The Heritage Paper (44 page)

We entered the party area, which led me to think that warning signs should be posted, like at the beach when the surf is too rough. The speakers were now blaring “Silent Night.” I could only hope.

“Seeing you in a suit reminds me of way back when we were kids. You were so Don Draper back then, always duded up,” Taylor commented.

Way back … as in a whole four years ago. “I can’t believe how much older you look in that dress. You’re turning into a woman, no matter how much I want to hold you back.”

“Speaking of old, I love how you’re rocking the gray goatee.”

My face still gave off that boyish innocence that was always very effective with juries, and occasionally got me carded at the liquor store. But the recent addition of the gray in the facial hair did make me appear closer to my age of forty-one, closing in on forty-two—maybe it’s a sign that I was finally growing up. The hair on the head was still its natural dishwater blond. I grew it out after my release, after having it cut to the nub while doing my time.

Physically, I came out of prison in the best shape of my life, and for the first time in my life I had visible abs muscles. But after suffering through three years of prison food, I fell off the wagon after my release, and have gained twenty pounds in nine months, most of it in my gut. Luckily, my custom-tailored suit hid it well … along with the bulletproof vest I was wearing.

Taylor escorted me through the marble foyer into the grand reception hall. When we entered the ballroom, my eyes immediately went to its signature double-staircase at the north end of the room that cascaded down from a balcony high above. I’d always assumed the reason for two was so that neither Alexander the Great or his wife, the lovely Beatrice, would be forced to sacrifice any of their spotlight during their entrances.

A large orchestra was playing on the other side of the room, accompanying a Celine Dion wannabe singer. Or maybe it was Celine Dion. You never know who will show up at these parties. “Do you see what I see,” she sang as I entered. As if to warn the others that “the felon” had returned after a three year absence—like a neighborhood watch program for stuffy parties.

Maybe I was being paranoid, but Taylor noticed it too, and said, “I guess ‘Jailhouse Rock’ woulda been too obvious.”

I’d have taken some pleasure in my entrance creating one of those moments where the crowd froze in horror, and a hush came over the room. But most of the guests were too distracted by their revelry … and alcohol … to notice.

I did spot a couple of my former brothers-in-law with their bra-bursting second wives, who were trying to put the ho, ho, ho back into Christmas. The rest of the guests appeared to be the usual hodgepodge of old, money, and old money. Despite reports of it being such a “down” year for Wainwright & Lennox, and the lingering martyrdom in regards to the Kerstman matter, there was no evidence of it in this room.

W&L was an investment bank that dated back to the Civil War. It had a pristine reputation in the world of high finance. Mainly because its reviews were written by the clients who’d made gobs of money.

The investors, the ones who were often bilked by the fraudulent IPOs that W&L underwrote, had another tale to tell—and likely didn’t have a lot of sympathy for the Wainwright losses in the Kerstman debacle. Sometimes the manipulation of share prices was achieved with techniques like “laddering,” while other times it was good old-fashioned extortion and bribery. None of which came up in those glowing reviews.

But what everyone could agree on was that W&L had an amazing knack for being able to position itself to profit from—and some would say, help fuel—many of the biggest economic bubbles of the past century, from the stock market crash of 1929 to the tech bubble of the 90s, and the most recent housing crisis.

I know this because my first job out of NYU Law School was at W&L’s in-house law firm, which worked endless hours to fend off lawsuits, and keep the firm’s pristine image unsullied. They preferred family members to work there—a club that they reluctantly admitted I was a member of—because they were less likely to risk their inheritance by having a heart to heart with the feds about some of the firm’s tactics. But working for Wainwright wasn’t all bad—it actually made my job representing celebrities seem authentic.

In the center of the room an enormous Christmas tree towered over the partygoers. But in keeping with the party theme, this tree was a fake. Next to the plastic pine, fittingly, was a throne. It was occupied by a Santa Claus, who held two six-year-old girls on his lap.

After Taylor left me to meet up with a few of her cousins, I made a surprise attack on the throne, sneaking up behind the two girls. They felt my presence, and my cover was blown. But that didn’t stop me from pulling them into an embrace, which caused them to giggle. I received a dirty look from Santa, not that it hurt my standing with him—I’d been on his “naughty list” since my first date with his daughter. I shot one right back at him, but quickly looked away—the sight of Alexander Wainwright dressed as Santa Claus was always too much for me to take. It was the equivalent of Bernie Madoff playing the role of Baby Jesus in the upcoming Nativity play.

The twins were the result of the never discussed, “save the marriage” crusade led by my former wife. It didn’t save it, and we learned the lesson that all parents should be taught in Marriage-101—never drag your kids into your problems, especially ones that aren’t even born yet. But so far the girls haven’t held it against us, which we’re thankful for.

We named them Franny and Zooey, mainly because our devotion to Salinger was one of the few things Libby and I could agree on at that stage of our union. Alexander and Beatrice still held
Catcher in the Rye
responsible for Libby’s rebellious streak, which was blamed for her marrying a middle-class schmuck from Tarrytown, and gasp, becoming a lowly prosecutor.

I took a long look at the identical twins. I thought it made me a horrible father every time I would mix them up, but Libby recently mentioned that she’d often done the same, making me feel better. Her mothering skills and devotion to her children were beyond reproach.

“So what did you ask Santa for?” I asked.

Zooey answered for both of them, “A castle!”

I could tell she wasn’t referring to a plastic, toy version of one. They were definitely more Wainwright than Collins. But our relationship had come a long way since I got out, when I was nothing but a stranger to them. Over the last nine months, I’d gone from being “that guy” to “Daddy,” which I’m sure hadn’t gone unnoticed by their grandfather.

“Nice suit,” Alexander said to me. “I was worried you might wear prison stripes out of habit.”

I noticed a smile peering through the opening in his Santa beard. Seemed like they added some extra snark to the eggnog this year. But I refused to let him bait me in front of the girls. “I was honored to receive an invitation.”

He leaned in close to my ear. “I like to keep my enemies close, and those who steal my money even closer.”

To be fair, I didn’t steal his money. Alexander knew that, but suspected that I knew where it was, which was no different to him than if I robbed him at gunpoint. The FBI also suspects me in such matters, as does Alexander’s former business partner, now rival, Stone Scroggie, who was the mastermind behind the initial heist. It was irrelevant if I knew where it was—the important thing was that they thought I did, and that I was the only one who could deliver it to them.

I reached the maximum two minutes I could spend in Alexander’s presence without blood shooting out of my eyes. And since I thought that might scare the girls, I decided to move on. But just as I was about to slither away, my former mother-in-law cornered me. Alexander looked as annoyed by this turn of events as I was.

Beatrice was a Lennox, the other wealthy Connecticut family that had its name on the stationery. The Wainwright and Lennox families were constantly marrying each other—I could count six marriages off the top of my head—which was either creepy, or a well-organized plan to maintain the species, and eventually take over the world.

The not-yet-corrupted Franny and Zooey greeted their grandmother by running to her and hugging each of her legs, which were covered by her designer gown. I hoped that this might dislodge her robot limbs, and the Stepford Wife scheme would be publicly exposed, but no such luck. And Franny and Zooey couldn’t catch a break either, because they learned that their affectionate act was not acceptable etiquette for young ladies, especially since they almost spilled Beatrice’s drink. She threatened to lock them in the coal cellar if they didn’t drastically alter their behavior.

This was not an idle threat. The manor house did contain an actual working coal cellar, which Alexander liked to brag about. The cynic in me thought it might have something to do with a large investment W&L made in clean coal technology a few years back.

Once Beatrice was done scaring the dickens out of my kids, she turned her contempt on me. She admonished the “rude behavior” I exhibited upon my entrance, and informed me that I was “lucky” she didn’t revoke my parole, which I guess she believed she had the authority to do. Having seen the Wainwrights in action, I would never bet against their power and how far it reached.

Out of habit, I put my finger on my nose, which had always been the distress signal between Libby and me when one of us was trapped at these parties. But when I caught a glimpse of her across the room, engrossed in a conversation with her current boyfriend, Ned Blaine, I remembered that I was living in a whole new world these days. One that I would have to survive all on my own.

As I made my way to the door, Libby busted me from across the room. She gave me a look to remind me that I’ll never be able to put anything past her, whether it’s my smashing of our wedding vows, or trying to sneak out of her parents’ party.

I have adored Libby from the moment I laid eyes on her, and after having a couple years in a small cell to reflect on it, I have even more respect for her. So technically, I wasn’t avoiding her, but my work was done here and I had a train to catch, and honestly, nobody really wants to see their boss on the weekend.

While I was enjoying the normal college life at Iona in New Rochelle, my best friend since childhood, Zee Thomas, had rocketed to stardom with the New York Yankees. The teenage, phenom pitcher had captured the hearts and imagination of the city, but he still struggled in social situations, as had been the case since we were kids. So he dragged me along one night to a party that his marketing agency had thrown for him in the city, to play the role of security blanket. Libby Wainwright, a sophomore at NYU, and an intern at the agency that represented Zee, also attended the party. The rest was history. And the historical record read: Twenty-two years, fifteen years of marriage, four children, a messy affair, one divorce, and a prison sentence.

It wasn’t hard to figure out what attracted me to Libby. She was beautiful, smart, and funny. Okay, she was never very funny—laughing had always been frowned upon in the Wainwright house … literally. But what really drew me to her, besides the beauty and brains combo, was that just being around her made it seem that anything and everything was possible. Maybe that was why I didn’t realize how over-my-head I was dating the daughter of Alexander Wainwright.

What she saw in me was still a great mystery to me—as I’m sure it remains for Alexander and Beatrice. Perhaps marrying a suburban middle-class kid appealed to the rebellious side that her father always referred to—although, a rebellious streak for a Wainwright is much differently defined than one for normal people. She would never be confused with James Dean.

Or maybe it was that I was the first guy who could ever make her laugh, and every girl remembers her first. Perhaps. But I think the real reason that Libby chose Kris Collins was because she’d always been an idealist, in the sense that she created an idyllic vision of the world in her mind, and she would move heaven and earth to make it reality. And for reasons only known to her, a life with me fit into her vision.

But she’s proved that she’ll alter the vision when circumstances intervene. When she was a child she believed that there was good in all souls, and everyone could be saved. This thinking was the main reason the Amigos ended up in the Lake House instead of the Big House. But when she was attacked while jogging in the park during her freshman year at NYU, and held at knifepoint, she conceded that there were inherently bad people in the world. That’s when she decided to become a prosecutor—to put away these bad people who harmed her worldview. And when I crossed over to the dark side she threw the book at me, and sent me to the curb.

As I got closer, I could hear Ned Blaine talking up Wainwright Manor to a couple of party guests—the “exquisite” French wallpaper of the ballroom, the “spectacular” thousand bottle wine cellar, and how it resonated a hominess, even though it was over eighteen-thousand square feet and had eight bedrooms and eleven-and-a-half baths. I’m not so sure about the hominess part, but the half a bath in this place was ten times bigger than any room we had in my house growing up in Tarrytown.

When Ned spotted me he raised the charm to an even higher level—a skill that had helped make him one of the top realtors of upscale properties in Manhattan. If I was the lawyer to the stars, then he’s the one who sold them the best places to live. In fact, he sold Libby and me our first apartment on the Upper East Side, which we bought after fleeing for our lives from her parents’ place. At least I felt that way; I think Libby was actually sad to leave.