The Girl From Home (20 page)

“Heyyyyy, I'm going to start this New Year right,” he growls at her when he climbs into bed.

His breath actually smells like vomit, even though Jackie is reasonably sure he hasn't been sick tonight. Perhaps it's a foreshadowing of things to come.

“I'm not feeling that well, Rick,” Jackie pleads.

“Don't worry, I'll do all the work. You just gotta lay there. You know, like you usually do.”

Jackie shuts her eyes tight and lets Rick start his New Year right. Trying her best to hold back tears for fear they will just set him off.

It only ends with Rick dead. That's the mantra that replays in her head, punctuating his every grunt.

It only ends with Rick dead.

J
onathan awakes to the realization that the New Year is starting no different than the one just ended. He remains unemployed, penniless, and homeless. His father still lies dying. The only comforting thought Jonathan can conjure is that things cannot possibly get worse.

And then, of course, they do.

It begins with an incessant ringing of the doorbell. The chimes are followed by two loud knocks.

Jonathan can't imagine who the hell would call on him at ten o'clock on New Year's Day. His first thought is the worst one. Maybe Lakeview sends a representative to pay a personal visit when a patient dies. He pushes that from his mind in favor of a happier image. Perhaps it's Jackie, come to tell him how much she missed him last night.

From the master bedroom window, all Jonathan can ascertain is that whoever it is arrived in a late-model, four-door black sedan. Not Jackie's car, which is a minivan.

Jonathan throws on his father's bathrobe and walks downstairs. On the ground floor, he peeks through the side-panel glass. His callers are two male strangers almost identically dressed—dark suit, white shirt, dark tie. They even look somewhat alike—big men, with the physique of high school linebackers who have let themselves go over the past decade, but they are otherwise sharply groomed with closely cropped hair and smooth shaves.

“Good morning and Happy New Year,” Jonathan says after opening the door.

“Good morning to you, sir,” one of the men says back.

“Are you Jonathan Caine?” the second man asks.

The question sets off alarm bells. Only a limited number of people know that Jonathan's living in his parents' house. His sister, maybe some of the nurses at the hospital, his father (assuming he remembers on any given day), and Jackie. Even Natasha doesn't know, as they haven't spoken since he left.

All of a sudden, Jonathan realizes that these men may have been sent by Rick Williams—to teach a lesson to the man fucking his wife. He takes his hands out of the pockets of his robe, just in case he has to block a punch.

“What's this about?” Jonathan asks, fully realizing that it's nonresponsive to their request for him to confirm his identity.

The first man says, “I'm Special Agent Aaron Pratt, and this is Special Agent Luis Montoya. We're both with the Federal Bureau of Investigation.” Pratt thrusts the envelope he's been clutching at Jonathan, and by instinct Jonathan takes it. “You have been served, sir.”

The FBI? How'd they know where to find him? Then Jonathan remembers he told Haresh he was staying at his father's place. Harper Sawyer must have been tapping the phones. That, or Haresh is cooperating with the FBI.

“Served with what?” Jonathan says, looking down at the envelope, the outside of which provides no clue.

“It's self-explanatory,” Montoya says.

Jonathan is annoyed at the way they speak in tandem. Tweedledee and Tweedledum.

“Is there anything I need to do?” Jonathan asks. “I mean, right away? It's New Year's and my dad's very sick . . .”

Jonathan has no idea why he's said this, especially the part about his father. He knows that these FBI agents don't give a good goddamn about his troubles.

“It's self-explanatory,” Pratt repeats, seeing as it's his turn to speak.

“There's also a number to call if you have any questions,” Montoya adds.

“Happy New Year,” Pratt says, without any hint as to whether he's being sarcastic. Montoya nods, apparently denoting that he, too, wishes Jonathan the same.

*  *  *

Jonathan tears open the envelope, just as he hears the FBI agents' car pulling out of his father's driveway. It's two pages, and very official looking.

U
NITED
S
TATES
D
ISTRICT
C
OURT

for the

Southern District of New York

SUBPOENA TO TESTIFY BEFORE A GRAND JURY

To: Jonathan Caine

YOU ARE COMMANDED
to appear in this United States district court at the time, date, and place shown below to testify before the court's grand jury. When you arrive, you must remain at the court until the judge or a court officer allows you to leave.

You must also bring with you the following documents, electronically stored information, or objects
(blank if not applicable)
:

All documents referring to any trading activity in the Harper Sawyer Derivative Currency Fund. The time period for this request shall be January 1, 2015 to the present.

The subpoena is robo-signed by someone claiming to be the clerk of the court, but underneath his signature is a phone number. It's for the assistant United States attorney in charge of the investigation: Elliot Felig.

Even though it's a national holiday and he's quite sure Elliot Felig is not waiting by his office phone for Jonathan to call, Jonathan is tempted to call the number on the bottom of the subpoena and demand to know what all this is about. But he knows what it's about. The federal government has officially opened a criminal investigation into Jonathan's trading at Harper Sawyer. Just as the attorney James Jefferson predicted, after Jonathan shut out Harper Sawyer, the firm's lawyers went straight to the FBI.

As with his father's mortality, Jonathan had known that this day was coming. And as with that, too, he thought he had more time.

*  *  *

During his lifetime, William Caine played the role of father without distinction, but also without any fatal defect. Like a midlevel employee working for a paycheck, lacking any real passion for the job.

Jonathan always treated that reality with an
it could be worse
shrug, but now he feels like he needs some good old-fashioned fatherly advice. The irony isn't lost on him that he doubts his father would have had much to offer when he was at his best, and now he is asking an addled mind to provide sage counsel.

Jonathan finds his father fast asleep in a wheelchair that has been rolled out into the reception area.

“Hey, Dad,” Jonathan says in a voice loud enough to wake him.

His father's eyes open slowly. First one, then the other.

“Johnny,” he says, and then his lips form an asymmetrical smile.

“How you doing today, Dad?”

“Still alive.”

“I see that. C'mon, you want to get some fresh air. It's cold out, but with the blankets, you should be okay.”

His father nods somewhat noncommittally, but it's enough for Jonathan to start wheeling him away. When the automatic doors open in the front of the building, a blast of cold air hits them, and Jonathan's father actually says, “Brrrr.”

Jonathan wheels them over to a place in the sun. The light shines on William Caine's face, as does the grin he wears at receiving its warmth. Jonathan rearranges the blankets, tucking them under his father's legs, and then pulls his own overcoat more tightly shut, raising the collar so the shearling comes above his ears.

“I wanted to talk to you about something. I'm not sure how much of it you're going to understand, but I just felt like I needed to talk to my dad about it, you know?”

Beyond a squint brought about by the sunlight, William Caine doesn't react to Jonathan's preface. Jonathan has the sinking feeling that this is going to be a waste of time for both of them.

“I feel like . . . I don't know, like my whole life has fallen apart, and I just want to go back and start over again. But make better decisions this time.”

“Can you do that?” his father asks, as if time travel were a realistic possibility.

Jonathan laughs. “No. I can't.”

“Then that's not an option, is it?” his father says, with every indication he means it seriously.

Jonathan can't imagine what he was thinking. His father can't usually recall whether his own wife is alive. How on earth did he think his father would be able to help him sort out the mess he'd made of his life?

But then William Caine says, “Johnny, you need to stay positive. Believe in yourself.”

“What if I don't? Believe in myself, I mean. What if I'm worried that I'm never going to be happy? That as bad as things are now, they're only going to get worse?”

More silence. Jonathan assumes that somewhere along the line of his pouring out his deepest fears to his father, the old man lost interest. It's just as well. It's not like his father has any frame of reference for what he's facing right now.

But then his father shifts in his chair, and his brow furrows, as if he's deep in thought. “That's the wrong way to think about it,” his father finally says. “You can always make things better. You can do things to make yourself a better man.”

The bluntness of his father's words momentarily throws Jonathan. It's as if his father, who had made so little sense over the past month, had reached down deep to dispense with some fatherly advice that actually was sound. But was it? Could Jonathan actually be a better man?

William Caine shuts his eyes, as if he's trying to vanish. When he opens them again, he smiles at his son, his reaction no different than if he was seeing him for the first time today.

There's more Jonathan wants to say, but that feels greedy. His father looks tired.

He kisses his father on the top of his head and says, “Thanks, Dad.”

T
he Monday after New Year's, Jonathan takes the bus into New York City, leaving the Bentley in the driveway of his father's house. He hasn't taken this hour-long ride since the summer after his first year of college, when he commuted into the city for an unpaid internship. The reason is the same now as it was then—he doesn't want to pay the thirty dollars for parking. He's been hoarding every penny ever since his Amex card was declined.

After arriving at the Port Authority, Jonathan navigates the subway downtown because a twenty-dollar cab ride is also a nonstarter. His destination, the Equitable Building, is three blocks east of the World Trade Center site, and a block north of Wall Street. The landmarked thirty-eight-story neoclassical structure maintains its prewar grandeur with a sand-colored, marble entrance that stretches the length of a city block, and a thirty-foot-high coffered ceiling. Nevertheless, it's now considered a second-tier address, occupied largely by government agencies.

Jonathan stops at the security desk and momentarily forgets the name of Alex Miller's law firm. He pulls the business card Alex gave him at the reunion out of his wallet.

“I'm going to Peikes Selva & Schwarz,” Jonathan says.

“Fourth floor,” the guard tells him.

Of course
, Jonathan thinks.
A floor without a view
.

Jonathan meanders around different pathways on the fourth floor until he finally finds Suite 414, which has the name
PEIKES SELVA & SCHWARZ
on the door in cheap gold letters. Jonathan can't remember the last time he was at any place of business that didn't occupy an entire floor.

The receptionist is a pretty, twentysomething Asian woman with stick-straight shiny black hair and an easy smile. Jonathan gives her his name and tells her he's here to see Alex Miller. She tells him to have a seat in the reception area, which is little more than two fabric-covered armchairs beside her.

“Mr. Miller,” she says into the phone. “Jonathan Caine is here to see you.”

A minute later, Alex Miller appears. He's wearing a navy suit, blue striped shirt, and no tie.

“Jonathan, hey, good to see you!” he says, shaking Jonathan's hand. Then he turns to the receptionist. “Julie, I've known this guy since high school.”

Julie smiles politely. At her age, Jonathan assumes she still sees her high school friends all the time.

“Mr. Miller, I'm sorry,” Julie says, “but Mr. Selva is in the conference room. He didn't reserve it, but . . .”

Jonathan recalls all too well the petty power plays that are a mainstay of corporate life. Back when he wore a suit and tie, he was usually the one taking conference rooms without a reservation, and if someone at Harper Sawyer ever did it to him, there would have been hell to pay.

Alex doesn't seem the least bit upset by the boss pulling rank, however. He turns to Jonathan and says with a smile, “Why don't we just meet in my office, then?”

He leads Jonathan down a short hallway and directs him into an office two from the corner. Jonathan's first impression is that Alex Miller's office is small. Very small, in fact. Barely large enough so that the door doesn't hit the one guest chair that's opposite a modest, built-in desk. Nothing at all like the kingdom that James Jefferson practiced out of, which was large enough to hold not only a baronial-size desk but also a sofa and sitting area.

“I'm glad you called me,” Alex says as he settles into the chair behind his desk. “Although I have to say that your cloak-and-dagger attitude on the phone gave me some cause for concern.”