“And that fascinates me, because I’m thinking of your remarks on that recruitment panel in Boston last spring—the one that was on YouTube?—when you indicated there was no drug problem at this school.” She looked directly at Dr. Cole. “It makes me wonder whether this school has changed drastically overnight—or whether you simply don’t know what’s going on here.”
The headmistress started to speak, then thought better of it.
“That would suggest that this issue desperately needs outside intervention.” She took her iPhone out of her purse. “Now, the state Commissioner of Elementary and Secondary Education, as you should be aware, released a statement earlier this year proposing that receivership be considered for any school—I have it on my iPhone here—‘unable to ensure a safe and drug-free environment for its pupils.’ From your own account, it sounds as if this school should receive a Level 5 designation. Receivership. Meaning they take over control of the school. Do you follow me?”
“Yes, but—”
“Good. So should we report the situation to the Massachusetts Department of Education? Should we talk to Lester Milbank about launching an inquiry? Or the Boston Police?” She paused, took a breath.
Dr. Cole’s cheeks had reddened, as if she’d been slapped.
Juliana went on. “I can either infer that you are publicly lying about this institution—or that you have simply lost control of it. It’s difficult to see any other explanation.”
“Judge Brody,” said Dr. Cole.
But Juliana was on a roll. “So you’re telling us you’ve made a decision to expel our son. And looking ahead to what’s going to happen as the result of his expulsion, I’m sure the good name of this school will recover, though it may take a few years. And it won’t be under your leadership, of course. But challenging us only makes us the best we can be, right?”
* * *
—
“That was very sexy in there,” Duncan said.
They were standing outside of her car, in the front parking lot. They’d left Jake behind at school, to begin serving his sentence of detention, which was about three rungs down the punishment ladder from expulsion. Her son had looked at Juliana with stunned disbelief, as if she had just walked on water right in front of him.
“You don’t think I was too hard on her?”
“Not at all. She was going to expel him. You had to get serious. You were a goddamned tiger in there.”
Lion, she thought. Lioness. It had felt good, actually, laying into the headmistress that way, taking control of something finally, when she felt so otherwise helpless.
“Maybe the thing about ‘challenging us’ was a bit much,” Juliana said.
“I enjoyed it.”
“Okay, then.”
“Hey,” he said softly, “so I’ve been thinking a lot. I’ve cooled off a bit. I mean, we’re in this thing together, and we’ve got to work it through together.”
She nodded and said, “I’d like that.”
“We need you at home. Jake clearly needs you. And I miss you.”
She nodded again, not trusting herself to speak.
“I still want to work out our marriage,” Duncan said.
“Me too.”
“Come on home. Okay?”
51
Martie Connolly came in, with Lucy jingling her tags. Lucy’s tail started wagging metronomically when she saw Juliana. Martie unleashed the dog and hung up the leash on a peg. Then she noticed Juliana’s suitcase.
“You’re leaving,” she said.
“Yeah, it’s time,” Juliana said. “Thank you so much for letting me crash here.”
The dog trotted over to her bed and picked up dog-toy Donald Trump. She had destroyed much of the yellow hair. Now she began industriously gnawing on the face.
“Well, I’m sad you’re leaving. But if this means things are better for you at home, I’m happy for you.”
“We still have a lot to figure out, but Duncan and I finally talked. And with everything going on, I really need to be with my family.”
Juliana found herself looking at a painting on the wall, a fine oil portrait of a grim-looking bearded man that had to be a hundred and fifty years old. “Is that Samuel Colt?”
“The Peacemaker himself. I wonder how he’d feel knowing that his money now pays for dirty martinis for a liberal gun-control supporter in the Commonwealth of Massachusetts.”
“He’d have every right to be pissed off, don’t you think?”
Martie’s eyes crinkled. She looked away. “It’s none of my business, of course, and I’m not foolish enough to get involved. But with this, this business between you and Duncan—let me remind you of something. We’re all flawed. Don’t forget that. We’ve all done things we regret, and nobody is perfect.”
“I sure know that.”
Juliana hesitated, but then she reminded herself that she and Martha were always candid with each other. She wasn’t going to stop now.
“Listen,” she said, and she told her about what Hersh had said. How he at first wanted her to stop, to push no further. And what he had discovered. She told her about Noah Miller’s e-mail reporting a “problem” with the lawyer in the UK. And how a few days later that lawyer was dead.
Martie looked stricken. Her normally sparkling blue eyes had gone dark. “What does Philip think you should do?”
“He had an idea, but I have to tell you, it’s pretty bleak.”
“He can be a gloomy Gus.” She reached down and picked up Lucy, put her in her lap. Lucy’s pert ears twitched as she wriggled against Martie. “But he has his reasons. So what’s the idea?”
Juliana told her.
Martie listened, her face composed and neutral. Then she spoke, gently at first. “My dear, please don’t be brave. My mother used to say that ‘bravery’ is how clever people get simple people to do their bidding. Right now you’re on a trolley car bound for parts unknown.” Looking directly into Juliana’s eyes, she said heatedly, “Get off that trolley. Get off as soon as you can.”
52
Juliana arrived home after nine and put down her suitcase. Home, at last. Right away she heard a door on the second floor open and Jake come thundering down the stairs. He was wearing a black T-shirt with the cartoon head of a crazy-looking angry guy and the words IF THERE’S A GOD, IT’S ME! The T-shirt was from an animated show Jake liked.
“Hey, Mom,” he said, and he gave her a hug. Tears came to her eyes. It was so out of character for him. Normally he’d be barricaded upstairs in his room with his headphones on.
“Sweetie.”
“That was really cool, what you did with Dr. Cole.”
“What do you know about what I did with Dr. Cole?”
“Dad told me.”
“Listen. We need to talk.”
“I know.”
They sat down at the kitchen table, round and old, oak and solid. He wasn’t fighting it. She folded her arms, even though she knew the body language was bad, defensive. “What I did with Dr. Cole today, I’m never going to do again. I got you out of something I’m not going to get you out of again. I just want us to be clear about that.”
“I get it.”
“Were you in fact dealing drugs?”
“No! My friend Arthur was paying me back for— I mean, I gave him one of those pen tops—”
“Oh, God.”
“No, I’m not a dealer. That is so ridiculous.”
“Jakie, you claim you want to be an adult. Well, you’re growing up, you’re being treated like an adult, and that includes taking responsibility for your actions. I saved your bacon this time, but it won’t happen again.”
He hung his head, his face gone stony.
They made eye contact. She reached out and mussed up his hair, a gesture of affection he’d become uncomfortable with. “I understand,” he
said.
“It is legal in our state to possess and use marijuana,” she said, “if you’re over the age of twenty-one. You’re sixteen, last I checked. Now, personally, I think it’s a bad idea for you to use the stuff at your age—later, I’m agnostic—but I don’t want you using it at home or at school. That’s all.”
“Okay.”
“Agreed? This is the deal.”
“Agreed.”
“And if they catch you with drugs again, you can be certain they’ll throw you out, and then you’re going to have real problems. And I won’t be there to help.”
“I understand,” he said.
She looked up as Duncan entered the room. He came over to her, gave her a hug and a kiss. “Hey,” he said softly.
“Hey.”
He was wearing a white button-down shirt with a button missing on the right collar. She flicked at the unbuttoned collar point and considered saying something, then decided against it.
Duncan looked at Jake. “I overheard. I agree with your mom.”
She looked at Duncan, surprised. She couldn’t help it.
Jake’s reaction was swift. He was annoyed. His parents were agreeing; his dad was no longer his co-conspirator. He shook his head, rolled his eyes, and got up. “I hear you,” he grunted, and he left the kitchen, clomped up the stairs.
“Thanks,” she said.
“Don’t thank me. I’m glad you’re back.”
“Me too.”
She went over to the kitchen door, which was almost always left open, and closed it so they could have some privacy.
Sitting down at the oak table, she said, “There’s stuff you need to know.” She started talking.
When she finished, they sat in silence for almost half a minute. Duncan’s fingers were tracing the swirls of the grain on the tabletop. Finally he said, “All right, that’s it. I want a gun.”
“A gun? You?” Duncan was a gun-control zealot. She couldn’t believe he was talking this way. “You’re the most anti-gun person I know.”
“We need protection,” he said. “I’m not going to let anything happen to us.”
“Where are you going to get a gun?”
“What about that private detective? Maybe he can loan us one.”
She shook her head. “He won’t.”
“You asked?”
“I was exploring options.” For some reason she didn’t want to admit that he’d given her a knife.
“Well, I know people.”
“Okay.”
“Okay.” She didn’t want to argue. It was extremely hard to get a gun license around here, and it took forever. She doubted he’d actually be able to buy a gun on the black market. He didn’t know the right kind of people, she was sure. He knew law professors.
Her phone bleated a text message, and she glanced at it. Philip Hersh: Call me ASAP.
53
Duncan went upstairs, to his study, while she sat at the kitchen table. She reached Hersh on his cell phone, using WhatsApp.
“I know it’s late,” he said. “I’m sorry. But I think I figured out Mayfair Paragon.”
“What did you find out?”
“I had this little brainstorm. I Googled the Earl of Wenfield.”
“Who is—?”
“The vice chairman of Harrogate Capital Partners.”
She remembered: the British firm that invested heavily in Wheelz. “Right.”
“So Lord Wenfield gives parties for Harrogate Capital Partners. That’s basically his job. He gives a party at Henley every year for the firm, for instance.”
“Okay.”
“I found an article in a British magazine, Tatler. About a shooting party at Derwent House, the earl’s grand estate. It’s an annual event for Harrogate Capital Partners.”
“Okay.”
“Remember, his given name is Charles Arthur Bertram Hogg? Who can forget, right? So I caught a lucky break. He has a daughter, twenty-one years old. Olivia Hogg.”
“Lucky break because . . . ?”
“Because I knew the daughter, like everyone else in her goddamned generation, would overshare on social media,” Hersh said. “And sure enough, she does. At this shooting party, Olivia’s Lamborghini goes into a pond on the earl’s estate. A couple of months later, I found another article, this time in The Sun, about how Olivia Hogg was arrested in London for cavorting nude in one of the fountains in Trafalgar Square, at four A.M.”
“Not sure I see—”
“Along with her boyfriend, Arkady Protasov. You recognize the boyfriend’s name?”
“Protasov, sure. You mean, he’s Yuri Protasov’s son?”
“That’s the guy,” Hersh said.
Yuri Protasov was a well-known Russian businessman and investor as well as a major philanthropist. There was the Protasov Pavilion at New York Presbyterian Hospital. A wing of the Tate Modern in London, the Protasov Building. The Protasov Fellowship at the Harvard Business School. He was a generous, revered man.
“So Olivia Hogg posts on Instagram a lot,” Hersh said. “She put up a picture of herself with her boyfriend, Arkady, and wrote something about how she met Arkady on his dad’s yacht because, quote, ‘our parents are doing a deal.’”
“Huh.”
“Protasov, the dad, is, like, the hundredth richest person in the world, supposedly worth fifteen billion dollars. Owns a couple of football teams in the UK, owns one of the world’s largest yachts. Bought a house in the Silicon Valley area, Los Altos Hills, for a hundred million bucks. Big investor in Facebook and Twitter. Once, he flew in Prince and Beyoncé to perform at his New Year’s party on St. Barts.”
“And his son goes out with the earl’s daughter. You think . . . Protasov is the money behind Harrogate Capital Partners?”
“Gotta be.”
“He’s the guy who owns Wheelz.”
“Right. That guy.”
“So where does Mayfair Paragon come in?” she asked.
“Yuri Protasov owns the largest private residence in London, called Paragon House. In a part of London called Mayfair.”
“Mayfair Paragon.”
“Mayfair Paragon is probably one of his private investment vehicles.”
“Wow,” Juliana said after a moment, nodding to herself. “Genius work. I’m impressed.”
“Thank you. So the woman who’s suing Wheelz, Rachel Meyers, starts asking for the files on Mayfair Paragon. Because she’s the general counsel, and it’s her job. And maybe those files are the only place where Yuri Protasov’s name appears.”
“Maybe.”
“And she’s not allowed to see them. Because for some reason Yuri Protasov doesn’t want anyone to know he’s the secret owner of Wheelz.”
“But why the hell would he care?” said Juliana. “So he owns an Uber rip-off. So what?”
“That I can’t figure out. But it’s obviously something he’s willing to kill to protect.”
“And you still think it’s safe to keep kicking at the door? Knowing that?”
“I’m doing it, right?” Hersh said.
“You’re not answering my question.”
“I’m a professional,” said Hersh. “I’m not an easy target. Don’t worry about me. Worry about yourself.”
* * *
—
Later she Googled Protasov. There was a lot, mostly philanthropic. She saw that in 2017 he had given fifty million dollars to Yale to establish the Protasov Fund for Innovation at Yale, and the very next year his daughter was admitted to Yale College. One of those happy coincidences. She found his Wikipedia page and saw that Protasov was on the International Steering Committee of Doctors Without Borders.
Along with Martha Connolly.
54
Juliana got up early the next morning and went for a run. It cleared her head
and calmed her down, better than any sedative. And she needed it, badly. But as she ran her usual route, around the reservoir at Cleveland Circle, she found herself paying close attention to the vehicles she passed, wondering about vans that looked somehow suspicious. About other runners who might be following her. But as far as she could tell, she wasn’t being followed.
Part of her wanted to stay in the house, hide downstairs. She was terrified. But she couldn’t give in to the fear. Instead, she was almost defiant. She wasn’t going to be a victim, a prisoner of fear.
By the time she got back to the house, the men were awake. Duncan was making scrambled eggs; Jake was upstairs in the bathroom, where he spent ridiculous amounts of time. She was ravenously hungry, probably because of the run, but she wanted to get to her lobby early. So she scarfed down some eggs, grabbed her briefcase, and went out to the car. She arrived at her lobby just before eight.
She did some searching online for an e-mail address for her old law school classmate Aaron Dunn, who worked at the Department of Justice in Washington. She found out quickly that Dunn was now chief of the Criminal Fraud division. That was excellent. He’d have some juice in the department. She needed allies.
But she couldn’t find his phone number or his e-mail address. She called the main Justice Department line and asked for him by name. She was put right through to his voice mail. She left him a brief message, told him it was important, gave him her cell number.
And she went back to work.
A motion had come in from Glenda Craft, the plaintiff’s lawyer in the Wheelz case. A bundle of paper all in support of a motion to compel the defense to turn over a document. Sure enough, the defense had responded with a motion of their own. Another bundle of paper. This afternoon they’d be arguing it live, and she wanted to refresh her memory.
The damned Wheelz case—already ugly—had gotten even uglier. First, the defense had tried to pressure the plaintiff into settling by threatening to release her nude photos and sexts. All under the name of “discovery.” She’d shut that down, but now the defense was refusing to hand over documents. The games never ended.
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