Their uncle waved the boys in. Yuri and then Isaac kissed him on the cheek, a gesture that he seemed to endure more than enjoy. “Sit,” he said in English. “Grab a seat and sit.”
Both brothers sat on a couch near the desk. Their uncle yawned and stretched his arms above his head. Grigory, ominously, stayed standing near the door. A phone in the reception area rang. Because of ongoing construction outside, the whole place smelled like tar.
Yuri looked at the lawyer, Leo Katzir, who shook his head and pursed his lips. I get it, you’re mad, thought Yuri. But please, for your own good, tone it down a little bit.
“Boys,” said their uncle. “I’m going to ask you this only once, and I need you to be completely truthful with me.”
Yuri felt his brother shift in his seat and saw him wipe his nose. For his part, Yuri stayed perfectly still and adjusted his face to reflect an appropriate level of concern. He felt ready to confess to whatever he was being charged with.
“Did you have anything to do with this?” asked their uncle, holding up a copy of the Wall Street Journal.
Yuri leaned forward to read it, but he couldn’t make out the words from where he sat. “What is it?” he asked.
Their uncle lowered the paper, looked at the lawyer, and then looked back at Yuri. “It is a story about this Calcott case. The story references documents. Emails.”
“No,” said Yuri.
“No,” said Isaac.
“Did you share the documents with anybody?”
Yuri’s heart galloped in his chest. He felt himself begin to blush, and he breathed in deeply to try to hide it. He wasn’t guilty, he hadn’t shown the documents to a single person; but he felt guilty. He couldn’t stop blushing.
He shifted on the couch and faced his brother. “We didn’t do anything, right?”
“No, no, we didn’t show the documents to anybody,” said Isaac, sounding calmer and more composed.
“Then say it!” said Yuri.
“I did say it!” said Isaac.
Both brothers turned and faced their uncle. “We don’t know,” said Isaac.
The lawyer spoke next, “Where is the thumb drive?”
“It’s at the house,” said Yuri.
“Okay, then we are done here,” said the lawyer, clasping his hands together on the desk. “Give it to him.” He nodded at Grigory Levchin.
“I said they wouldn’t do this,” said Yakov Rabinowitz, speaking to the lawyer, and apparently defending his nephews. He then turned and faced the boys. “I said you wouldn’t do this. But we have a very serious problem now. The American woman has said, ‘If a story comes out …’” He stopped speaking for a moment, looked down at his cell phone. “Now here we are, a story is out. We must clean it up.”
“Kill her?” whispered Yuri.
Yakov Rabinowitz rubbed his eyes like a tired baby, shook his head, looked back at the lawyer. “They watch too many movies.”
Yuri leaned forward. “What do you want us to do?”
“Where is the money?” asked Yakov Rabinowitz.
“It’s at Ossip’s,” said Yuri.
“Bring it here,” said Yakov Rabinowitz. “The game is over. We’re done with all that.”
Yuri looked at the stretch of floor between them. He wasn’t sad to hear his uncle’s plan. He was relieved.
Chris Cowley sat hunched over his phone with the posture of a child. He was in his office, at his desk, scrolling through Instagram. His friends, each and every one of them, appeared to be living beautiful lives. A simultaneous vacation. They climbed mountains, lay on beaches, and gathered at fancy bars. They had babies, they accepted awards, made ironic jokes. Even their boring pictures—the lazy ones, selfies taken on couches in front of televisions—made him feel jealous. Boredom had never looked so appealing.
His hangover wasn’t helping matters. Instead of doing the sensible thing, and going home after a drink or two, he’d stayed at the bar until one in the morning. He had met a couple in town from Denver. He drank two pointless martinis with them, bringing his grand total to five.
At that moment, Elizabeth Carlyle’s assistant stepped into Chris’s office and interrupted his phone scrolling. “Sorry,” he said, looking at Chris. “Liz wants to see you.” The assistant’s face offered no clues. It didn’t matter; Chris knew what was coming.
He looked back at his phone, pressed the home button, and flicked Instagram closed. He turned to his computer, checked his email, refreshed it, stood, and adjusted his jacket.
“Are you okay?” asked Andy, looking at Chris.
“Hungover,” said Chris.
When he got to Elizabeth’s office, Andy stepped ahead of him, peeked his head in, and then turned and nodded to Chris. Inside, seated around the table, were Elizabeth, Pamela Ong from HR, and Scott Driscoll.
“How are you, Chris?” asked Scott.
“Chris, I’m sorry,” said Elizabeth, not waiting for his answer. Even under these circumstances, she seemed pressed for time. “The partners voted this morning to terminate your contract.”
Chris nodded. Tears came to his eyes, and he wiped them with the back of his hand.
“James from security is going to accompany you back to your office. You’ll gather your personal belongings. Leave your work cell on the desk. Do you have any office laptops at your apartment?” asked Elizabeth.
“No,” said Chris.
“Do you have any external hard drives, thumb drives, or any other devices carrying anything related to your work at CDH?”
“No,” said Chris.
“Do you have any paper files, or notes at your apartment?”
“No.”
“Sign this, then,” said Elizabeth, nodding toward the HR person who pushed a clipboard forward.
Chris stepped closer, leaned down, and read the paperwork. It was the same questions he’d just answered. He signed at the bottom.
“Your prior nondisclosures, of course, are still in effect.”
Chris nodded.
“I’m sorry this happened,” said Elizabeth. “We’re terminating you for cause, but we’re going to pay two additional months. Help you get back on your feet.”
“Okay,” said Chris. “I’m sorry.” He looked at Elizabeth; she was watching him closely. He thought about offering her a handshake but decided against it. Scott Driscoll sat there with his lips puckered. Pamela Ong didn’t do anything but sit with perfect posture and watch him.
Chris turned and stepped out of the office. Elizabeth’s assistant gave him a sad shake of the head, and mouthed the words, “I’m sorry, bud.”
James, wearing his blue security coat and holding a walkie-talkie, was already waiting. He nodded at Chris, and then gestured that Chris should lead the way.
It was humiliating.
There wasn’t much to gather in his office: a few suits, shirts, a fancy pen his father had given him. He had a plant he decided to leave. Let it die, he thought.
He went through his desk drawers, made sure he wasn’t forgetting anything. Then he took his phone, held it up for James to see, and set it down on his desk.
On the walk to the elevator he passed a few colleagues who saw him with his suits folded over his arm, saw the security guard walking behind him, and either made sympathetic faces, or pretended they didn’t see what was happening.
The elevator opened as soon as James pressed the button. Chris, followed by the security guard, stepped in. The guard pressed the M button and shook his head, acknowledging that this was indeed bad business.
As the elevator floated down, Chris looked at his blurry reflection in the brass walls. In his head, he sang a Madonna song: Your heart is not open, so I must go.
Walking across the floor of the lobby, he felt every single person in the room stare at him. He half expected paparazzi to jump out and start taking pictures. At the revolving doors, he stopped, looked behind one more time, then looked at James, who held his hand out for a final dry, limp shake. This is it, thought Chris.
Chris smiled. He could change his life. He could pack up and leave. Move out of the country, start a new chapter.
It felt like he was coming out of a strange fog. It wasn’t just the current shit show he was in; it had been the last few years. He’d been living a life totally devoid of meaning. Being a corporate lawyer sucked. It was the worst. He was leaving that world, and in his core, he felt something he hadn’t felt in years—happiness. Did he have his tormentors to thank for that? He shook his head at the irony of it.
My God, he thought. What a life.
When he got to his apartment, he paid the driver and gave him a seventeen-dollar tip. He didn’t stop and look over his shoulder to see if anybody was watching him. He didn’t scan the block for white vans. Those idiots had lost their power over him. They didn’t matter anymore. Their spell had been broken.
As he entered his building his mind began organizing a list of tasks. The first order of business would be to go online and book a flight out of the country. He’d go somewhere sunny, Mexico or Brazil. Maybe Thailand. He got in the elevator and pressed five. As he rode up, his eyes settled on a spot of discoloration on the floor. It looked as though someone had spit mucus in the elevator. He couldn’t stop looking at it. And just like that, his mood clicked back into pessimism.
In the hallway he heard the sound of a television coming from his neighbor’s apartment. The voice on the show was saying, “Do you want to know who it is?” and an enthusiastic crowd was yelling back, “Yes!”
Chris reached into his pocket for his key, unlocked the door, and stepped in.
After setting his keys on the hook near the door, he carried his suits to the living room. As soon as he rounded the corner, he saw the man with the pitted skin. It was barely surprising. He sat turned on the couch so he could face Chris. The expression on his face suggested he was in a bad mood. He shifted on the couch to make room.
“I got fired,” said Chris, shaking his head.
“So I heard,” said the man.
“I’m sorry,” said Chris, setting his suits down. “I did the best I could.”
The man cleared his throat. “Sit down.”
Chris walked to the couch and sat and looked at him. The man wore a fleece jacket over a buttoned-up plaid shirt. Chris looked at his feet—walking shoes, the kind worn by old men.
“Tell me your name again?” said Chris.
“Jonathan,” said the man.
Chris put his hands on his knees. “So what are we going to do?”
“I’ll tell you what,” said the man, scratching his chin and looking up. “I just need an apology.” He pointed at the coffee table in front of them and Chris saw a yellow legal pad.
“I’ll give it to my boss,” said the man. “Just write, ‘Sorry’”—he held his hands up like he was apologizing—“‘I did my best.’”
“I don’t want to do that,” said Chris. It occurred to him that he didn’t want to put anything in writing.
The man’s face darkened. “Just write, ‘I’m sorry, I did my best.’”
“I don’t want to.”
The man sat there staring down at his own thighs. It looked like he was trying to reason something out. Chris noticed that his knuckles were hairy, and that he wore a wedding ring.
“I’m sorry,” said Chris. He shook his head as though it was hardly worth negotiating.
The man leaned forward and grabbed Chris’s own pen, which sat on top of the pad. He clicked it with his thumb, clicked it again. “Just write it,” he said.
Chris realized the depth of trouble he was in, and his chest tightened. “I don’t want to,” he said. For the second time that morning, his eyes became wet, and he wiped at them with his hand. I don’t want to, he thought.
“You want me to leave?” asked the man.
“Yes, please,” said Chris.
“Then write the fucking note.” The man wasn’t angry; he seemed tired. But that provided little comfort. Chris’s mind, like a cornered animal, started darting around looking for a way out. He could get up and run. He could run for his door and take the stairs; he’d run as fast as he could. He could walk. He could just walk out. But he couldn’t.
“I did as much as I possibly could,” said Chris. “I was never part of this. I never asked to be part of it. I never did anything …”
“Then just write the note. It’s painless. Just write a note apologizing. Don’t be so macho. You’re all stiff.” Holding his shoulders in rigidly, he imitated Chris. “We’re all doing the best we can—get over yourself,” said the man. “I got a boss, you got a boss. It’s work. I have other shit I need to be doing.”
They sat in silence for a moment, and then Chris held his hand out and the man put the pen in it.
“What do you want me to write?” Chris asked.
“‘I’m sorry, I did my best.’”
“You’ll leave me alone?” he asked.
“Yes.”
Chris leaned forward and scrawled I’m sorry, I did my best on the paper.
“Now sign it,” said the man.
Chris added his signature.
“See?” said the man. He leaned forward and squinted at the yellow paper. Chris watched the man’s lips move while he read the short note. His hair was thin, and Chris looked at his scalp. He thought about trying to stab him in the neck with the pen.
The man looked straight at Chris. “Why are you so upset?” he asked.
“I got fired,” said Chris. “I lost my job. You’re here. I’m hungover. It’s all bullshit.”
The man closed his eyes and shook his head sympathetically. On the street, somebody honked their horn. Chris wiped his eyes again, took a deep breath. The honking stopped.
“Okay,” said Chris.
“No,” said the man. He pointed at a white paper cup that was sitting on the coffee table. Chris hadn’t noticed it. “I want you to drink that.”
Chris sat staring at the cup.
“It’s medicine, to make you feel better. It’s a painkiller. It will make all the pain go away.” He leaned forward, picked it up, and held it toward Chris.
“I don’t want to,” said Chris. He closed his eyes and began crying in earnest. In his mind, unaccountably, he saw green leafy trees. “I don’t want to,” he repeated.
“What would your mother want?”
“She would want you to leave me alone,” said Chris. “She would just—Please, can’t you see that I’m not doing anything. I’m not a threat to you. I’m not going to say anything to anyone ever. I’m not going to the cops. I’m going to pack up and move out of the country. I’m never coming back to New York. Do you get it? I’m done with it all.”
“It’s all good,” said the man. “That’ll all be taken into account. Now drink it.”
“I don’t want to,” said Chris.
“Just drink it,” said the man, moving the cup closer.
Chris wanted to slap it out of his hand. He wanted nothing more in the world than to just slap the cup out of the man’s hand. But he couldn’t bring himself to do it. He couldn’t move. All he could do was cry and beg. “Please,” he said, through his tears.
“Drink it.”
“What is it?”
“It’ll help you,” said the man. “Help your family. Help your mom.”
Chris stopped crying and took the cup in his hand. He thought about dumping it—he could turn it over and dump it on the floor, he could throw it in the man’s face—but he knew that wouldn’t solve anything. He looked into the cup and saw a couple ounces of clear liquid. “What is it?”
“Just a little something
to help you relax.”
“I don’t want to relax.” He tried to hand it back, but the man pushed it back toward him.
“Just drink it. Don’t be a pussy.”
The tiny cup, oddly, was beginning to feel heavy in Chris’s hand. He raised it to his nose and sniffed. Odorless. It dawned on him that this might all be part of some kind of sadistic joke. He put the cup to his lips, poured the liquid into his mouth, and swallowed. It tasted like water, with a hint of chemicals. A little bitter, like soapy water.
“There,” Chris said. “Now fuck off.”
The man smiled and took the cup out of Chris’s hand. He stood up from the couch, and when Chris tried to join him, the man gently pushed him back down.
“Stay there,” he said.
Chris watched him put the cup into the pocket of his fleece coat and zip the pocket closed. “Lie down,” the man said. “Get some rest.” He then bent down, gently lifted Chris’s feet off the ground, swung them over and set them down. Chris was stretched out on the length of the couch. The man untied Chris’s shoes and pulled them off. Then he sat down on the coffee table next to the note and looked at Chris. “Close your eyes,” he said.
Chris closed his eyes.
He saw the same green trees as before. Leafy green trees, with sun coming through them. He saw a river he used to swim in when he was young. He’d swim underwater and dive down and grab smooth rocks from the river floor. It was colder near the bottom. He thought about all the times he’d been surrounded by happy people. He saw his family laughing, his parents in their kitchen before they divorced. He saw his grandmother dancing in the same kitchen. His shoulder muscles relaxed. The muscles in his face relaxed. His other muscles relaxed. It felt wonderful.
After picking up the thumb drive from the house, Grigory Levchin drove the two brothers to Ossip’s Locksmith Shop. Construction on Neptune Avenue slowed their progress. Yuri stared out the window and watched two men carrying a mattress into one of the brick buildings on his right. He checked the side mirror for tails but didn’t see any.
When they arrived, Grigory pulled into an empty spot, put the car in park, and hit the hazards. All three of the men looked at the shop. It appeared to be closed; the metal gate hadn’t been pulled open yet.
Clean Hands Page 21