trey stood on First Avenue smoking a cigarette. The media had vanished. Pedestrians streamed by, no one paying attention. Cars and taxis crawled uptown in the molasses of rush hour. The temperature was in the forties, and Trey hunched his shoulders as he inhaled, letting the smoke expand inside him. He wished he had worn his coat.
A black man approached. The stranger, who had a beard and wore a white skullcap, introduced himself and told Trey how upset he was about what had happened to his brother, how much Dag’s accomplishments meant to him and the entire community, what an important figure he was. He told Trey how it was their responsibility—his, Trey’s, and that of the community—to hold Jay Gladstone’s feet to the fire and see that justice was done. Trey agreed with all of this. The man informed Trey that he ran an organization and had contacts in the media. The man asked, “Who’s going to speak for D’Angelo? Who will give him his voice? Will it be you, my brother?” Trey wished he could provide a voice for Dag, but extemporaneous speaking in front of television cameras was not one of his talents.
From the river of pedestrians emerged Lourawls and Babatunde, who handed Trey a tuna sandwich they had purchased for him at a nearby Korean market.
“Fellas, say hello to—sorry, what’d you say your name was?”
“Imam Ibrahim Muhammad.”
The imam’s inviting smile shone in the gloom.
CHAPTER FORTY
It would have been so much better if the situation with your daughter didn’t play out in the public sphere,” Herman Doomer said. “People misinterpret.”
“And now every schmuck in New York has a camera.”
They were in the attorney’s Midtown office, the lawyer in a wing chair, Jay across from him on the sofa. Between them on the coffee table rested the day’s edition of the New York Post. On the front page, above a picture of Jay, Aviva, and Jude at the Vietnamese restaurant, the headline screamed: GLADSTONE FAMILY FEUD. Someone in the restaurant had a phone with a camera. The accompanying article was short on details since neither of the principals spoke to the reporter who wrote it, but there was speculation that a family argument had boiled over and father and daughter were estranged.
“Why is it so important to you to give that com
mencement address?”
Jay had been asking himself that question. His conversation with Aviva gnawed at him and, given all the angst the possibility stirred up, he was beginning to doubt whether it was worth it. To what degree could a speech to a bunch of liberal arts kids penetrate the zeitgeist if the speaker wasn’t someone like Steve Jobs? Jay had planned to talk about the role of the builder in society and how the graduates were “the builders of their own lives,” but given his self-inflicted wound this no longer seemed wise.
“I’ve been having second thoughts about it.”
“For the time being, I don’t think any public appearances are prudent. Perhaps you should consider the idea of managed seclusion.”
“Like Einstein in New Jersey?”
“That’s exile.”
“What’s the difference?”
“You wouldn’t have to disappear, exactly, but choose your spots carefully.”
“I’m not going away, Herman. That’s not going to happen.”
Doomer pointed to the copy of the Post. “This complicates my task.” He was spread out in the chair, spidery limbs barely filling his gray suit. He pressed his palms together and touched the tips of his fingers to his thin lips as he contemplated his client.
“I’m sorry, Herman. I don’t know what’s going on with her.”
“You two should probably stay away from each other for the time being.”
“That won’t be a problem.”
“All of it is prejudicial to a jury. You want the jurors to like you. They can’t think you have a pattern of conflict.”
Doomer picked up the copy of the Post and waved it at Jay. “You need help with this stuff. I want you to think about hiring Robert Tackman. He specializes in crisis communications. Do you know him?”
“Why would I?”
“No reason. Robert’s a behind-the-scenes operator. He’s the fellow British Petroleum calls when one of their tankers spills oil in some pristine body of water, and the whole world wants to burn down their headquarters. The Republican Party hired him when Iran-Contra happened. He worked with Michael Jackson who, let me remind you, never served a single day in jail.”
“I don’t like the idea of bringing in someone I don’t know.”
“You need a strategy, Jay.”
“There won’t be any more problems. Let’s just deal with what’s in front of us. I don’t want to work with a P.R. team to rehabilitate my image.”
“You don’t want to take my advice, don’t take it. Now, what do you want to do about Nicole?”
Jay had spared Doomer the details of what occurred in the pool house, only hinting that the marriage was not thriving. The lawyer listened with his usual equanimity, and upon receipt of the information merely nodded. He had been married to the same woman for fifty-two years and whatever opinions he had in this area he kept to himself.
Jay asked, “How enforceable is the prenup?”
“I reviewed it this morning, and it’s airtight. But look, you should think about whether you want to be going through a divorce if the criminal case goes to trial. Either one is highly stressful. And there’s the matter of the Sapphire, isn’t there? We haven’t even touched on that. The Planning Commission haven’t given their approval yet, have they?”
“We’re optimistic.”
“Well, until they do, I would advise you to keep your name out of the headlines to the degree that you can, and after your accident, and the incident with Aviva, you’re not off to a flying start.”
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Three days had passed since Nicole left the house and set up camp on the tenth floor of the Pierre Hotel. Her suite overlooked Central Park, but she was too distracted to enjoy the view. The flowers she’d ordered to cheer herself up had started to wilt. Since encountering her husband at the hospital she had kept a low profile, only venturing out to have lunch with the newly pregnant Audrey, who she had not seen since before that dreadful Seder. She couldn’t bring herself to tell her friend what had happened and so had to listen as the loquacious former model filled the time describing the nursery she was designing and ruminating on where the child would be enrolled in preschool. It was all Nicole could do to keep from breaking into wracking sobs.
Although Jay’s situation was international news, Nicole had not heard from either her parents or siblings. Dressed in leggings and a cashmere V-neck, she swanned around the suite swilling copious amounts of champagne (in a vain attempt to make circumstances slightly less appalling she had switched from the usual chardonnay), and picked at a succession of egg-white omelets from room service while trying to tame her extravagant emotions. She composed a series of self-excoriating emails to Jay but did not send them and continually refreshed her browser for news of Dag’s condition. If only meditation were possible, she thought, but just the idea of attempting to tame her whirling mind was risible. On the morning of the second day, she parked on a sofa cushion she had arranged on the floor of her living room to give it a try, but after thirty seconds felt too upset to continue. Desperate to find some peace, she practiced walking across the suite with the Spinoza biography balanced on her head. This feat was achieved on the third try, and she celebrated by weeping so uncontrollably it took four Advil to get rid of the headache that ensued.
In the aftermath, she tried to read the book, which she was only able to do in fits and starts. Despite the painfully slow pace, Nicole was able to assemble scraps of Spinoza’s life and found that she connected to the Dutch philosopher. Contemplating her potential exile from the bosom of the Jews, she reflected on the excommunication endured by Spinoza. Yes, he may have been a brilliant thinker who fomented an intellectual revolution in seventeenth-century Europe, and she only a model turned congressional aide turned tycoon’s repentant wife, but the unmooring suffered by Spinoza at the hands of his brethren felt unnervingly familiar to her. She was cut off from her family of origin and her suburban Virginia background. Two careers had not left her with a surfeit of people who qualified as friends. Spinoza’s parents named him Baruch, but as a result of all he had undergone he came to be known as Benedict, a moniker of popes. Baruch Spinoza, Jew of Amsterdam, had become someone new. She had been Nicole Pflueger, then McGrory, and Gladstone. To be Nicole Gladstone, wife of Jay Gladstone, had felt like the realization of an essential, irreducible self. That was where the similarity ended, where she conveniently stopped thinking about what happened to Spinoza and turned her focus inward. No metaphysician, Nicole’s fate was inextricably tied to that of her marriage. She could rebuild her life if she had to, of course. People did.
It occurred to her to reach out to D’Angelo’s wife, but she had no idea how to frame the conversation so quickly abandoned the notion. Visiting the hospital again seemed like the right thing to do, but she did not want to risk calling attention to herself. Every idea only seemed to generate more negativity, and the overall effect compounded her lassitude.
She hoped that Jay would decide to remain in the marriage, but was subject to paroxysms of self-loathing for putting her fate in his hands. In her befuddled state, she allowed herself to believe that Jay might agree to renegotiate the prenup. Every time she ran through what to ask for in the divorce—he could keep the house in Aspen, but she wanted the one in East Hampton, he could hang on to the New York apartment, but she wanted the Bedford place with its stables, paddock, and riding trails—she chastised herself for negative ideation. Adultery on so impressive a scale was a shocking thing, but her remorse had not gone unexpressed. Nicole was far more than a standard-issue trophy wife, trotted out like a royal consort to smile and wave. Educated and accomplished, she was still young (ish), gorgeous, and charming, in all ways an enviable mate for someone like Jay. If he chose not to reveal what had happened, she certainly was not going to. As for D’Angelo, it was not clear he would even survive his injuries. Or how compromised he would be if he did. If he lived, and was sentient,
and decided to divulge the events of that evening, all Jay and Nicole had to do was deny everything. Given that he had suffered brain damage, who would believe him? Any information D’Angelo Maxwell might offer—assuming he roused from the coma—would be unreliable. She recognized how cold and calculated this was and added it to the list of things over which she was berating herself. But feelings for Dag—in her view they had forged a genuine connection—were beside the point. If she had anything to say about it, the events of that night in Bedford would forever remain between Mr. and Mrs. Jay Gladstone.
One afternoon Nicole read an item on a website about Jay and Aviva. Although distressed at this news, and the way it had burst into public view, she resisted the impulse to call him and commiserate. She did, however, send a text:
So sorry to see that stuff with you and Aviva in the media!
Thinking about you and hope you’re okay!
Jay did not text back. She consoled herself with the thought that he had more than enough on his mind, but a darker interpretation was unavoidable. More champagne. She hadn’t showered in several days. A peek in the bathroom mirror revealed a dog’s breakfast. She was too depressed to care. Her svelte frame had begun to wither. Would her appetite return? The trees in Central Park were performing their annual sun salutations, but Nicole did not notice. How long could she remain hidden in the Pierre?
The Hazards of Good Fortune Page 39