The Tenth Song (7 page)

All at once, he forgot about the lawyers and the judge and the verdict. All he could think about was simply going home with Abigail, where they would sit quietly side by side at the kitchen counter enjoying a freshly prepared meal. How he would take a long hot shower, then lie down beside her on clean sheets in their big, welcoming bed. All he wanted was to get out of the clutches of these belligerent strangers and back to his life.

His lawyer asked the judge to set bail. Not a flight risk. A respected family man, homeowner, member of the community, no priors. His heart welled with hope. But the prosecutor objected. He made all kinds of vicious accusations about the damage Adam Samuels could do if he wasn’t kept behind bars.

How easy it was to become a criminal, Abigail thought, feeling capable of attacking the man, with his shiny shoes, patrician nose, and thrusting, self-important chest. How could he say those things? He didn’t know a single thing about Adam Samuels, the man he was so eager to destroy.

The judge sat listening without expression until both sides had finished.

“Bail is set at three hundred thousand dollars,” he finally announced.

“Your Honor!” the prosecutor exclaimed shrilly, jumping up. “That’s nothing for a man of Mr. Samuels’s means!”

But the judge rapped his gavel against his desk, turning to Adam’s lawyer. “Your client will turn over his passport.”

“Yes, Your Honor. Thank you, Your Honor.”

Then his lawyer leaned over and whispered in Adam’s ear, and he’d nodded.

Abigail watched them, feeling excluded, a child in the next room, protected by the adults. She watched the prosecutor gather his papers together. He seemed distracted. He glanced up once. Abigail caught his gaze and stared back at him, her face etched in incomprehension and stony hatred, until, finally, it was he who turned away.

The day stretched on and on, until at long last the correct papers were signed, bail was arranged, and they were told they were free to go.

Adam held her hand as they walked down the courthouse steps.

“Your wrist?” She’d touched the angry, reddened welt rising on his irritated skin.

He’d patted her hand, looking straight ahead. “Abby, let’s go home.”

6

Someone held the door buzzer down insistently. Even before he opened it, Seth knew he would find Kayla standing at the threshold.

“Medgar, could you give us a little alone time, bro?”

His roommate nodded sympathetically, grabbing his windbreaker and his computer.

“Hi, Kayla,” he said, without meeting her eyes. “See you later.”

“Yeah, see you, Medgar,” she called after him, confused at the brush-off.

She saw, with a mixture of relief and anger, that Seth was there, leaning back on his bed, his feet bare, his hair uncharacteristically disheveled, as if he had been combing it with his thumbs.

“What happened to you? I was really worried. I even started calling hospitals.”

“I think if anyone should start explaining, it’s you, Kayla. How could you keep this from me?”

“You want to tell me what you’re talking about? You kept me waiting for over a half hour! I even called your parents…”

“You’re kidding. What did
they
say?”

“Their phones were both busy. And then my phone started getting all these weird calls. So I shut it off.”

He sat up, looking at her closely. “What kind of ‘weird calls’ ”

She shrugged. “You know. Wrong numbers. Reporters. Crazy stuff.”

He went very still. “You really don’t know, do you?”

“Brilliant deduction, counselor!”

“Kayla, your father has been arrested. It’s all over the Internet.”

She felt the blood rushing to her head. “That’s impossible.” She stumbled, then felt Seth grab her and lower her into a chair. “Show me!”

“Are you saying you are surprised? That your father never said a word to you or your mother that this was coming down the pipeline?” He shook his head incredulously.

“SHOW ME!”

He opened up his computer and typed in “Adam Samuels arrested.” Hundreds of Web sites popped up. He opened one.

Kayla stared at the screen: her father trying to block his face with his hands, his wrists handcuffed. The headline:

BOSTON ACCOUNTANT ARRESTED IN TERRORIST FINANCE PLOT

“And that’s the kindest one,” he said, opening another screen. There was a huge picture of her father taken from below, dark shadows making him sinister, beneath a headline which read:

FINANCING TERRORISTS WHO KILL OUR SOLDIERS

“What are we going to do?” Seth cried, his head in his hands. “This could ruin us!”

She looked up at him in shock, then sank to the floor, speechless.

“Kayla, are you all right?”

She shook her head, trying to catch her breath.

“I shouldn’t have been so blunt. I’m sorry. But you needed to know.”

She lifted her head. “You know that none of this is true, don’t you? I mean, there can’t be a single doubt in your head, is there?”

“Come on! As if you’re absolutely sure!”

His words were so painfully true that they could never be forgiven, Kayla thought. “This is my father! My family!”

He grabbed her by the shoulders. “Kayla, don’t you understand? It doesn’t matter if it’s true or not. By the time the truth comes out, no one will care. This is all they’ll remember. This picture, this headline. The newspapers will be calling both of us, trying to put our faces on the front pages too. Imagine how this is going to affect our job prospects. We are lawyers! We have to be above reproach.”

She shook her head slowly.

“I know that you love your family, and that you are incredibly loyal. But your parents wouldn’t want you to ruin your life over this. You need to distance yourself. We both do.”

“What, exactly, is that supposed to mean? That I disown them? Pretend my name is Jones?”

“Don’t be dramatic! You know what I mean! Don’t get your picture in the papers, or your name. Or Harvard’s.”

Part of her saw he was just being practical, and another hated him for it. “I see. Go underground, like I have something to be ashamed of, is that your advice, Seth?”

“Just until the worst of it blows over.”

“You know I have to go home now. You do understand that, don’t you?”

“No, I don’t! That’s the last place you should go! There will be reporters crawling everywhere…”

“If it was your parents, what would you do?”

“I don’t know,” he said, avoiding her gaze.

“Yes, you do.”

“Okay. I do.”

“But this is my father, right? Not yours.”

What could he say to that? he thought, ashamed. It was sadly true. A father-in-law, especially a prospective one, was not a father. There were no blood ties and never would be.

“I’m going now, Seth.”

“What should I tell the reporters?”

“Why would they call you? Our engagement isn’t even official yet. And you know what, it never has to be,” she added bitterly. “So don’t worry. This isn’t your problem.”

“Kayla,” he protested, trying too late to put his arms around her. She shrugged him off.

“I know you’re angry at me now. But I’m just telling you the truth. And I’ll say it again, for your own good: You need to distance yourself.”

“Whose idea is that anyway? Your mom’s or your dad’s?”

He made no reply, his face reddening.

She got up and went to the door, opening it.

“Kayla!”

But the door had already closed.

She walked aimlessly through the streets, feeling dazed, like someone who has survived a terrorist attack with no physical injuries, the horrible details running through her head like a dark, viscous liquid, clogging all her rational thoughts. What was going to happen to her parents? Knowing what she did now about the unpredictability of the law, she was terrified.

Like mercury spilling from a broken thermometer, the law was fluid and impossible to grasp. It changed and altered daily, hourly, with every judgment of every judge in every court in the world. And the legal tricks and maneuvers lawyers used to manipulate the system were really beyond the grasp and imagination of an ordinary person. Bleak House is what Dickens had called law courts. Which is why no sane person should every willingly enter one. Like people volunteering for elective surgery in the hope of emerging better off—richer, more honored, more beautiful—the great majority were badly mistaken. Except for throwing enormous amounts of money overboard, there was nothing the least bit certain about the outcome and final destination when embarking for a sail on legal seas.

But in her father’s case, there was simply no choice. He had been targeted. Why, how, fairly or unfairly, she had no idea, except that there were those who would benefit from destroying him. She needed to call home but didn’t know what to say or what to do.

She needed Seth’s arms around her. They were engaged. He was the man who said he loved her. He was the man with all the answers.

She remembered their first blind date, how he’d knocked on her dorm room and how she had given herself a quick, clinical review in the mirror, approving her shining mass of freshly shampooed strawberry blonde curls, large hazel eyes, and rosy, freckled complexion. She’d tugged the white cashmere turtleneck down over her black-satin pants, slipping her feet into open-toed shoes with three-inch heels. Pearls to swine, she’d told herself with a groan, already regretting the hours not spent studying. She’d gone to the door reluctantly.

Then there had been that moment of shock, seeing it was him, the fair-haired boy from orientation. He stood there, not saying a word, for at least fifteen seconds. He didn’t look anything like the scruffy Pitt in
Thelma and Louise,
she thought. He was the spitting image of the suave, preppy Robert Redford in
The Way We Were.

“Did you know,” he said finally, “that research has shown it takes less than thirty seconds to form a lasting impression, and it can take up to twenty-one repeated occasions for someone to alter a first impression?”

“I’m sure you’re right,” she answered. “And goodness knows, I’m looking for Mr. Right, as long as his first name isn’t ‘Always.’ ”

He blinked, then slowly inclined his head in admiration, nodding, the way fencing partners do to acknowledge a good thrust.

“My point is—”

“I was wondering exactly that,” she cut him off, wondering if she was going to have to hunt down Shana’s boyfriend and kill him.

“. . . that you don’t look like a One L…”

“What did you expect me to look like?” She bristled, annoyed, passing her fingers through her curls, trying not to notice how gorgeous he was since he was obviously hopelessly full of himself.

“Glasses. Creased around the eyes from too many nights falling face-first into books. Hair that hasn’t been washed in a while because there’s no time, held back by a red rubber band. Fingers stained with ink. Overweight or anorexic because of food issues triggered by the horrors of outlining and study groups and six-hour exams on tax law…”

“And your point is… ?” Her voice rose in perfect imitation of her terrifying
corporate law professor’s, a man fond of cryptic non sequiturs like:
“Shall we use the key rather than kick down the door?”

“Just that you don’t look like someone who needs to be fixed up with blind dates. But that’s just my first impression. I’ll need to meet you at least twenty-one more times to test this theory.” He smiled, a big, white, charming, lopsided grin in a big, handsome face framed by perfectly cut and probably blow-dried golden hair.

She exhaled, deciding to let Shana’s boyfriend live.

He took her to a Chinese vegetarian restaurant. The food was mysterious and warm, full of fungi and heady sauces. He had wonderful manners, tilting his soupspoon away from him, and bringing it to his mouth for small, noiseless sips. He cut his vegetables into neat, precise bites, and ate almost daintily, wiping his mouth discreetly at intervals even though she could see no reason for it. She watched in admiration.

“So, how do you like law school so far?” he asked.

Mellowed by the candlelight, a glass of sake drunk too fast on an empty stomach, she found tears filling her eyes.

“I just think it’s a horrible mistake.” She shook her head, amazed at her candor. “I can’t even count the number of times I’ve wanted to throw my books out the window and follow them!”

“What did you think it would be like?” Seth asked her, grinning.

She wiped her eyes, embarrassed at his amusement. “I don’t know. Learning about how to save the world, maybe. But what we’re doing is such crap. It has nothing to do with practicing law.”

He put his hand into his pocket and took out a well-worn book. It was Mark Herrmann’s
The Curmudgeon’s Guide to Practicing Law
. “Here, listen to this: ‘You always thought law school exams were ridiculous… . Cram irrelevant crap into your head… spill it all out… forget about it, and move on to the next set of irrelevant crap… .’ ”

She threw back her head and laughed. “That’s exactly what I think!”

“Well, according to Herrmann you’re ‘Wrong, wrong, and wrong again.’ ”