The Emperor of Ocean Park (93 page)

“And so my father went back to Jack Ziegler,” I continue. He went to see Uncle Jack and asked him to use his influence with Scott, or to find somebody else to do it. Maybe Jack Ziegler was surprised. Maybe he was not. From what I have read, he has always possessed a remarkable capacity to seduce others into wrong. I suspect he would have started by tossing out objections, warning my father that he had no earthly idea what he was getting into, because he knew his old friend well enough to understand that, having started down the road into the other world, he would hardly turn back just because that other world turned out to have all the deadly features he expected. On the contrary, objections of that nature would draw him further in. My father would have pressed on, insisting that he wanted the driver of the car dead. He likely said he would pay any price, he did not care what obligations he undertook, he wanted justice done. Perhaps that was the moment when
he asked Jack Ziegler to make a single promise to him: that, if anything happened to him, to my father, as a result of this mess, he, Jack, would see to it that his family never came to any harm. And he trusted Uncle Jack’s word, because, as Agent Nunzio told me, his word was what Jack Ziegler lived by

“You’re guessing,” says Mallory Corcoran, his unease growing, for I am speculating aloud now on the wrongs of two of his former clients, not one.

“I know. But it hangs together.” He offers no disagreement, so I resume. Somehow, sooner or later, Jack Ziegler agreed to intercede, and went for permission to whoever makes such decisions in his world. A deal was consummated. Scott would do the killing. There would be no charge, just as there had been no charge for his investigative services. Instead, from time to time, the Judge would be asked for little favors. Nothing obvious: no votes to overturn the conviction of a Mafia don or a drug lord. Instead, he would be called upon to help out the companies in which illegal monies were invested. Throwing out a burdensome or expensive regulation. Overturning an antitrust verdict.

“That’s why my father’s voting record got more conservative after Abby died,” I explain, with real pain. “Why he struck down so many regulatory schemes. He was covering his favors with a show of ideological purity.”

“You’re still guessing, Talcott.”

“Yes, I am. But I can hardly go interview Jack Ziegler to check my facts.” I hope he will offer to intercede, for Uncle Jack has returned neither of my calls since the cemetery, but the great Mallory Corcoran continues to sit, waiting to be impressed. Nothing has provoked a response. I know he can see my frustration, but it fails to move him.

I ponder. From what Wainwright told me, it is plain that the Judge felt burdened by his perfidy. He had ascended to the bench to do justice, not to remain in thrall forever to criminals. No doubt the special favors went on and on and on. Perhaps, as illegal money found its way into legal businesses, the pace increased. Who knows what stocks are in the Mob’s portfolio? When the Supreme Court nomination suddenly came his way, Jack Ziegler’s partners were surely ecstatic. My father was surely worried. Maybe the truth would come out, and he would be ruined. And then perhaps he had another idea. Maybe the truth
should
come out, and he could escape the hell into which he had sold himself.

“Which is where Greg Haramoto comes in,” I say, but the words prompt no reaction. “I tried to talk to Greg, but he wouldn’t.”

Uncle Mal, a ghostly smile of reminiscence on his lips, finally makes an independent contribution: “I’m not surprised, the way your sister talked about him on television back during those very sad hearings. What was it she accused him of?”

“Of having a crush on the Judge.”

“That’s right. You know, people don’t forget things like that, Talcott.”

“I’m not criticizing Greg. I just want you to understand that I’m still just guessing.”

“I never doubted it.” He is on his feet, and I know the interview is over. “Everything you have said is guesswork. You can’t know for sure if any of it is true.”

“I realize that.” We are walking toward my car. I had thought he would invite me to stay for lunch, but Uncle Mal has his ways, and his vacation time is sacrosanct. I suppose I should be grateful he has spared me this precious half-hour from whatever it is that big lawyers do when they own farms in the country. I cannot quite envision him milking a cow, although I seem to recall that he has a dairy herd hidden somewhere.

Uncle Mal is holding the door for me. “You know, Talcott, guessing is not always a terrible thing. Sometimes I do a little guessing of my own.”

I stand very still, not daring to look at him. Around the side of the house, Edie and the kids are singing a song. The cats and dogs, most of them hideously fat, are now somnolent in the summer sun.

“I would guess that some of what you say could be true.” His voice is soft, and a little sad. “Could be, Talcott, could be. And I would also guess that, when your father came to me and left me his letter and told me about the arrangements, he told me he was thinking of quitting the firm. If I were a guessing man, I would speculate that he was scared, that something out of his past had caught up with him. He wasn’t scared of death, I don’t think. If I had to guess, I would say he was scared of exposure. Something was going to come out.”

I turn around finally. “The arrangements . . . all this . . . wasn’t this about exposure?”

“On his own terms.”

“What are you telling me?”

The weatherproof smile. “I’m not telling you anything, Talcott. You know I would never disclose a confidence. I’m only speculating.”

“Okay . . . so what are you speculating?”

“I am speculating that your father was planning to hide the information he wanted you to have, and then commit suicide.”

CHAPTER 59
ON THE OTHER HAND . . .

“T
HAT’S THE MOST RIDICULOUS THING
I’ve ever heard,” says Dear Dana Worth.

“What is?”

“That your father would commit suicide.”

I shrug. “That’s what he said.”

Dana steams, not quite ready to accept my speculations about the man she once so adored, to say nothing of Mallory Corcoran’s. We are strolling together along the bluestone walks of the Original Quad, which, nearly empty of students in the summer, can actually be quite pleasant. We have been seeing more of each other these days, although not, of course, romantically. We are both having what my parents used to call “trouble at home.” My wife, proclaiming her love for me, has thrown me out, and Alison is angry at Dana these days for worrying so much about whether what they are doing is right. Alison wants Dana to stop hanging out at her little Methodist church with what she calls the right-wing homophobes, and Dana refuses, saying they are good Christian people and she wants to listen to their point of view. Alison asks if black people are obliged to worship with white supremacists, to get their point of view. Dana says it isn’t the same at all. I am not about to get in the middle. Dana is stoic enough to qualify as an honorary Garland, but, when our various pains leak through our façades, we friends do our best to comfort each other.

“Suicide,” Dana sneers again.

“It does happen, Dana. People do stupid things.” One of our shared pains is that Theo Mountain suffered a massive stroke two days ago and is not expected to live. I want to blame the Judge, I want to blame Theo, but I cannot help blaming myself: was I too hard on the old man?

“So, the story is supposed to be that your father was going to kill himself because he was scared of being exposed? And then you were supposed to track down his arrangements and he would get his revenge?”

“Something like that.”

“Sorry, Misha, that doesn’t make any sense at all. No matter what kind of man your father really was. If some reporter or somebody was going to expose him, why would the fact that he was dead make them stop? A dead man can’t even sue for defamation.”

“I’m not sure it was that kind of exposure. Not public.”

“What’s the other kind?”

“Maybe somebody was threatening to tell his family what he had been doing.”

“But why? What would that somebody want from him? And why would that somebody stop just because he was dead?”

I shake my head in frustration, still chewing on cotton, still sure of the existence, out there somewhere, of an interested party who has not been fooled. The only thing I can think of that somebody might want badly enough to threaten my father is the one thing I have not yet found: the arrangements. “I don’t know,” I confess.

Dana sighs, exasperated, maybe toward me. We continue through the empty Quad, where, in my student days, I used to walk with the Judge, who would reminisce for a while, then drag me along to drop in on those of his old professors who were still living, and those of his classmates who were now on the faculty. He would introduce me airily to my own teachers as though they had never seen me before, never embarrassed me in class, never commanded me to redo fifty-page papers in three days, and they fussed over me because they fawned over him; even then, my father had the magic that enraptured, the presence that demanded respect, and, besides, with Reagan in the White House, every one of them knew that the Honorable Oliver Garland would sit on the Supreme Court of the United States the instant that a vacancy occurred. When the visiting was done, I would drive the Judge to the lilliputian Elm Harbor airport in my shabby but earnest Dodge Dart, and we would sit in the coffee shop and eat stale Danish while waiting out the inevitable delay of the small commuter plane that would carry him back to Washington, and, to pass the time, he would bombard me once more with newer versions of the same old questions, as though hoping for a different set of answers—how were my grades, when would I hear about law review, whom was I dating these days—and, invariably, I was
tempted to lie about the first two and tell the truth about the third, if only to see the look on his face, and to make him leave me alone.

By then, of course, he was already Jack Ziegler’s judicial drone, so his desperate hopes for me, which I resented, take on a pathetic yet lovingly ambitious quality: he wanted his son the lawyer to wind up in a different place.

“Misha?” Dana has another question. “Misha, why would Jack Ziegler do it?”

“Do what? Let him out of the deal? Let him retire?”

“No, no. Why would he go to the courthouse? Wouldn’t he know that somebody was bound to recognize him, that your father’s judicial career would be wrecked?”

“Probably,” I say, for I have considered this question. “But maybe the ruin of my father’s judicial career was Jack Ziegler’s final gift to him.”

Dana nods. “And when your father finally got out, he would have warned them that he’d written it all down. That, if anything untoward happened to him, the whole story would make its way into the light.” She is excited. “That must be what’s in the papers, Misha! All the favors he did, the companies, who owned them—everything!”

“That would be my guess, too.” I remember again how the Judge always demanded the names of the principals behind the shell companies litigating before him, and how few dared resist the demand. Justice Wainwright described my father’s orders for disclosure as a mark of his obsession with detail. But there was another reason: he was protecting himself, squirreling away information.

Which would also explain who hired Colin Scott to follow me. The possibility that he might be implicated in the papers could have provided an additional incentive, but the notion that Scott reacted out of some personal fear remains the weak link in the FBI’s chain of reasoning about what happened. I have no idea whether the Bureau suspected that Scott was the killer of Phil McMichael, the Senator’s son, but, plainly, they thought he returned because he was worried about something in
the arrangements.
And that makes no sense. If he was safely overseas, living under another name, why would he come back to the United States and risk arrest for murder? No, he followed me for the benefit of somebody else, somebody who paid him well to follow the trail of his former employer, and I suspect I will never know who his clients were unless I find
the arrangements,
for they had to be those who profited from my father’s corruption.

“You know, Misha, I really admired your father. I really did.” Pain in her deep, black eyes. I wonder how much more pain there would be if Dana knew the secret I have kept from her, the identity of the driver of the red car, slaughtered by Colin Scott. “But this . . . What am I supposed to do now? Forgive him? Hate him? What?”

I have to smile. Dear Dana Worth, self-centered to the last. It does not seem to have occurred to her that I am struggling with precisely the same questions. I expect little from life other than mystery and ambiguity, so perhaps it is too much to demand of my feelings about my father that they come suddenly into crystalline focus. Dana, like Mariah, needs answers that are sharply defined. Searching for something to say, I hit upon another of my father’s platitudes: “You have to draw a line, Dana. You have to put the past in the past.”

“I feel like I never knew him. Like he was really . . . some kind of monster.” She shudders. “He had all these sides. All these levels.”

I remember Jack Ziegler’s soliloquy. “He was trying to protect his family. He just . . . he kind of got in over his head.”

“That’s a pretty easy excuse.”

“I don’t mean it that way. I’m not trying to justify what he did. I just think . . . I don’t think he set out to do it. I think he probably got caught up.”

Dana shakes her head. She is never afraid of passing judgment, most mercilessly on herself. “I’m sorry, Misha, but that won’t wash. Your father wasn’t some kind of blundering innocent. He was an intelligent man. He knew who Jack Ziegler was. He knew
what
Jack Ziegler was. If it’s really true that your father went to him and asked him to permit a murder, do you really believe he didn’t realize he would be in Jack Ziegler’s thrall for the rest of his life? He wasn’t that naïve, Misha. Don’t kid yourself.” She allows herself a rare shudder, then touches her elbow, still sore where bullet chipped bone. “I don’t know what to say about him, Misha. I don’t want to say he was evil . . . but he wasn’t just deluded, either. He made a
decision
to kill the driver of that car. He made a
decision
to become a corrupt judge.” Another shake of the head. “I can’t believe I knew so little about what was really going on in that head of his. It’s scary, Misha. And it hurts.”