“I trust you were happy with the job?”
His client smiled. “Very happy. She trusted you completely.”
“Then our business is concluded.”
Frank Hammond started the engine. His client put a hand on his arm.
“There are no grounds for appeal, are there?”
“None whatsoever. Unless, of course, the FBI happens to find that missing money. But that’s not going to happen, is it, John?”
“No. It isn’t. N-not in this lifetime.”
John Merrivale allowed himself a small smile. Then he got out of the car and quietly disappeared back into the shadows.
WARDEN JAMES MCINTOSH WAS INTRIGUED. LIKE everybody else in the country, he knew who Grace Brookstein was. She was the woman who’d helped her husband embezzle billions of dollars, then inexplicably shown up for her trial channeling Marie Antoinette, alienating the vengeance-crazed American public even further.
Warden McIntosh was a tired, disillusioned man in his early fifties with balding gray hair and a matching thin mustache. He was intelligent and not without compassion, although Grace Brookstein did little to inspire it. Most of the women who wound up at Bedford Hills had had lives straight out of a Dickens novel. Raped by their fathers, beaten by their husbands, forced into prostitution and drugs while still in their teens, many of them never stood a chance at living normal, civilized lives.
Grace Brookstein was different. Grace Brookstein had had it all, but she’d still wanted more. Warden McIntosh had no time for that sort of naked greed.
James Ian McIntosh joined the prison service because he genuinely believed that he could do good. That he could make a difference. What a joke! After eight years at Bedford Hills, his aims had grown more modest: to make it to retirement with his sanity and his pension intact.
James McIntosh did not want Grace Brookstein at Bedford Hills. He’d argued with his superiors about it.
“C’mon, Bill, give me a break. She’s white collar. Plus she’s a walking incitement to riot. Half of my prisoners have family members who lost their jobs after Quorum collapsed. And the other half hate her for being rich and white and wearing that goddamn mink coat to trial.”
But it was no use. It was because Grace was so hated that she was being sent to Bedford Hills. Nowhere else would she be protected.
Now, less than one full day into her sentence, she was already stirring up trouble, demanding to see him as if this were some sort of hotel and he were the manager. What’s the problem, Mrs. Brookstein? Sheets not soft enough for you? Complimentary champagne not quite chilled?
He gestured for Grace to sit down.
“You asked to see me?”
“Yes.” Grace exhaled, forcing the stress out of her body. It was nice to be sitting in an office, talking to an educated, civilized man. The warden had family photographs on his desk. It felt like a tiny, much-needed dose of reality. “Thank you for seeing me, Warden McIntosh. There seems to have been a mistake.”
The warden raised an eyebrow.
“Does there?”
“Well…yes. You see, this is a maximum-security facility.”
“Is it? I hadn’t noticed.”
Grace swallowed. She felt nervous all of a sudden. Was he laughing with her, or at her?
This is my chance to explain. I mustn’t screw it up.
“My crime…the crime that I was convicted of…it wasn’t violent,” she began. “I mean, I’m innocent, Warden. I didn’t actually do what they said I did. But that’s not why I’m here.”
Warden McIntosh thought, Thank heaven for small mercies. If he had a dollar for every inmate who’d sat in front of him protesting her innocence, he’d have retired to Malibu Beach years ago. Grace was still talking.
“The thing is, even if I had done it, I don’t think…what I’m trying to say is, I don’t belong here.”
“I couldn’t agree more.”
Grace’s heart soared. Thank God! He’s a reasonable man. He’ll sort this mess out, move me out of this cattle farm.
“Unfortunately my superiors feel differently. You see, they feel that it’s the state’s responsibility to see to it that you aren’t lynched. They’re concerned your fellow inmates might want to, oh, I don’t know…beat you to death with a crowbar. Or strangle you with bedsheets. Pour acid on your face while you sleep, perhaps? Something of that nature.”
Grace went white. She felt her insides liquefy with fear. Warden McIntosh went on.
“For some reason, my bosses believe you’re less likely to come to physical harm at Bedford than anywhere else. A misperception, in my opinion. But tell me, Grace, what do you suggest we do about it?”
Grace couldn’t speak.
“Perhaps if some harm actually did come to you here, they’d reconsider their decision? D’you think that’s possible?”
Warden McIntosh looked Grace in the eye. That’s when she knew for sure.
They’re going to try to kill me. And he doesn’t give a damn. He hates me as much as the rest of them.
“I’m moving you to a different wing. You’ll have to let me know whether your new cell is more to your liking. Now, if you’ll excuse me…”
The guard led Grace away.
GRACE’S NEW CELL MATES WERE A two-hundred-pound black cocaine dealer named Cora Budds and a slim, pretty brunette in her early thirties. The brunette’s name was Karen Willis.
The guard told Grace that Karen had shot and killed her sister’s boyfriend. “They both got life. Like you. You’ll have plenty of time to get to know each other.” He smiled knowingly. Grace wondered if he was making a sexual innuendo, but was too frightened to ask. I mustn’t fight shadows. I’m sure it’s a myth that all women prisoners are lesbians.
Grace eyed Karen and Cora warily, climbing onto her bunk in silence.
Warden McIntosh sent me here as a punishment. These women may be violent. They might try to hurt me. I have to stay on my guard.
Cora Budds heaved her great bulk off of her own bunk and sat down next to Grace. “Whas yo’ name, honey?” She stank of bad breath and sweat. Grace instinctively recoiled.
“Grace. My name is Grace.”
For some reason, Cora Budds seemed to find this amusing. “Grace. Amazing Grace!” she cackled. “What you in for, Amazing Grace?”
“Um…fraud,” Grace whispered. It still felt strange and embarrassing saying the word. “But it’s a mistake. I’m innocent.”
Cora laughed even harder. “Fraud, huh? You hear that, Karen? We got us an innocent con artist. We comin’ up in the world!” Suddenly the smile died on Cora’s lips. “Hey, wait a minute. Wha’d you say yo’ name was again?”
“Grace.”
“Grace who?”
For a minute Grace hesitated. Grace who? It was a good question. This whole situation was so unreal, it was as if her identity had already slipped away from her. Who am I? I don’t know anymore. At last she said, “Brookstein. My name is Grace Brookstein. I—”
Grace didn’t even have time to flinch. Cora’s fist slammed into her face so hard, she heard her nose crack.
“Bitch!” Cora yelled. She hit Grace again. Blood gushed everywhere. Karen Willis continued reading her book as if nothing had happened.
“You the bitch that stole all that money!”
“No!” Grace spluttered. “I didn’t—”
“My brother lost his job because o’ you. All them old folks out on the streets while you and your old man were eatin’ caviar? You oughta be ashamed of yo’self. I’m gonna make you wish you wuz never born, Grace Brookstein.”
Grace clutched at her nose. Whimpering, she said, “Please. I didn’t steal any money.”
Cora Budds grabbed her by her orange prison shirt and yanked her to her feet. With one hand she slammed Grace’s back against the wall, lifting her as easily as she would a rag doll. “Don’t you speak! Don’t you fucking speak to me, you rich white bitch.” With each word, Cora banged Grace’s skull against the wall, driving her point h
ome. Warm blood seeped into Grace’s newly short hair. She began to lose consciousness.
Karen Willis said in a bored voice, “Cool it, Cora. Denny’ll hear you.”
“You think I give a fuck?”
Sure enough, a few seconds later the cell door opened. Hannah Denzel, known to the inmates as “Denny” (among other things), was the most senior guard in A Wing. A short, dumpy white woman with beetle brows and an incipient mustache, she reveled in her authority and enjoyed making the prisoners’ lives as miserable and degrading as possible. She surveyed the scene in front of her. Grace Brookstein lay slumped on the floor in a pool of blood. Cora Budds stood over her like King Kong with Fay Wray, only without the ape’s tenderness. Grace was conscious but barely, mumbling something incoherent.
Denny said, “I want this mess cleaned up.”
Cora Budds shrugged. “Tell her. It ain’t my blood.”
“Fine. She can do it. But make sure she does. I’ll be back in an hour.”
THAT NIGHT, GRACE LAY AWAKE, RIGID with fear, waiting for Cora Budds to fall asleep.
Earlier, she had mopped up her own blood, sluicing the floor on her hands and knees while Cora watched and Karen read her book. After an hour Denny returned, nodded a curt approval, and left Grace to her fate. Grace cowered on her bunk, waiting for Cora to launch another attack, but nothing happened. In a way, she wished it would. Nothing was worse than the waiting, the gut-twisting terror of anticipation. Finally, twenty minutes before lights-out, the cell door opened and Grace was summoned to the prison doctor. After a perfunctory cleanup she was given six stitches for the gash to her head and an ineffectual Band-Aid to help set her broken nose, then sent right back to Cora.
Grace pulled the blankets tightly around her. It had been a long time since she’d prayed, but she closed her eyes tight and opened her heart to the heavens.
Help me, God! Please help me. I’m surrounded by enemies. It’s not just Cora. They all hate me, the other prisoners, the guards, Warden McIntosh, those people outside the courthouse. Even my own family has deserted me. I don’t ask for myself, Lord. I don’t care what happens to me anymore. But if I die, who will clear Lenny’s name? Who will uncover the truth?
Grace tried to make sense of it all. But every time she found a piece of the puzzle, the other pieces drifted away from her.
Frank Hammond’s voice. “Someone framed Lenny.” But who, and why?
Why did Lenny make me a partner in Quorum and cut John out?
Where are the Quorum billions now?
The pain Cora’s fist had inflicted was nothing compared with the pain of Grace’s inner anguish. Being here, in this awful place, felt like a bad dream. But it wasn’t. It was reality.
Maybe it was my life before that was the dream? Me and Lenny, our happiness, our friends, our life. Was it all a mirage? Was it all built on lies?
That was the greatest irony of all. Here Grace was branded a fraud and a liar. But it wasn’t Grace who had lied. It was everyone else: her sisters, her friends, all the people who had eaten at her and Lenny’s table, who had slapped them on the back during the good times, holding out their hands, vying with one another to pay homage to the king. Their affection, their loyalty, that was the lie. Where were those people now?
Gone, all of them. Scattered on the wind. Vanished into thin air, like the missing Quorum billions.
All except for John Merrivale.
Dear John.
GRACE WOKE UP SCREAMING. KAREN WILLIS clamped a hand over her mouth.
“Shhhh. You’ll wake Cora.”
Grace was shaking. Her bedsheets were drenched with sweat. She’d been having a nightmare. It started off as a beautiful dream. She was walking down the aisle on Nantucket, on Michael Gray’s arm. Lenny was waiting at the altar with his back to her. John Merrivale was there, smiling, nervous. There were white roses everywhere. The choir was singing “Panus Angelicus.” As Grace got closer to the altar, she became aware of a strange smell. Something chemical like…formaldehyde. Lenny turned around. Suddenly his face began to collapse, melting like a doll’s head in an oven. His torso started to swell till it burst through his shirt, the skin ghostly white and goose-bumped. Then, limb by limb, the hideous corpse fell to pieces. Grace opened her mouth to scream but it was full of water. Great waves of seawater had flooded the church, sweeping away the wedding guests, destroying everything in their path, flowing into Grace’s lungs, choking her. She was drowning! She couldn’t breathe!
“You’ll wake Cora.”
It took a couple seconds for Grace to register that Karen was real.
“She gets mad when her sleep is disturbed. You wouldn’t like Cora when she’s mad.”
After what had happened earlier, Karen’s statement was so ridiculous Grace laughed. Then the laugh turned into a cry. Soon Grace was sobbing in Karen’s arms, all the loss and terror and pain of the last six months flooding out of her body like pus from a lanced boil.
Finally Grace asked, “Why didn’t you do something this afternoon?”
“Do something? About what?”
“About the attack! When Cora tried to kill me.”
“Honey, that was nothing. If Cora’d tried to kill you, you’d be dead.”
“But you didn’t even move. You just sat there and let her assault me.”
Karen sighed. “Let me ask you something, Grace. Do you want to survive in here?”
Grace thought about it. She wasn’t sure. In the end she nodded. She had to survive. For Lenny.
“In that case, you better get one thing straight. Ain’t no one gonna rescue you. Not me, not the guards, not your appeal lawyer, not your mama. No one. You are alone here, Grace. You gotta learn to rely on yourself.”
Grace remembered her phone call to Honor.
When are you going to start taking responsibility? You’re not Daddy’s little princess anymore. You can’t expect me and Connie to fix everything.
Then she remembered Lenny.
I’ll take care of you, Grace. You’ll never have to worry about anything again.
“The advice is free,” said Karen, creeping back to her own bunk. “But when you remember where you hid all that money, maybe you can send me a little token of your appreciation.”
Grace was about to protest her innocence again, but changed her mind. What was the point? If her own family didn’t believe her, why on earth would anybody else?
“Sure, Karen. I’ll do that.”
GRACE TOOK HER CELL MATE’S ADVICE. For the next two weeks she kept her head down, her wits about her, and her thoughts and fears to herself. No one’s going to help me. I’m on my own. I have to figure out how life here works.
Grace learned that Bedford Hills was admired across the country as a model for its progressive outreach programs aimed at helping incarcerated mothers. Of the 850 inmates, more than 70 percent were mothers in their thirties. Grace was astonished to learn that Cora Budds was one of them.
“Cora’s a mom?”
“Why d’you look so shocked?” said Karen. “Cora’s got three kids. Her youngest, Anna-May, was born right here. Baby came two weeks early. Sister Bernadette delivered her on the floor of the prenatal center.”
Grace had read an article once about babies being born in prison. Or had she heard something on NPR? Either way, she remembered feeling appalled for the children of these selfish, criminal mothers. But that was in another life, another time. In this life, Grace did not find the children’s center at Bedford Hills remotely appalling. On the contrary, staffed by inmates and local Roman Catholic nuns, it was the one bright spot of hope in the otherwise unremittingly grim regime of the prison. Grace would have dearly loved to get a job there, but there was no chance.
Karen told her, “New blood always gets the worst jobs.”
Grace was put to work in the fields.
The work itself was backbreaking, chopping wood to build the new chicken coops, clearing swaths of weed-covered ground to make way for the bird runs. But it was the ho
urs that really killed Grace. The Bedford Hills “day” bore no relation to light and darkness, or to the rhythms of the outside world. After lights-out at 10:30 P.M., prisoners got only four hours of unbroken sleep before low lighting came on again at 2:30 A.M. This was so the fieldworkers could eat breakfast and be outside in the bitter cold, working, by four. “Lunch” was served in the communal mess hall, at nine thirty. Dinner was at two, eight and a half long, boring hours before lights-out. Grace felt like she was permanently jet-lagged, exhausted but unable to sleep.
“You’ll get used to it,” said Karen. Grace wasn’t so sure. The worst part of all was the loneliness. Often, Grace would go entire days without speaking to a single soul other than Karen. Other prisoners had friendships. Grace watched the women she worked with lean on one another for support. During breaks, they would talk about their kids or their husbands or their appeals. But nobody spoke to Grace.
“You’re an outsider,” Karen told her. “You’re not one of us. Plus, you know, they figure you and your old man stole from people like us. So there’s a lot of anger. It’ll pass.”
“But you’re not angry,” Grace observed.
Karen shrugged. “I used up all my anger a ways back. Besides, who knows? Maybe you really are innocent? No offense, but you don’t come across as no criminal mastermind to me.”
Grace’s eyes welled with tears of gratitude. She believes me. Someone believes me.
She clung to Karen’s words like a life raft.
“BROOKSTEIN. YOU GOT A VISITOR.”
“Me?” Grace was coming in from the chicken runs. It was two days after Christmas and a heavy snow had fallen overnight. Grace’s hands were red raw with cold and her breath plumed in front of her like steam from a boiling kettle.
“I don’t see no other Brookstein. Visiting hours almost over, so you better get your ass inside now or you’ll miss her.”