little wizard learn?”
“That bitch Raquel Rematti has been giving interviews. Jake said she’ll be a guest tomorrow night on CNN. She’ll say that she’s at last persuaded the DA to subpoena you to go in front of a Grand Jury.”
Hank Rawls’s body was instantly suffused with that spasm of anxiety he’d only experienced two or three times in his life, including when, fifteen years earlier, he first saw the long-lens pictures of Cynthia Hall and himself on that remote, sun-drenched beach on Saint Kitts. They were naked. He was married to someone else at the time. As soon as he saw the pictures, he knew that his short campaign for President was over. “Maybe Bill Clinton could survive this,” he had told his campaign manager. “I can’t.”
Deliberately concealing his anxiety, he said, “Don’t worry, sweetie. I’ve told you that was the other shoe. They always look at the husband or wife first, and then at the boyfriend or girlfriend. Don’t forget, I’m a lawyer, even though, thank God, I never practiced a day in my life.”
Over the last two months, Joan Richardson had sat in front of a Grand Jury on three separate days. Each day was a draining ordeal. The badly dressed young prosecutor, Menachem Oz, never once was pleasant, never treated her with the kindness or sympathy she imagined a widow of a murdered man might deserve, or with the respect she thought one of the most generous philanthropists in the world merited. Menachem Oz—a name she could not forget—had the sour demeanor of an Orthodox Jew from Brooklyn,which he was. He wore a yarmulke. His suits were off-the-rack from Target. He was very smart and very tenacious. She was afraid of him.
And she had lied to him. Menachem Oz knew it and again and again returned to questions about the day Brad was murdered, searching her for inconsistencies. “What time did you wake up?” “Where did you go in Manhattan?” “Who was your housekeeper?” “Was she there that day?” “Did anyone visit you?” “Were there any deliveries?” “How long were you at lunch?” “Did you eat alone?” “How many times in the last year have you had lunch alone?” “What are the names of the doormen who worked at the building that day?”
She had lied in her answers to almost all of these and many other questions. Joan never said that Senator Rawls came to her apartment in the morning of the day Brad was killed and that they didn’t leave until seven that evening, both of them dressed in classic evening clothes for the party at the Met. Instead, she said she’d had a lunch alone at a small restaurant on East 77th Street and then strolled uptown on Madison Avenue, stopping at the intimate Crawford-Doyle bookstore between 81st and 82nd Streets.
Menachem Oz knew she hadn’t been in the bookstore. “Did you use a credit card to buy books?”
“No, cash.”
“What was the book?”
“You mean the name?”
“Right, the name of the book?”
“The Collected Poems of Philip Larkin.”
She knew the skein of her senseless lying was fast unraveling but felt powerless to stop herself.
As the Bentley approached the rented embassy, she waited for Hank to say more. He leaned forward, looking at the camera trucks, the catering trucks, and the trailers where the lead actorshad their private rooms. He was excited, like a boy arriving at a carnival, or like a politician approaching a cheering crowd.
The Bentley slowly made its way toward Helen Whitehouse, one of the assistant directors. Helen opened the door of the car. She was 25. She looked at him as though he were her favorite man in the world. As Hank Rawls rose to his feet, he engaged the woman with his famous smile and said, “Helen, it’s just great to see you.”
When Joan emerged from the car and was introduced to her, she entered the force field of the tacit, excited connection between her lover and this young woman. She had no doubt that Hank Rawls would in the not-too-distant future be screwing
“That bitch Raquel Rematti has been giving interviews. Jake said she’ll be a guest tomorrow night on CNN. She’ll say that she’s at last persuaded the DA to subpoena you to go in front of a Grand Jury.”
Hank Rawls’s body was instantly suffused with that spasm of anxiety he’d only experienced two or three times in his life, including when, fifteen years earlier, he first saw the long-lens pictures of Cynthia Hall and himself on that remote, sun-drenched beach on Saint Kitts. They were naked. He was married to someone else at the time. As soon as he saw the pictures, he knew that his short campaign for President was over. “Maybe Bill Clinton could survive this,” he had told his campaign manager. “I can’t.”
Deliberately concealing his anxiety, he said, “Don’t worry, sweetie. I’ve told you that was the other shoe. They always look at the husband or wife first, and then at the boyfriend or girlfriend. Don’t forget, I’m a lawyer, even though, thank God, I never practiced a day in my life.”
Over the last two months, Joan Richardson had sat in front of a Grand Jury on three separate days. Each day was a draining ordeal. The badly dressed young prosecutor, Menachem Oz, never once was pleasant, never treated her with the kindness or sympathy she imagined a widow of a murdered man might deserve, or with the respect she thought one of the most generous philanthropists in the world merited. Menachem Oz—a name she could not forget—had the sour demeanor of an Orthodox Jew from Brooklyn,which he was. He wore a yarmulke. His suits were off-the-rack from Target. He was very smart and very tenacious. She was afraid of him.
And she had lied to him. Menachem Oz knew it and again and again returned to questions about the day Brad was murdered, searching her for inconsistencies. “What time did you wake up?” “Where did you go in Manhattan?” “Who was your housekeeper?” “Was she there that day?” “Did anyone visit you?” “Were there any deliveries?” “How long were you at lunch?” “Did you eat alone?” “How many times in the last year have you had lunch alone?” “What are the names of the doormen who worked at the building that day?”
She had lied in her answers to almost all of these and many other questions. Joan never said that Senator Rawls came to her apartment in the morning of the day Brad was killed and that they didn’t leave until seven that evening, both of them dressed in classic evening clothes for the party at the Met. Instead, she said she’d had a lunch alone at a small restaurant on East 77th Street and then strolled uptown on Madison Avenue, stopping at the intimate Crawford-Doyle bookstore between 81st and 82nd Streets.
Menachem Oz knew she hadn’t been in the bookstore. “Did you use a credit card to buy books?”
“No, cash.”
“What was the book?”
“You mean the name?”
“Right, the name of the book?”
“The Collected Poems of Philip Larkin.”
She knew the skein of her senseless lying was fast unraveling but felt powerless to stop herself.
As the Bentley approached the rented embassy, she waited for Hank to say more. He leaned forward, looking at the camera trucks, the catering trucks, and the trailers where the lead actorshad their private rooms. He was excited, like a boy arriving at a carnival, or like a politician approaching a cheering crowd.
The Bentley slowly made its way toward Helen Whitehouse, one of the assistant directors. Helen opened the door of the car. She was 25. She looked at him as though he were her favorite man in the world. As Hank Rawls rose to his feet, he engaged the woman with his famous smile and said, “Helen, it’s just great to see you.”
When Joan emerged from the car and was introduced to her, she entered the force field of the tacit, excited connection between her lover and this young woman. She had no doubt that Hank Rawls would in the not-too-distant future be screwing
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