A Woman of Fortune (15 page)

18

I
n the movies, an actress in a pencil skirt and heels often rushed the courthouse steps, flanked by the protective arms of her attorney shielding her from overzealous media and flashing cameras. In the movies, the lens zoomed in on the main character showing an air of quiet confidence on her face. In the movies, the target of all the media attention didn't climb the steps and get spit on.

Seconds after the wet glob hit its mark against Claire's cheek, security created a human fence between her and the spectacle of onlookers, but not before Claire caught sight of the culprit wedged next to a reporter—a fortyish gal in a T-shirt that read “Don't Mess with Texas.” Their eyes met and the woman hissed, “Thief!”

Claire's companion, a woman associate from Ranger's office, handed her a tissue. She lied and assured her she was fine. In reality, the encounter had shaken her to the core. As soon as they cleared the security scanner, she excused herself and darted to the restroom.

“Let me go with you,” the young associate said, already following on Claire's heels. “You shouldn't be alone.”

Inside the privacy of a stall, Claire stood fighting tears. Never before had she allowed herself to ponder the notion there were people who actually hated the Masseys. Not just Tuck, but his entire family. They hated
her
.

Lainie was right. From that first moment in the Adolphus, the click of her husband's handcuffs had imprisoned all of them. Tuck's arrest had placed the first stone on a monument of shame Claire had desperately been trying to ignore.

How could she disregard what that woman on the steps represented? Claire's future grandbaby would be born wearing a name connected to the largest cattle fraud in Texas, maybe even in the United States.

Despite her choice to look at the situation cup half full, some endeavors were destined to fail. No plea agreement would change what the family now faced.

“Mrs. Massey?” the associate asked. “The hearing will start soon. Your husband and the others are already waiting inside.”

Claire wiped at her eyes. She opened the stall door and stepped to the bank of sinks, avoiding the young woman's stare. After she refreshed her makeup, she turned. “Okay, let's go.”

The doors to Courtroom 211 were located conveniently across from the ladies' room. Claire crossed the hall, feeling a bit buoyed by the knowledge she'd be reunited with Tuck for the first time since that morning at breakfast. He'd suggested they travel in separate cars to the courthouse. He'd needed to talk privately with Ranger over the telephone. Again she was pushed into the role of an outsider.

Claire had only been inside a courtroom twice before, once as a potential jurist and the other for a minor traffic violation. Not hers. Max had rear-ended someone while texting a high school classmate. Both occasions were a long time ago.

This courtroom was relatively small by most standards. And fairly utilitarian. None of the magnificent marble columns and architectural elements found in older courthouses.

Despite strong public urging, this would be a closed hearing today. Thankfully, the judge recognized the potential for a media circus and limited attendance to only the parties and counsel, which extended to anyone working with the attorneys. If that incident
out on the steps was any indication, recently increased security would be served as well by the judge's decision.

The associate guided Claire to a pew directly behind the defense table, next to Max. Lainie had decided not to attend this time. Ranger greeted Claire and quickly returned to reviewing a paper in his hand. The team, as Tuck referred to them, sat in benches around her and nearer to the wall. She recognized some of the folks from Monty Dickman, the crisis management firm Ranger had hired after Tuck's arrest. Others had been at the ranch yesterday.

At the opposite table sat Charles Jordan, the head of the white-collar crimes unit in the US Attorney's Office and the chief prosecutor in Tuck's case. In the weeks leading up to the hearing, the man with the precise haircut had been grandstanding on the news. “Some criminals murder people,” he'd claimed in front of the cameras. “Theodore Massey murdered wallets. But make no mistake,” he said, pulling on his starched cuffs. “Massey left victims, and the US Attorney's Office will do everything in its power to bring justice.”

Mr. Jordan also had a bevy of helpers in the courtroom today, sour men and women in dark suits, appearing as though they'd swallowed a box of government-issued paper clips.

A bailiff approached the defense table and said something to Ranger, who then nodded. The bailiff spoke into a lapel microphone. Minutes later, a side door opened and another bailiff entered, leading Tuck into the courtroom.

Tuck joined Ranger at the defense table. When he turned and spotted her, a familiar repose crossed his face. She ventured a quick smile, which Tuck acknowledged by lifting his chin.

For the briefest moment, Claire questioned Ranger's advice. Was consenting to all this really in Tuck's best interests? But then again, they had no choice. Not really. It was doubtful Tuck would end with a better situation if they made the US Attorney prove his case. In fact, as Ranger explained, Tuck would no doubt be found guilty of many of the counts in the prosecutor's complaint. And
the sentencing would be much harsher, she supposed. There was no escaping the fact Tuck would pay for what he'd done.

This way, everyone would win—or lose, whichever way you chose to spin the situation. By Tuck falling on his sword, no one could argue that he wouldn't come out of this eventually looking contrite and with an opportunity to reinvent his image, at least to some extent. Or so the crisis managers claimed.

These were the thoughts that ran through Claire's mind as her eyes followed her husband's every movement. He looked extraordinarily handsome in a suit and tie that had been selected by the folks at Monty Dickman, who were experts at manipulating public sentiment. In a meeting early last week, an impeccably poised young woman explained Tuck needed to wear brown—a color that imbued warmth and likability. There would be no jury, and even though the judge was not to rule with bias, she was human and could be swayed by impressions.

“All rise,” the bailiff announced.

Claire took a deep breath and sent up a quick prayer. She grabbed her youngest son's hand for support.

“You may be seated.”

Claire followed the legal team's instructions and kept her face without expression as she listened to the judge's clerk read off the case name and number. Ranger said Judge Herrick was a no-nonsense adjudicator, fair but expedient in doling out justice.

Judge Herrick dispensed with prerequisites she might otherwise have afforded had the hearing not been closed to the media. Instead, she looked over her glasses at the counsel. “Good morning, everyone. Before we begin arraignment, I'd like to know where things stand. Has anything changed since the proposed agreement was lodged with the court?”

Charles Jordan stood. “If I may, Your Honor.”

Judge Herrick nodded. “Go ahead.”

“This case is extraordinary, Your Honor. As the record reveals, our office has brought charges alleging Theodore Massey
perpetrated the largest cattle fraud this nation has yet seen. The federal violations we've outlined in our pleadings show how far-reaching the actions of Mr. Massey's illegal activities are. We have hundreds of victims. Millions of dollars are at stake. The Office of the US Attorney is committed to seek justice. However, as you are well aware, Your Honor, we must balance that justice with what is also in the interests of the public and of the victims. The US Attorney's Office agrees to stipulate to the terms set forth in the consent order currently before this court, knowing the victims in this matter—the creditors—would never be made entirely whole. It was our belief that the proposed consent order renders justice and creates the best opportunity for Mr. Massey's assets to be distributed to the victims at the earliest point possible.”

Claire shifted in her seat, her heart pounding. She wished she could see Tuck's face.

Judge Herrick looked at Ranger. “Mr. Jennings. Do you have anything to add?”

“Only that my client, Theodore Massey, has fully cooperated with the US Attorney's Office. It is his desire to use his considerable assets in the interest of his investors, most of which made considerable money over the years. As far as sentencing goes—”

Judge Herrick held up her hand. “I believe your position on sentencing is clearly stated in your written statement. The court recognizes Mr. Massey's past contributions and that this is his first encounter with the legal system. However, these charges are substantial.” She looked out over the courtroom. “Let's cut to the chase. Are all counsel in agreement?”

Both Ranger Jennings and Charles Jordan nodded.

Judge Herrick scanned a couple of documents. “I'm not inclined to sign off on the retention provision as proposed. The current residence represents assets that far exceed any homestead exemption. Therefore, I'll allow Mrs. Massey to live in the current residential house for a period not to exceed ninety days. At the end of that time, the ranch and house will be sold and proceeds will be distributed to
the victims. Mrs. Massey will retain one vehicle not to exceed fifty thousand dollars in value, personal effects and furnishings not to exceed two hundred fifty thousand, and the same amount in cash. Everything else will be immediately turned over to the receiver and liquidated for the benefit of Mr. Massey's victims.”

Claire tried to remember to breathe, though the air suddenly grew thick and clotted in her nostrils.

Mr. Jordan held up a finger. “Uh, one more thing, Your Honor.”

“Yes?”

“We'd like Mr. Massey remanded into custody within twenty-four hours.”

Max's arm instantly went around her trembling shoulders as she scoured the courtroom in wild confusion.

Ranger jumped up from his seat. “Your Honor—”

Judge Herrick held up her hand. “Save it. I agree with Mr. Jordan. There is no good reason to postpone incarceration.” The judge looked around the room. “Anything else?”

Ranger and Mr. Jordan shook their heads.

The judge nodded to her clerk. “Then let's go on record.”

Over the next hour, Tuck was formally arraigned on the original charges. Claire's heart thumped painfully in protest as the plea was read into the record, and Tuck gave affirmative responses confirming he understood and agreed to the consent order, including the judge's revised retention provision.

At the end, Judge Herrick pulled her glasses from her face. “I'd like to thank everyone for their cooperation. It is my sincere belief that justice has been served here today.” She looked at Tuck. “Mr. Massey, you are to report to the US Marshal's office no later than noon tomorrow. At that time, you will be transported to the Federal Correction Institution in Bastrop, where you will begin serving the agreed-upon five-year sentence. This court is now adjourned.” She hit the gavel.

“All rise,” the bailiff bellowed. Judge Herrick stood and left the courtroom.

Claire lifted from her seat, fighting back tears. This was a bad television episode—and she a helpless spectator.

Tuck turned.

His gray eyes revealed a fragility that was new to her, a crack in his confident demeanor. Their depths gave a quiet peek into the boy with the alcoholic mother. Despite all Tuck had done and all that was ahead of them, tenderness flooded Claire's heart. In that instant, this man was as important as her next breath.

Despite having lost nearly everything, including their home, it took everything inside her not to move into his arms and whisper that everything would be okay. Together they'd get through this.

Somehow.

19

T
he gravity of what had happened at the hearing did not hit Claire until she was home. She'd left the courthouse with Tuck and his legal team and sat emotionally numb in Ranger's office, trying to listen to a myriad of details. At times, the voices seemed to fade off, or maybe she did.

Bastrop is
a low-security facility. Many white-collar inmates. Four hours
from Dallas.

Asset turnover would happen fairly quickly. Ranger would
supervise.

Disappointing ruling regarding ranch. Public outcry demanded. Will allow
fresh start. Parole possible in two years. Maybe live outside
Texas when Tuck is released.

Upon arriving home, an exhausted Tuck retreated to their bedroom for a quick nap. Glad for time alone to collect her thoughts, Claire pulled on a pair of boots and headed for the riverbank, where she hoped to walk out the sour feeling in her stomach.

As her boots cut into the dry dirt path, she could smell the day's heat, feel the setting sun at her back. To the east, the horizon blackened. Northern Texas weather was often filled with contradictions, especially in early June, with hot days shifting to thunderstorms at night.

Claire walked until she could barely make out the house. She wished creating distance from her troubles were as easy.

Overhead, a red-shouldered hawk dropped from the sky low enough for her to make out its sharp eyes scanning for prey. A mouse darted from behind a large oak several feet ahead, making a critical mistake. The hawk screeched and dove.

After a momentary scuffle, the raptor flapped its massive wings and lifted. Its spiked claws held tight to the tiny rodent struggling to be free.

She averted her eyes and collapsed at the base of the oak, leaning back against the brittle bark. One critical mistake and Tuck had lost his freedom. In a few short hours, they would have to say goodbye.

Claire's eyes surveyed the ranch she'd called home. The last two decades of her life stared back.

In her youth, she had ignored the popular voice of Gloria Steinem known for telling young women, “A liberated woman is one who has sex before marriage and a job after.” Neither did she embrace her mother's philosophy that a woman's key goal should be to marry well—and in her mother's case, switch shoes when the first pair didn't fit.

Claire's marriage had been the perfect blend of light, crisp Chardonnay grapes mixed with the complex Pinot Noir variety. Water turned to fine wine, despite how their lives had recently soured.

Tuck meant to give her the world, even if by illicit means.

She couldn't hate him now.

True, she had much to consider. She'd be out of a home in three months and would need to find a new place to live and a means of support, because two hundred fifty thousand dollars wouldn't last forever. She'd never been employed. Could she even get a job at her age?

Thunder boomed on the horizon, startling Claire. She glanced toward the house and calculated the distance. She'd never make it back home without getting drenched. If she remained underneath the cover of this oak, she might be able to wait until the storm
passed. Weather was unpredictable, and the disturbance may even pass around her.

She pulled her knees up tight and wrapped her arms around her legs, wishing she'd thought to bring along a jacket. Especially now that the sky had started spitting little rain droplets onto the hard, thirsty ground.

Garrett used to be so afraid of storms. In the middle of the night, he'd leave the security of his warm bed and pad his little jammied feet into their room, climbing in between her and Tuck and hiding under the covers for safety.

Now he hid in Houston.

She didn't blame him. She'd like to hide too.

The rain came harder now, and the air felt electric. The sky flashed and a loud crack followed seconds later.

Soon Marcy would be showing. There would be sonograms and baby showers, picking names and nursery colors. Unless something changed, Claire could easily miss it all.

Lainie was hiding too. She'd retreated behind a wall of silence. Max's face often showed stunned confusion.

Her children were hurting. She was hurting.

Rain pelted the ground. Every few seconds, pea-sized hail smacked the limbs above her head, making an eerie sound as water pellets tore through the leaves. Claire huddled closer to the trunk, nestling into the gnarled roots deeply wrenched into the ground.

Before her daddy left this world, he'd written her a letter. Across plain lined paper, he'd scrawled a message, asking her to remember two things.

The first:
What does it profit a man
if he gains the whole world and loses his soul?

And the second:
Remember, I love you always.

Claire may have lost her jewelry, vacation homes, wealth, and status. But she couldn't bear to lose her family. Margarita was right. As she faced the dark days ahead, she must do everything in her power to keep her family intact.

Otherwise, none of the past years of her life would mean anything.

Suddenly the entire sky lit. A loud boom knocked her forward. A heavy crack sounded above.

She looked up. A large limb came crashing down, landing less than a foot away.

Her body involuntarily jumped and she let out a yelp.

“Claire!” a voice hollered.

Lightning illuminated the sky again. A silhouette moved forward. “Claire, don't move.”

Within seconds, Tuck was by her side. He pulled her chilled body into his warm coat and she leaned against his beating chest.

Together they rode out the storm.