Cult (8 page)

They sat in the reception room of the offices of Brown and Kyler, sedately decorated in oils depicting colonial scenes on polished cherrywood-paneled walls. The furniture was early American, too delicate to be comfortable but obviously authentic. On a glossy table, neatly sorted, were
Architectural Digest
,
Antique Monthly
,
Town and Country
, and various horse magazines.

Set pieces
, she thought. They screamed out Ivy League, DAR, old money, deep American roots, WASP. A beautiful blonde woman, immaculately groomed and coiffed with a simple Junior League wave sat behind a gleaming antique desk. She wore a wire headset and ignored them with an air of carefully rehearsed intimidation. This was Brown and Kyler, old-line, patrician. Naomi felt diminished.

They had come through heavy double doors, replete with colonial knockers. Lettered on it discreetly were the names of an army of partners. The elevator had whisked them to the 39th floor, about which she had made a lame joke about “The 39 Steps,” wondering aloud if Hitchcock would pass them in the corridors, if only to break the spell of gloom and despair that hovered over them. It didn't have the desired effect.

Barney was in no mood for jokes. The horror of the waking nightmare going on in his mind was sucking up all his energy, all his focus. On top of everything, she had a slight hangover. She had had three cups of coffee and felt her stomach burn.

Sitting now in the lawyer's reception room she thumbed through a copy of
Architectural Digest
, hardly paying attention to the lush pictures and contrived settings.

In the car, she had asked, “Where are we going?” She felt like she was drifting now, an irrelevant and reluctant observer. Above all she wanted to go home.

“You'll see,” he had told her. She hadn't expected the visit to the lawyer's office. So far Barney had only communicated with him by phone.

“Mr. Holmes will see you now,” the woman at the desk said cheerfully.

“I'll wait,” Naomi said.

“No. I need you with me.”

“So I'm a witness, am I?”
Was that his purpose from the beginning?

“That, too.”
Too?
She wondered what he meant.

They followed the woman's directions down a long carpeted corridor. Bradley Holmes was waiting for them in a large office. A window wall offered a magnificent view of the Golden Gate Bridge that spanned the pristine bay. It was a clear, cloudless day. She could see all the way to Oakland. Soothed by the sight, she sat down primly on a Chippendale chair. A tall clock swung its pendulum in a corner.

The lawyer had stepped in front of his polished desk to greet them with an eager handshake, warm and friendly. Barney, spruce and slick, in a neat three-piece suit and with a smile pasted on his face, slid into a chair as Holmes went behind his desk, sitting down on a high gleaming brown leather chair.

His office was a mass of wood and leather. On his walls were three diplomas. Stanford, LLB; Harvard, LLD; another announcing admittance to the Supreme Court. Bookshelves under glass held leather-bound classics. In a nook were duck decoys. On the walls were photographs. Holmes with Ronald Reagan, suitably inscribed. Holmes as a young man in crew cut holding a lacrosse racquet. Holmes and a pert, scrubbed woman, he in full resplendent uniform of naval lieutenant, she in a wedding dress. Pictures of children, neat, graceful, handsome. Two pretty girls and a lovely-looking boy. On his desk was a picture of a baby in an old-fashioned pose, pinkly naked on a pillow. He wore a charcoal gray suit, a red striped tie, a pinstriped shirt on a field of blue, perfectly matching his eyes.

His life was, she decided, like the reception room, like his name—patrician, comfortable, old money, old family, impeccable. Barney, on the other hand, like an actor in a drawing-room comedy, shanty black Irish, swathed in an Ivy League costume, his pain carefully tucked under his vest, exchanged pleasantries. She, the neurotic Jewess, here to bear witness, looked on, ten times removed, a bit player.

Through the window, she could see the life of the city. Up there on the 39th floor they heard nothing of the turmoil below. She listened as both of them dodged around the main point, waiting for the other shoe to drop. He had not explained to her why he had come, and she did not ask.

“You really should have waited for permission,” Holmes said, his voice stentorian, dripping with authority. “And you did threaten them, which was a big mistake. You can't go around threatening people, Mr. Harrigan. We could take action, you know.” She had seen his eyes drift to his appointment book open on his neat desk.

“Maybe I was over the top,” Barney admitted pleasantly.

“You can say that again. We may, indeed, decide to take action.”

“I was angry and upset.”

“You might have been better informed on what to expect.”

“Probably. It came as a shock, seeing Charlotte,” Barney said with an air of exaggerated calm.

“Yes,” Holmes agreed. “It always does. It is quite understandable. You see, Mr. Harrigan, your wife has had a profound religious conversion. It's not my religion or yours. We can only understand it in context.”

“Yes. I see that now.”

“She is an adult woman. She has made her own choice. Believe me, I know how you feel. I would feel the same way if my wife or any of my children had taken that road.” His eyes moved to his family pictures. “But in the end, I would respect their decision. Indeed. I would have no other choice.” His voice was soothing, in keeping with his persona and his surroundings. “No legal choice.”

“She wasn't very communicative,” Barney said. He paused and Naomi felt his peripheral glance toward her. “There are lots of issues here. We have a child.” Barney cleared his throat. She could tell that some plan was emerging. He hadn't discussed it with her.

“Yes. I understand.”

She wondered where he was heading, alert to nuances, her mind suddenly cleared. He had said he had more bombs to throw.

“They have nothing to fear from me,” Barney said unctuously.

“Perhaps not from you, Mr. Harrigan. But you surely can understand their paranoia. There is an army of unscrupulous people out there. Deprogrammers bent on destroying this experience. They kidnap the convert, subject him or her to beastly experiences, cut away the spiritual root. It violates not only our moral sense but the First Amendment to the Constitution, which protects every American's religious liberties.”

“I understand perfectly.”

“Do you?”

She could sense the hard suspicion behind the imperious facade.

“Certainly, in terms of the legalities and its consequences.”

“You don't think she was brainwashed, then?”

Holmes had leaned back on his chair, making a church steeple with his fingers, a fat cat playing with a tortured mouse.
There is no contest
, she wanted to cry out at Barney, watching him squirm behind the contrived facade.

“I don't know what that means,” Barney said. He was surprisingly up to the mark, not missing a beat.

“There is no legal definition. A religious conversion is a religious conversion.”

“I suppose.”

“You saw no physical coercion at the camp. No attempt to keep her there by force.”

“No,” he said, appearing thoughtful and attentive. “Nothing like that.” He paused. “But I had to see for myself. Anyone would do the same when their life blows up in their face, not knowing the cause.” He looked pointedly at the Holmes family pictures.

“Anyone would do the same,” Barney said.

“So you've seen it. I would have arranged the visit with less of a trauma on yourself.”

“I know that now. You're not exactly given a road map on how to react.” Watching him, Naomi saw a nerve palpitate in his cheek. He must have felt it and lifted his hand to hide it, shamming an itch.

“There is no such thing as brainwashing,” Holmes said. “There is even some doubt about its being possible even when it is allegedly present, although there has been much written about it in connection with the Chinese communists who, when Mao was alive, attempted to put a stop to any aberrant behavior by what they deemed was reeducation. In the Korean War, books were written to explain what had happened to our prisoners. All of these so-called prison converts eventually returned to the States. This does seem to indicate that brainwashing is not really credible.”

She was surprised at her own reaction to his words, which transcended her defenses and natural distaste. He seemed perfectly reasonable, articulating what was, despite what she had seen, one of her doubts. He was obviously pressing the point home.

“I have seen nothing, nothing in law, nothing in psychiatry, or anything that passes as science to offer a different view. In other words, I do not believe that brainwashing actually happens.”

“I haven't studied the subject with that much thoroughness, Mr. Holmes,” Barney said, picking up the lawyer's cadence. She could see why he was such a good salesman, as he struggled to parry Holmes' suspicion.

“Believe me, Mr. Harrigan, I have studied all aspects of the matter, researched many cases, tried some myself.” He looked toward Naomi, perhaps for approbation. “We are a country of laws, not men.”

The pedantic platitude severely tried her patience.

“The Glories are a bona fide religion, with approval of tax exemption by the Internal Revenue Service. They have a perfect right to exist, to proselytize, to conduct their spiritual business. You may argue with their recruitment methods, their practices, even their ideology. However distasteful, however reprehensible to your moral standard or point of view, however they affect your life, they have an unalterable legal, ethical, and moral right to exist. That must be central to your understanding of the matter.” He turned toward the window, seemingly bored with his explanation, which, she realized, he must have repeated many times. Barney, too, must have realized this would happen.

Then why is he here?
Naomi thought.

“I have not come to argue the point, counselor. What good would that do? I haven't the luxury of choice. I'm here about Kevin.”

Kevin
, she thought.
Kevin?
A cold chill shot through her.

“Our child,” Barney said.

Holmes sat upright in the chair as if something had just hit him obliquely.

“I…,” Barney began, then faltered. “…I want her to have him. It must be obvious to you that I'm not supportive of her new religious belief. More power to her. If I wasn't enough, if her family wasn't enough, so be it. Her choice is her choice.”

The smile had drained from Holmes' face. Barney pressed on.

Not Kevin
, Naomi pleaded silently.

“Because of the nature of my job, I travel a lot. I can't be a proper father.”

“They put the children in camps,” Holmes began. “Like communes. I can see it if the child is a product of two members or the church….”

“I'm going to divorce her as well. Give her a chance for Father Glory to pick a new legal spouse. I understand that he does that little service.” There was no mistaking the sarcasm. Holmes reared back in his chair, considering the point.

“It's perfectly legal, as long as there is consent by both parties,” Holmes said, his equilibrium recovered. He steadied himself and reconstructed the church steeple.

“So I'd like to start proceedings to divorce my wife and give her custody of the child. Actually, I would like to turn the child over to her immediately.”

“Are you sure?” Holmes asked.

“Barney…,” Naomi began, disoriented. Barney quieted her with a flicker of his eyelids and a sharp look of rebuke.

“Immediately. He's in Fort Lauderdale with his grandparents. I want her to have him immediately. She's his mother.”

“And you're his father,” Holmes said, casting a surreptitious eye on his own family pictures. “It's quite….” A cloud seemed to fall across his face.

“Irregular?” Barney said, slowly. “Or simply wrong? Is that what you mean?”

“I mean,” Holmes said, “that you should think it over.”

“I have.”

“I don't think you know what you're doing. You're under considerable stress.” His voice broke, drifted, searching for its timbre. “It's a totally regimented life. At least give the boy his right to choose….” Holmes was obviously uncomfortable. Beads of perspiration had sprouted on his forehead.

“You don't think he'll have a good life with the Glories?” He pointed to Holmes' family pictures. “You mean you wouldn't recommend it for your own children?”

“Leave my children out of this.”

Barney pressed on.

“You wouldn't like that, would you? It's okay if the Glories wreck other people's lives. As long as it doesn't touch yours. How do you sleep at night?”

“I demand….”

“You're as much a part of their apparatus as my wife. What do they pay you?” He looked around the office. “Pretty good, I'd say. Good enough for your fancy antiques, your fancy office, fancy schools for your kids, fancy dresses for your wife. Let's talk about rights.” He was wound up, pounding away with indignation. She watched Holmes mounting his defense, but his facade had been breached.

“They have a right to counsel. Everyone has a right to counsel.”

“Rights? What you and I are talking about is money. Pure and simple.” He stood up. Taking a thick envelope out of his inside pocket, he threw it on the desk.

“One hundred grand. A down payment.”

Holmes looked dumbly at the envelope. “Here's what I want. I want you to tell your clients that I've agreed to give her the boy. Tell them that all I want is for her to pick up the child outside of the camp. If possible outside the county. Get my drift? If you do that there are two outcomes. She sees her son, it jolts her to walk by herself. Doubtful, right? Second option goes into effect. We snatch her. Attempt a deprogramming. If we deprogram her and get her back, you get five times what's in that envelope. I mean business, Holmes. If they don't bite on either of these options, then you find a way to buy her out. I'll raise a million if I have to and you can take what you want. I don't care how it's done.”