Now, more than anything, she wanted to be invisible.
After dressing, she smoked another cigarette before calling Eva at the store. Her stomach turned at the prospect. As she took her last puff, the phone rang. Phoebe jumped at the shrill tone.
“Gideon wants you at the courthouse. Now. Bail, everything else. This will move fast. Someone will meet you in the lobby.”
The woman said this as though Phoebe understood what “everything else” and “bail” meant beyond what she’d gleaned from years of watching Law & Order.
“Right,” Phoebe said. “Can you tell me who I’m speaking with?”
A beat or two later, the woman answered, “Luz Aguilar. I’m on your husband’s team.”
“Can I ask you a question?”
“Go.” The woman spoke as though the entire world waited for her. “A fast one.”
Phoebe adjusted her tone to match Luz’s. “Dress code?”
“For you? Now?”
“Right,” Phoebe said.
“Doesn’t matter. No difference. Sorry, but you don’t count. Just get here now.”
Luz Aguilar disconnected without saying good-bye. Apparently Phoebe had sunk so low that not only did she not count, she no longer rated courtesy. She peeled off the expensive wool pants and pulled on black jeans.
? ? ?
Hurry up and wait.
Phoebe sat for hours, uncomfortable, anxious, and angry, and with no one to call. No one to complain to, no one to ask to keep her company. Calling to say what?
“Waiting in a court lobby is awful, you know.”
“Yes. I’m here because Jake’s been arrested.”
“And, oh, all your money is gone.”
If someone died, support flowed like water. For this, there were no friends.
They’d stuck her on a bench, occasionally running out to make demands and ask questions. Houses to sign over. How much in her private checking account? Turn it over. She made a series of phone calls under orders from Gideon’s staff. Banks. Real estate lawyers. Maybe Jake moved that money to cover his legal ass. Paying her sister, friends, and family was probably more of his bullshit.
Luz’s heels clicked on the hard stone floor as she approached. Phoebe recognized the shoes. Red soles. Black leather. “We’ve hammered out an agreement. Now we’ll see if the judge takes it.”
About nine hundred dollars for that particular pair of Louboutins. Phoebe’s latest pair cost more than twice that.
Luz got up, began clicking away, and then turned to where Phoebe still sat. “What are you doing? Gideon is expecting us.”
“Sorry, I thought you were filling me in.”
“This isn’t a hospital where you’re waiting for someone to give birth, Mrs. Pierce.”
Phoebe blinked away angry tears. More than anything, she wanted Noah and Kate. Alone, she’d become paralyzed and humiliated, letting this bitch teetering in low-end Louboutin heels treat her like an addled old lady.
? ? ?
The moment she walked into the stuffy courtroom, she recognized the back of Jake’s head. He turned as though sensing her—no surprise after a lifetime together—and gave a wan half-smile. If he’d shaved that morning, it wasn’t apparent. The agents must have come just as he’d lathered up. His hair stuck out in grey tufts. The wrinkles in his face and creases in his shirt stood out with such sharp sadness that she wanted to close her eyes. Loose skin hung from under his chin. The word elderly might be attached to his name at that moment.
Phoebe touched her neck.
All the Botox and other poisons she’d injected, keeping herself perfect for him. The tweaks she’d gotten to look younger. Jake smiled a little wider. Words from his eyes burned across the courtroom. The noose tightened.
? ? ?
A lifetime later, Jake and Phoebe staggered from the courthouse. They slipped into a car provided by Gideon. This would be the moment she’d remember her life rebooting. Her old life ended when Jake told her and the kids his version of the new truth. FBI agents in their home heralded limbo. When she signed over everything to keep Jake out of jail, she entered hell. The houses, boats—everything they owned—Jake had put in her name. He’d always said it was for tax purposes.
She floated in an unfamiliar world, her new life, unaware of customs or language.
Grilled cheese, the way she’d made it when Kate and Noah were small, seemed like the only desirable thing to eat. She used the American cheese she kept for her granddaughters, mild and soothing, pressing it between slices of Arnold Country-Style white bread. Large, fat slices. She dropped both sandwiches into the pan of sputtering butter, hypnotized by the edges crisping and sealing, turning them over and using the spatula to weigh them down to melt faster.
They ate the butter-tight sandwiches in front of the television, avoiding each other’s eyes, saying little more than “Pass a carrot” or “Make it a little louder.” Episodes of Criminal Minds stuffed their TiVo, which, despite the irony of the title, they watched. The show rarely left the world of murder. At least Jake hadn’t killed anyone.
? ? ?
Friday morning, the two of them sat like orphans without a friend in the universe. The phone rang repeatedly, but they’d lowered the volume and screened calls.
Phoebe poured coffee for Jake and remained standing, the pot in her hand.
“What?” His weary, victimized voice turned her stomach.
“Why? Can you give me one reason why?”
“How many times an hour are you planning to cross-examine me? I don’t need this now.”
“This isn’t something happening to you alone.” Phoebe let out the fishwife screech clawing at her throat. “You’re aware of the rest of the world, right?”
He glared. “Who almost went to jail yesterday? Was it you? Was it my brother? The kids? Who, damn it? My assets are all in a voluntary freeze. I can’t do a thing without the court’s permission. Did you know that?”
You made your bed, now you lie in it, blared in her head, but she didn’t want to offer him a fight, conscious of how much he’d welcome the distraction.
“I only know what you tell me,” she said. “Are my accounts all frozen?”
“Not yet.”
She imagined packing her bags. Walking out. Taking a cab to Kate’s.
She should do it.
Now.
Phoebe picked up the paper. She turned it so the headlines faced him.
Bull S—T on Wall Street
Sins of the Father: Children Turn In Jake Pierce The Post composed the most hurtful banners. The doorman bought it for her. Along with the Daily News, and every other paper that hadn’t been waiting as usual at their door. She picked up the front section of the Times, still pristine from delivery, the headline visible above the fold.
Disaster Unfolds on Wall Street
“Why must you torture me?” Jake asked. “Do you think I’m not in enough agony?”
“Who are you feeling sorry for? Yourself?”