I Take You (14 page)

Pete shifts in his seat. “I would say that when you’re dealing with audited financials, which is an extensive process, a multifaceted process, there’s always lots of moving pieces, balls in the air if you will. You’ve got various cost centers utilizing different metrics and rubrics to achieve your ultimate outcomes. Any discrepancies therein would be in the normal course caught and corrected in the standard processes of verification and reconciliation.”

“That makes absolutely no sense,” I tell him.

“Are you you right now,” he asks, “or the plaintiffs?”

“I’m me,” I say. “What’s the truth?”

“We were using the spill to hide major losses from our trading division,” he says.

I stare at him.

“Our traders had entered these long-term forward swaps that fixed the price of natural gas at year-end 2011 levels,” Pete continues. “But
the price plummeted when a new field was discovered out there in Uzbekistan. We were stuck in these godawful contracts, which they tried to hedge by entering into a different set of swaps pegged to the price of titanium—”

I wasn’t following him, but I didn’t have to. “Fraud,” I say. “You’re talking about fraud.”

Pete looks taken aback. “I don’t know that I’d call it fraud.”

“What would you call it?”

He thinks a moment. “You’re right,” he says. “It’s fraud.”

He keeps explaining, and all I can do is gape at him. He’s so nonchalant. He’s just told me that his employer is committing accounting fraud, securities fraud and probably a dozen other kinds of fraud I’ve never even heard of. EnerGreen, a company responsible for one of the most horrific environmental disasters in history, actually saw that disaster as a convenient opportunity to hide other mistakes, a handy way to lie, cheat and steal so that it could keep making money.

And what’s Pete doing? Sitting here serene as can be, eyeing the last doughnut.

“How big are the losses?” I ask him.

“North of fifteen billion.”

My mouth drops open. “Fifteen
billion
dollars? That’s enough to bring down the company.”

“You bet. If the truth got out? Credit would dry up. We wouldn’t have enough cash to cover daily operations. It’d be your classic run-on-the-bank scenario.”

He pauses, glancing at the doughnut, then at me. I nod. He takes it.

“That’s why we had to hide the losses,” he continues, his mouth full. “What I said in that e-mail is true. The spill was a goddamned godsend, coming when it did.”

A goddamned godsend. I take out my phone and text Philip:

—Big problems at the deposition prep. Can you please call me? Thanks.

Then I text Lyle:

—hoffman = nightmare. we have to postpone dep

I stand up. “We’re done here, Pete.”

“We are?”

“I think it’s safe to say that your deposition is not going to happen anytime soon. My boss is going to call your boss’s boss’s boss’s lawyer, and then somebody’s going to write a big check, and we’re all going to say good-bye.”

Lyle writes back:

—Call me. Also pltffs want his empl records.

—dep cant happen, lyle!

—Just do it.

Unbelievable. “So there’s one last thing,” I say to Pete. “In the highly unlikely event that this deposition goes forward sometime in the very distant future, the plaintiffs want us to produce your employment records. It’s a formality, but we have to do it or they’ll yell and scream and accuse us of violating the rules. You said something about working for a subsidiary?”

“Right,” he says. “EnerGreen Energy Solutions LLC. We just opened a branch office in Key West. I came down to help set up their accounting system and decided to bring the family. The office has a couple geologists doing deepwater testing around here.”

“Hey,” I say. “Awesome. Welcome to the Florida Keys, EnerGreen.”

“There’s a secretary there named Maria. She can get you what you need.”

“Why do you work for an LLC?”

“It’s a tax dodge,” he explains.

Why did I ask? Why?

Pete looks worried. “They gonna ask me about that?”

“They’re not going to ask you about anything. Ever.” I hold out my hand. “It was really nice meeting you, Pete. Enjoy the rest of your vacation.”

I dial Philip’s number
as soon as I step outside. Betty says he’s on the other line. I tell her to interrupt him. She tells me, politely, to go to hell. I hang up and think. I need to call Urs, our in-house lawyer. There’s no way he knows about the fraud—he’s far too upstanding to have kept it from us. Which means EnerGreen employees lied to him—their own attorney—about what Pete’s e-mails really meant. Insanity! I start dialing his number, but hesitate. Lowly associates aren’t supposed to deal with the client directly. It would be a major breach of protocol to go over Philip’s head like that. So I call Lyle.

“We have a problem,” I say when he answers. “The plaintiffs are right. About everything. EnerGreen is committing fraud. Massive, crazy fraud. Hoffman told me everything. He’s a disaster, by the way. He—”

“Slow down,” Lyle says. “What happened?”

I take a deep breath and tell him everything.

“Jesus,” he says when I’m done. “Jesus.”

“This case has to settle, Lyle. Now. I tried calling Philip but I couldn’t get through. He needs to talk to the client. He needs to convince them to settle. But first and foremost, someone needs to call the plaintiffs and postpone this deposition.”

“Relax, Wilder. The deposition isn’t going to happen. EnerGreen made a new settlement offer this morning. Philip is on the phone with the mediator right now.”

So that’s why Lyle sounds so calm. “That’s such great news!” I say.

“I know. I’m drafting the paperwork as we speak.”

I lean back against the hood of the car. The anxiety I felt moments
ago begins to fade. “I’m so glad this case is over. EnerGreen. Ugh. What a bunch of scumbags.”

“Alleged scumbags,” Lyle corrects me. “And they’re no worse than our other clients.”

“Are you kidding me? They’re criminals. You should have seen this guy sit there inhaling doughnuts and describing how EnerGreen is flirting with total financial collapse.”

“It sounds rough,” he agrees. “I’m sorry you had to deal with it alone.”

It’s nice to have a halfway civil conversation with him. The prospect of settlement must be putting him in a good mood.

“Will you be sure to tell Philip everything I told you about the prep? He needs to know how deep this hole is and impress upon Urs that EnerGreen really does have to suck it up and pay.”

“I’ll tell him,” Lyle says. “In fact, that’s him on the other line. I better go.”

We hang up. I feel much better. The morning was a total waste, with some truly dire moments, but it’s going to be fine.

Then something else occurs to me. Do I have a personal obligation to report EnerGreen to the authorities? I can’t remember the exact ethics rule, but I know someone who will. I dial Gran’s number.

“What’s the rule about client confidentiality and the commission of a crime?” I ask.

“Florida Rule of Professional Conduct four dash one point six, subsection b, part one,” she replies instantly. “A lawyer must reveal information pertaining to the representation of a client to the extent the lawyer reasonably believes such disclosure necessary to prevent the client from committing a crime.”

“She’s still got it, folks!”

“Who cares?” she grumbles. “I might as well be dead.”

“So if the crime has already been committed, I don’t have to reveal it?”

“Not only do you not have to,” she says, “you can’t. Client confidentiality.”

“Sweet!”

“What’s this about?” she asks suspiciously.

“Can’t tell you! Duh!”

“Please give me something,” she pleads. “I’m so bored.”

I listen to her complain for a while about gardening and crossword puzzles and chair yoga. I consider asking her about the dentist. I’d always had a general idea of who he was and why they got divorced, but I’d never heard the full story before. Compulsive gambling and irresistible hygienists is one thing. But Gran deferring her career for a man? Impossible to imagine.

Instead I say, “Why didn’t you tell me Teddy was back?”

There’s a pause. “Is he?”

“Please, Isabel. You know everything that happens around here.”

“Leave him alone, Lillian Grace.”

“He came looking for me!”

“He’s doing well,” she tells me. “It’s a miracle the state took him on, after … what happened. Being in the service probably helped.”

“Sorry,
what
?”

“He was in the army,” Gran says.

Teddy, in the army? There’s no way.

“Let it go,” Gran warns me.

“Fine,” I say. “I’m letting it go. This is me, letting it go.”

“I’m serious, Lily.”

“So am I. Later, Gran.”

I head back to Key West and immediately get snarled in construction traffic on Roosevelt. I see the sign for the EnerGreen Solutions office—the subsidiary Pete mentioned. I might as well get his employment file, dotting my
i’
s and crossing my t’s like a good little associate. There are a few protesters gathered in the parking lot when I pull in. I smile and wave at them as I go inside. I try to be pleasant whenever I run into people protesting the oil spill. They’re generally pretty nice one-on-one, and their signs are hilarious. (
ENERGREED!
Obvious, but clever.)

I find Maria and arrange to have copies of Pete’s employment records sent to the firm. I call my paralegal and tell her to send them along to the plaintiffs when they arrive. Pulling out of the parking lot, I spot my mom’s truck going by. I honk, but she doesn’t notice. I decide to follow
her. Maybe we can grab a late lunch. She winds her way into Old Town and pulls up in front of a house covered with scaffolding and plastic sheeting. One of her signs is stuck in the yard:
ANOTHER BANG-UP JOB BY WILDER CONSTRUCTION!
So embarrassing. I used to steal them all the time when I was in middle school, on principle.

She hops out of her truck and disappears around the side of the house. I park and watch her. Mom’s looking much more put-together than usual. Her t-shirt and shorts look clean. Her hair is combed and tied back neatly. Maybe she’s meeting a client.

I try calling Will before I get out of the car. No answer. I try Philip again just to make sure Lyle conveyed the seriousness of the situation, but he’s still tied up. I skim my work e-mail. My phone pings. It’s Ana, texting me a selfie from a dressing room somewhere. She’s modeling a goofy-looking, multicolored peasant get-up. She writes:

—ok?

I write back:

—youll be a huge hit at the harvest festival

—bitch!!!

I finally walk up to the house and follow a little brick path along the side. It winds between some overgrown bushes and leads to a weather-beaten kitchen door. I glance through the foggy glass.

Rusty old appliances, tools and boxes of building materials are scattered around the room. I see my mother, too.

But she ain’t working.

Instead, she’s lying on a pile of moving blankets, moaning and clutching the very attractive buttocks of the man who is stretched on top of her, screwing her vigorously.

I jump away. Then I look again. I know that sounds kind of sick, but it’s not like I can see her or anything! I’m watching her friend. He’s in really good shape. Nice ass, as I mentioned. Great back, too. Backs. They’re underrated. You don’t think about them until you see a really nice one and then it’s like …

Wow, he has
lots
of energy.

I know, I know—this should appall me. But it makes me happy.

For her, I mean.

I should stop watching.

Should I, though? Let’s face it. Men? They’re not that hot. Not allaround, like women are. Men have random hairs and bad fashion instincts. Odd smells. They never exfoliate. Either they try way too hard, or they don’t try at all. Of course, some are lovely, and most have a few good qualities, but sometimes you have to look hard for them. Like in those
Where’s Waldo
? books. Or the cocktail menus of trendy Brooklyn restaurants, where it’s all locally sourced moonshine and heritage groats and fermented parsnip shavings, and you really have to study the damn thing to find something drinkable.

My point: when you come across a handsome man, such as the one banging away at my mother right now, it’s hard not to stare. You feel special. Honored. It’s probably how bird-watchers feel when they’ve been sitting in a treehouse all day, with their binoculars and their water-resistant pants, and they finally catch a glimpse of a rare three-toed grackle or whatever. There’s that same sense of wonder and delight.

Except they don’t want to fuck the grackle.

Or maybe they do. Maybe that’s the point of bird-watching. I don’t know.

They are
really
going at it.

I’m going to stop watching now.

You know what, though? I’m happy that Mom has found someone. I tend to think of her as this sad old nun. She was so heartbroken when Dad left her. So bereft. She eventually recovered, but she never dated while I was growing up. She threw all her energy into two things: her business, and me. In her more maudlin moments, she would say that my father was the only man for her.

Oh.

Oh,
no.

People sometimes refer to a man as “devastatingly handsome.” It’s an apt phrase. A truly gorgeous man can buckle your knees. Kill you a little inside. Because there he is, proof that perfection has existed out
in the world, all this time, but it’s not for the likes of you. All you can do is gaze, lingeringly, dream a little, and thank the gods for this little foretaste of heaven.

That becomes a little complicated, though, if you also happen to call that man—

“Dad!” I shout, pounding my fist on the window.

They fly apart. Oh, God—total nudity! I quickly retreat to the front yard.

My father is a devastatingly, painfully, ridiculously handsome man. He’s pushing fifty, but he’s got it all going on. A full head of wavy black hair, barely starting to grey. An athletic body. An unlined face with a pair of amazing green eyes. He would have been a great movie star, because he’s charismatic as hell. He’s also got this patrician, British thing going on that’s pretty irresistible. If you’re into that sort of thing.