The Hazards of Good Fortune

by Seth Greenland

  “Who do you think put that tape out there?”

  “You’re asking me?” Bebe said. “How would I know? I have no idea.”

  Nicole was at a loss. “I might as well ask the waiter.”

  Bebe studied the martini.

  “How can I help?”

  “Talk to Jay,” Nicole suggested.

  “And say what?”

  “I love him, I’m horrified by my behavior, and I’ll do anything to get him back.”

  “I’m not sure he’s going to be receptive to that message right now, but when I talk to him next I’ll try to figure out what he’s thinking, and if it’s appropriate, I’ll say something. All right?”

  Nicole effusively expressed her gratitude. Bebe told her she had to get going. Franklin had invited her to a fundraiser for Christine Lupo, and because she enjoyed harassing her cousin, and wanted to take the measure of the woman who was prosecuting her brother, she could not resist.

  “Wait a minute,” Nicole said. “Franklin is hosting her in his home? Why would he do that?”

  “To be fair, I think he arranged this before Jay’s—” Bebe searched for the right word—“setback happened.”

  “Franklin should have canceled the event,” Nicole said.

  “Franklin,” Bebe said, “should have done a lot of things.”

  When the waiter brought the check, Nicole took it and placed a credit card on the table. She began to say something, hesitated, then asked, “Do you think Franklin would mind if I came with you?”

  “Probably.”

  A look of concern clouded Nicole’s worn face. Continually recalibrating her social position was exhausting and, given its downward trajectory, destabilizing.

  “You really think he’d have a problem?”

  “Yes,” Bebe said. “Which is why you’re going to be my date.”

  The Statue of Liberty set against the velvet jewel box lining of New York Harbor at night never failed to move Christine. She stood at the window of a Tribeca penthouse in a guest bedroom having gone there to take a phone call from her daughter, who had a question about homework. Christine remembered when her parents brought her downtown as a small child, how they pointed to Ellis Island, the portal through which her grandparents passed on their journey from Italy to the Bronx. She remembered standing on the docks for the bicentennial celebrations, July 4th, 1976, captivated by the sight of the tall ships sailing upriver as bouquets of fireworks burst overhead, tendrils of light illuminating the New York and New Jersey shorelines. Recalled bringing her children down here to see the display on a more recent July 4th, and how she had told Dominic Jr. and Lucia they were all part of a chain and that one day they would bring their children to watch the celebration in the harbor. Her relationship with Dominic Jr. had deteriorated since he discovered what she had done to his T-shirt, but he would get over it. Mothers and sons found each other in the end.

  Perhaps she would stage a photo op for her campaign on Liberty Island, one mighty, torch-wielding woman in the shadow of another. A link with history, an image for tomorrow. Her immigrant grandparents could not in their wildest imaginings have conceived that their granddaughter might rise from Arthur Avenue to become the Governor of New York.

  The idea of charging Jay Gladstone with a hate crime was Lou Pagano’s, but this didn’t matter because, as District Attorney of Westchester County, she would get the credit. It was a bold move that would demonstrate her credentials as a crusader against racism and generate support in the black community (plummeting since the nonindictment of Russell Plesko) while doing nothing to antagonize law enforcement. It was an elegant legal maneuver that was sure to pay political dividends. But the decision to add the charge to the indictment had not been arrived at easily. Pagano called her at home on Sunday and was surprised she had not immediately agreed but instead had asked for time to think about it. To charge Jay Gladstone with a hate crime was to raise the stakes considerably. The bar for proof was high, but it could serve as a useful bargaining chip, should he decide to accept a deal. More important, it would send a signal to voters that she was sensitive enough in matters of race to bring the weightiest charges against one of New York’s ruling elite.

  Again, she called Franklin Gladstone. Now that they were about to augment the original indictment with a charge that would immeasurably compound its severity, she felt the need to at least mention it as a courtesy so her patron would not be caught off guard when he heard about it. Franklin told her not to worry and expressed his admiration for her integrity.

  To Christine’s pleasure, the hate crime charges had led the local news that evening. She noted with no little satisfaction that Imam Ibrahim Muhammad had called a well-attended press conference during which he commented that while the Westchester County District Attorney’s office should have brought charges against the officer who killed John Eagle, the new ones against Jay Gladstone were “a positive step in her relations with African-Americans.”

  All of this was going through her mind as she tore herself away from the view to greet the guests at the fundraiser Franklin and Marcy Gladstone were hosting for her gubernatorial candidacy. From the other room came the restless sound of money.

  Despite the retention of a prominent interior design team, Franklin and Marcy had expensively decorated their penthouse loft in no particular style. The gathering of more than a hundred that filled the living room and spilled out on to the deck was a glittering portrait of achievement. A smattering of media people gathered in a corner listening to Roger Ailes hold forth. Across the room, Rupert Murdoch chatted with the actor Jon Voight. Near the free bar manned by a white-jacketed waiter, Ezra Gladstone and his twin brother Ari sipped artisanal beer and engaged the daughter of a casino mogul with whom they were exploring a co-venture. Dr. Bannister and his wife chatted with Michael Steele, who had recently become the first black man to chair the Republican National Committee. It was a coup to have attracted such prominent African-Americans.

  A hedge fund manager approached with his wife and asked about Wall Street regulation. Several others immediately were drawn to her orbit, and so Christine Lupo began to work the room.

  Standing in front of a framed pair of boxing trunks worn by the heavyweight fighter Sonny Liston, Franklin was talking to a bond trader from whom he planned to extract a six-figure contribution when he noticed a woman scanning the crowd. It was his cousin Bebe, chatting to another woman who had her back to him. He immediately realized that Bebe’s companion was Jay’s wife. He had invited his cousin as a courtesy never imagining she would attend. That she had brought Nicole was an overt provocation. Why had Nicole come? Franklin immediately crossed the room to greet the women.

  “I didn’t expect to see you two,” he said, approximating friendliness.

  Bebe said, “You invited me, didn’t you?” She was drinking club soda. “Nicole wanted to come. Who was I to say no? I like your loft.”

  Franklin nodded at Nicole, who smiled uncomfortably and said something about how it was important to listen to all political points of view.

  Franklin to Bebe: “Haven’t you been here before?”

  “Remind me,” she said. “When would that have been?”

  Franklin’s parrying skills were minimal, but his arrogance rendered them unnecessary. Rather than offering a wisecrack, he said, “Well, I’m glad you’re here tonight. I think Christine’s going to make a hell of a governor.”

  Bebe raised her well-tended eyebrows. “She seems like a strong-minded woman. I’d like to meet her.” Franklin looked stricken, which only heightened Bebe’s determination. Turning to her sister-in-law, she suggested the two of them immediately say hello to the candidate.

  “She’s getting ready to speak,” Franklin said.

  “If you don’t introduce us,” Bebe said, “I will. Come on, Nicole. I want to talk to her.”

  Nicole excused herself and went t
o refill her wineglass as Franklin grumpily accompanied his cousin across the room. From her position near the bar, she watched Franklin introduce Bebe to Christine Lupo. The politician was pretty and relaxed, two qualities Nicole felt herself to be decidedly lacking at present. Men beset Nicole whenever she stood alone at a party; they would babble and flirt, gauge their chances with the unobtainable. But tonight, many of the guests had probably watched her have sex with D’Angelo Maxwell, so she had no idea what to expect. The amateur porn shattered the illusion of her inviolability. A spasm of self-doubt seized her. Why had she come? Did she really want to face the woman who was trying to send her husband to prison? Was it only because she could not endure once again returning to her hotel suite alone?

  A familiar-looking man in a business suit approached. Mannequin handsome, with graying hair and a friendly expression, he seemed to know her. Who was he?

  “Nicole?”

  “Yes, hello, you are—?”

  “Fred Panzer, Lynx News.”

  That was it! She didn’t know him, just recognized his face from television. Immediately, she wanted to retract the warmth of her greeting.

  He said, “I’m a little surprised to see you here.”

  “You don’t know me so why would you expect one thing over another?”

  Panzer shrugged. “No reason.” She looked over his shoulder for someone else to talk to. “Have you thought about doing an interview?”

  “About what?” She knew what but wanted to make the creature say it. The wine in her glass was disappearing again.

  “Recent events. Get your version out there, gain control of the story.”

  “I think you want to contact my husband.”

  “He won’t talk to us.”

  “Because he’s a very intelligent man,” Nicole said.

  “Jay Gladstone would be the get of the decade today. He’s O.J. in reverse.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Famous white guy who killed an African-American. The trial’s going to be a circus.”

  “My husband didn’t kill anyone.”

  “Dag’s still in that coma, isn’t he?”

  Nicole briefly thought about tossing her drink in Panzer’s face but preferred to consume the dregs of the glass. Now another problem presented itself. Marcy was slicing through the guests like a Coast Guard cutter, headed in her direction. What could that woman possibly want? Marcy might ask her what she was doing here or, worse, suggest she leave. Without saying goodbye to Panzer, Nicole tottered off to find a bathroom. There was one adjacent to the kitchen where the busy wait staff were working. She felt their eyes on her as she passed through.

  When it came to audacity in another woman, Christine Lupo was of two minds: Since it was the quality she cultivated that allowed her to achieve her eminent position, she admired those who possessed it. But when it was employed by another woman to challenge her, she found it distinctly less appealing. Men she squished like they were bugs. They didn’t scare her the way women did. This Gladstone lady had fixed her with a dark-eyed gaze and, as Franklin gaped like a trout, was saying, “To not at least convene a grand jury seems like a remarkably tone-deaf response to what happened. How can black people have any confidence in the government if they don’t get their day in court?”

  “I’m sorry, tell me your name again.”

  “Beatrice,” Bebe said. The nickname was for people she liked.

  “Well, Beatrice, to answer your question, I don’t think about what works for me on a personal level because that would be a betrayal of the contract I have with the citizens of this state. You’re a New Yorker?”

  “Born and bred.”

  “Well, I will never betray you. I weighed the facts and made the best decision for the citizens of Westchester County.”

  “You’re dying to be governor,” Bebe said. “Aren’t you?”

  “I will be governor.” Then Christine Lupo winked at her interlocutor. “With the help of people like you.”

  Wanting to end the conversation, Franklin said, “I think it’s time for the DA to speak.”

  As the host led the guest of honor to safety in another part of the room, Bebe watched them. While she was not going to mention her brother’s case, she had intended to test the politician. The DA was a formidable adversary, self-possessed and unyielding. Words bounced off her armor. Jay needed to prepare for war.

  Where was Nicole? Bebe peered around the room, searching for her. Had she gotten flustered and left? That would be understandable.

  Marcy approached and demanded to know whether she was enjoying herself.

  “Immensely,” Bebe said.

  “How’s Jay doing?” Marcy asked, with barely concealed relish.

  “Under the circumstances, he’s all right.”

  “What he did? It’s a shanda!” Bebe looked at her quizzically. “D’Angelo, the tape—” Her voice trailed off as if she could barely bring herself to enumerate his transgressions. “Why did you bring her?”

  “You wouldn’t understand.”

  “Hmmpf,” Marcy said, a noise intended to convey that to respond would be beneath her. But curiosity won out: “Try me.”

  Before Bebe could answer, Franklin tapped a spoon on a glass and called the room to order. Without bothering to excuse herself, Marcy flew to his side and when everyone had turned their attention to the host and hostess, Franklin introduced Christine Lupo as the next governor of New York. After the polite applause died down the district attorney spieled with great conviction about lower taxes, more police, and eliminating regulations that limit what businesses can do. Attentively, the wallets listened. “And for everyone in this room who works on Wall Street, I want you to know that a Lupo administration will be in your pocket.” Far from humorless, the district attorney knew how to land a well-timed joke. After the briefest pause during which the marks realized the verbal slip was intentional, a wave of laughter rippled through the room. She shouted: “I mean on your side!” and the levity rose.

  In the wings, hands clasped at his waist, Franklin beamed. Christine Lupo was his politician and who could identify her ceiling? The DA had everyone reaching for their checkbooks.

  Nicole spent five minutes locked in the bathroom, several of them staring at her reflection in the mirror. How could she have let herself sink to such depths? The dalliance with D’Angelo was bad enough, her role in his current predicament unbearable, but an emotional collapse in its wake? That was inexcusable. Malingering for days in a luxury hotel suite swilling champagne like some dissipated royal was not how she had reached her enviable station in life, and neither was hiding out in Franklin’s bathroom. Why did she not stand her ground with Marcy? She couldn’t let that virago intimidate her. Why should she care what Marcy thought? Marcy was a rigid, conformist nonentity, mother of three spoiled children, all of whom would be living in a cardboard box under a bridge were they not born Gladstones, a woman whose entire existence involved doing the bidding of her overbearing husband. Marcy was nothing.

  Nicole reapplied her lipstick and touched up her eye makeup. She wanted to have a word with that Lupo woman.

  When Nicole emerged from the kitchen, her target was addressing the packed room. She pushed between two tall bankers to get a better view. There was Franklin, staring at the guest of honor adoringly with Marcy next to him, thrilled to have famous people in their home. There were Ezra and Ari, those charter members of the lucky sperm club. The Lynx reporter lurked near Bebe.

  The guests were rapt. Nicole could not understand it. Yes, the politician was a compelling woman who seemed in control of her life in a way that shone a light on Nicole’s precipitous fall. But Christine Lupo struck her as decidedly second-rate, an ambitious hack whose road company charisma stood in sharp contrast to that of President Obama, the only politician Nicole had truly loved. Why had she not done more than just say hello to him
at the Waldorf dinner? She had been too distracted by Dag. She remembered his speech in Chicago the night he was elected. The poetry of his words had brought her to tears. Christine Lupo droned; the moneyed mollusks opened. Who were these pasty-faced white people? And who were these black people? What were they doing in the enemy camp? Could none of them discern the falsity at her core? The clones of these men and women packed Washington to the rotting gills. Nicole knew them, worked with them, slept with them, and now their avatar, an empty suit with padded shoulders, intended to use the power of her office to ruin Jay’s life.

  “A few minutes ago, I was looking out the window at the Statue of Liberty, and I thought of my grandmother who was born in Calabria, Italy, and took a boat to Ellis Island where—”

  From the back of the room, Nicole said, “You’re a fake,” loud enough to be heard. Several pairs of eyes swung in her direction. The attention only emboldened her. Christine Lupo stopped in the middle of a sentence and looked in her direction.

  “Excuse me,” she said.

  A woman shushed Nicole, but she paid her no mind. “You’re a big fake and shame on you for using Jay Gladstone to advance your political career!”

  Several people made hissing noises to indicate their displeasure. Who is that woman, someone said. Oh, for heaven’s sake, said another, it’s Jay Gladstone’s wife. Is she drunk? Jon Voight and Roger Ailes were gaping at her. As Nicole continued to interrupt the DA, the quiet downs and shushes increased in volume. The Lynx reporter filmed with his cell phone.

  Franklin moved in her direction.

  Nicole was undeterred. Louder: “You need a well-off white man on the docket so you can prove you have no racial bias, but you didn’t have the guts to lock up the cop who killed that black guy.”

  The two bankers flanking Nicole moved away from her so Franklin, his face tainted with rage, had a clear shot. He seized her arm, pushed his face close—the tip of his nose pressed against her hair, she shuddered in revulsion—and whispered, “Everyone’s sorry your phone got hacked, but you should leave right now.”