Randall #01 - The Best Revenge (22 page)

Chapter 22—La Traviata

Camilla remained silent. That was her right. It seemed to be her only right, and she clung to it. She had no idea how long it had been since she’d spoken. There was no way to tell time. It was never dark, and there were no windows. They’d taken her watch. They’d taken everything. Then they’d put her in room full of awful women—sick, throwing-up women—and later they gave her a quarter and told her to make her phone call.

She would have spoken then, if she’d been able to think of anybody to call, but she didn’t know anybody in Los Angeles. That was where they’d brought her—Los Angeles. The trip in the police car took so long that she half-expected to find herself in San Francisco. Not that it would have made any difference. She didn’t know anybody there, either. A quarter would only reach a local number.

She did try to call Plantagenet’s number in Laguna Beach, but only got the awful wailing sound that meant it was a toll call. While she tried to decide whether to reverse the charges and risk the humiliation of having Angela refuse the call, a woman guard kept telling her to hurry. Finally, she relinquished the phone and gave her quarters back.

Everything after that was a blur. She’d been pushed and pulled through a series of little rooms where people did things to her—terrible things, some of them—and sometimes she cried, and sometimes she stood very still, trying to pretend she wasn’t really there—and that the body that was being poked and humiliated and had no privacy, even to go to the bathroom, was not hers at all. She tried to imagine she was somewhere else—riding Lord Peter over the green Connecticut hills or lying by the pool at the house in Barbados, or curled up in Mrs. Ritchie’s lap while Mrs. Ritchie watched
The Guiding
Light
on the nursery television.

At least now she was alone. A little while ago, after the seventh or eighth time she was given some stale white bread with gray bologna to stave off her hunger, a guard brought her to a cell by herself. It was tiny and cold and had nothing in it but a toilet with no seat and a metal shelf to lie on, but at least it didn’t smell quite as terrible as the others. And there were no scornful or angry faces to look at her. She stared at the gray concrete block wall and thought of all the books she had started and never finished because they were too boring and knew she would give anything to have the most boring of those books at the moment.

She heard the rattle of metal and the sound of footsteps that meant one of the guards was coming. She steeled herself for another bologna sandwich.

The door was opened by a guard with enormous breasts. She carried a pair of handcuffs, which she snapped around Camilla’s wrists. This meant she was being moved again. Every time they moved her anywhere, they made her wear handcuffs. The cuffs were heavy and felt like ice.

“OK, Randall,” the guard said. “Let’s go. Your lawyer’s here.”

“Not my lawyer,” Camilla wanted to say. “I don’t have a lawyer. I don’t have anybody.” But she didn’t say it. She remained silent. That was her right.

The guard put her in another small, cold room and locked the door. This room had a wood-grain metal table, some plastic chairs, and a fluorescent light that hummed. A few minutes later, she heard the sound of a key in the lock.

A man entered. He was small and sandy-haired, with a sprinkling of freckles on an upturned nose. His hair needed combing, and he was obviously fighting a losing battle with a cowlick. Except for a small ginger-colored moustache, he looked like Dennis the Menace in a three-piece suit.

He grinned at Camilla. “Ah,
La Traviata
.” he said. “
La Dame Aux Camellias
!” He shook her hand as he sat in the chair opposite. “How do you do, Camille. I’m D. Glendower Jones.”

She tried to return his smile. She wanted to tell him that he had her name wrong, but she hated to start out on the wrong foot with the only person who had smiled at her since she came to this terrible place.

“You can talk to me, you know,” Mr. Jones said. “The court has appointed me your lawyer. They tell me you’ve taken the right to silence quite literally. Since you didn’t respond when you were asked if you had your own lawyer, it was assumed you required the services of a public defender. That’s me. Is that satisfactory?”

She gave a polite nod.

“You are able to speak, aren’t you?” Mr. Jones leaned over the table. He had clear, hazel eyes that studied her as if he were looking into her brain. They made her so uncomfortable, she focused on his tie instead. It was a gray and wine print Countess Mara: handsome and somehow comforting.

“Are you able to speak?” he said in a loud voice.

“Yes, of course,” she said, trying to dispel his anger. “That’s a very nice tie. You can always rely on a Countess Mara, don’t you think?”

He leaned back in his chair and looked as if he were about to laugh, but he didn’t. “You’ll be seeing a lot of it. I only have three ties.” He smiled. “Now, Camille—”

She wanted to correct him, but ended up making a noise like a cough.

“Is something wrong?” he said.

“Of course. Everything is wrong. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?” She smiled, trying to make him feel more comfortable. “But I have to tell you my name’s not really Camille. It’s Camilla. I’m sorry. That ruins your joke about
La Traviata
doesn’t it?”

Mr. Jones seemed upset by this information. He took a pile of papers out of his briefcase and started leafing through them.

“Right,” he said finally. “The warrant said Camilla, but you were booked as Camille. It probably started as a typo, but that’s what went onto the news release. I know I read ‘Camille’ in the
Times
.”

“Oh, no! It’s in the
New York Times
? That I’m in jail?” Had her mother heard?

Mr. Jones laughed. “
New York Times, L.A. Times
, London
Times
. You name it; you’re there, Ms. Randall. Page One. You’ve been the lead story on all the TV networks for two days. You’re what they call a major media event. I could hardly make it in here; this place is so mobbed with reporters.”

She felt her neck go cold. This couldn’t be happening.

“How horrible!”

“Not necessarily,” he said. “It may work in our favor. The public loves glamorous celebrities.”

“I’m hardly a glamorous celebrity.” She stuck a wad of sadly untended hair behind her ear.

“You’re as close as I’ve ever been to one.” He smiled and handed her his handkerchief. “That’s why I came in with the feeble literary references. I was a little nervous about meeting you.”

“Nervous about meeting me?”

“I’ve never defended an international playgirl before. Neither have any of my colleagues. Playgirls don’t require the services of a public defender, as a rule. I had quite a battle getting this case, as a matter of fact.”

“You fought to defend me? You wanted this job?” That was rather comforting.

“Of course. The D.A.’s case is full of holes, and the drug charges are so flimsy that I think I can get them dropped immediately.”

“I’m so glad that somebody believes I’m innocent.” She relaxed a bit.

“Innocent? Innocent of what, Camille—or should I just call you Camel?”

“I’m innocent of everything. I didn’t kill anybody and I don’t take drugs. It’s all a stupid mistake.”

“I’ll tell you what’s a stupid mistake.” He leaned forward, his voice suddenly hard. “It’s a stupid mistake to lie to your lawyer. I know the investigation team didn’t find anything in your apartment. But the D.A. has a vial of cocaine with your fingerprints on it—found on Jon-Don Parker’s body. Plus a number of eyewitnesses who saw a lot of drug-taking going on at your party. Not to mention, of course, the witness who said you were at Parker’s house that night, and that you have been there many times, supplying him with drugs, over a period of several months. So don’t bullshit me, OK?”

“What witness?” This made no sense.

“Gertrude Goldblatt. She said you seduced her boyfriend, gave her drugs to get rid of her, and then had a party with Parker that resulted in his death. Is that the way it happened, Camel?”

“Don’t call me that, please. It’s all stupid. I’ve never seduced anyone. Certainly not that slug, Jon-Don.”

“A lot of people saw you take Parker into your bedroom. Ms. Randall. I’m supposed to convince a jury you asked him there to play tiddlywinks?”

The tone of his voice was so mean that she felt the sting of tears.

“I’d like to hear your side of the story, Camilla. And so, I might add, would the major television networks and half the reporters in the free world. It would help to have them on our side.”

“Do I have to be photographed?” She grabbed her limp hair and sniffed back the threatening tears. “You can keep them away from me, can’t you? The cameras?”

“Probably. As long as you’re in custody.”

“How long will that be?”

“At least until I can prove you’re telling the truth about your financial situation.”

“Why is that?”

“Because the D.A. is asking the judge to set bail at one million dollars.”

Chapter 23—Mrs. Lester Stokes Does Not Go To Bergdorf’s

Camilla made another attempt to fluff her hopelessly limp hair with her fingers. She’d had to wash it with hand soap, and it felt as awful as it looked. She studied her reflection in the metal mirror. The gray image that stared back looked like something undead.

“Will you move it, bitch?” said a voice behind her. “You think you’re the only one’s got visitors today?”

Camilla stepped aside and let the large black woman have her place at the mirror.

The woman’s name was Ronnelle, and she was one of the few prisoners who had ever spoken to her. Ronnelle was accused of killing her drunken husband by drowning him in a toilet bowl.

“Sure I flushed him,” she told Camilla. “He was shit, so I flushed him. Nobody beats on my kids.”

Now Ronnelle was applying dark make-up to a red scar under her eye. She stopped and held out a tube of fuchsia-colored lipstick.

“Here,” she said. “Put this on. You about the whitest white bitch I ever saw.”

Camilla thanked her and applied the lipstick politely, although the color didn’t do much but make the rest of her face paler.

“Randall, move your butt. Your people are here,” said a guard.

“Better run,” Ronnelle said. “They only give you a half-hour.”

~

The guard led Camilla down the corridor. They walked slowly. She found it an effort to put one foot in front of the other. She felt as if she had been walking down this long, gray corridor forever. She knew that she had only been in jail for a little over a week: she had been arrested on a Friday night, and this was the second Saturday morning.

But she felt as if she’d spent half her life here. Her arraignment had been on Wednesday, but that seemed like weeks ago. The preliminary hearing wouldn’t be for another month, and Mr. Jones said the trial wouldn’t happen for at least two months after that. By then she’d feel as if she had been here a hundred years. She didn’t allow herself to imagine what living would be like if they found her guilty.

The punishment for being “presumed innocent” was already unbearable.

She looked at the door ahead that led to the visiting room. She was not sure she wanted visitors. Mr. Jones said lots of people had been asking to see her, but she couldn’t imagine who they could be. She didn’t really have any friends, except Plantagenet—if he was still her friend.

The “visitors” were probably reporters. Mr. Jones said he’d try to keep them out, but she didn’t have much faith in the powers of a man who couldn’t seem to control his own hair.

The guard led her to a small room, divided in half by a glass partition. On Camilla’s side she saw a stool and a counter with a telephone on it. On the other side was Plantagenet, with his hand on the shoulder of Angela Harper. Behind them, in animated mid-jabber was Violet Rushforth.

When he saw Camilla, Plantagenet dove for the phone on the other side of the glass. She picked up hers.

“Darling! Darling, are you all right?”

“I guess so,” she said.

“You don’t look it. Are you sick? They do have doctors in there, don’t they?”

“Thank you,” she said, with thick sarcasm. “Angela looks well.”

She glanced at Angela, radiant in a simple linen dress belted with an embroidered sash that showed off her tiny waist.

“That’s just make-up, darling. She’s exhausted. She’s been working round-the-clock to organize a ‘Free Camilla Randall’ campaign.”

“Angela wants to free me?”

“She sees you as a political prisoner. She’s got a lot of feminist groups to take up your cause. They feel that you’ve been set up because you gave up the life of a jet-set heiress to live in poverty and work for the radical left.”

“But Plantagenet…” Camilla half-heartedly returned the smile Angela gave her from across the room. “You know I didn’t exactly choose this...”

“What I know,” he said, looking into her eyes, “…is that the sweet, innocent woman I love is sitting in jail, and Angela Harper can help to get her out.” He gave a short laugh. “And there’s big support for you in the Hispanic community. Angela’s been circulating reprints of that article you wrote on the plight of the undocumented worker.”

“But I never—you mean the penguin thing?” Camilla giggled. She kept giggling. She didn’t seem to be able to stop.

“Darling, I know how awful it must be, but please try to pull yourself together. We have so little time.” Plant’s eyes were moist. “Angela needs to ask you some questions. Please try to remember that she’s on your side.”

Angela took the phone, sat on the stool and gave Camilla a dazzling smile.

“I know how awful it is in there. I’ve done some time as a political prisoner myself, as you know.”

As Camilla tried to think of something polite to say, the door on the visitor’s side of the partition flew open. Sweeping past the guard was a whirlwind of mauve wool jersey and sable. With a wave of her arm, Mrs. Lester Stokes brushed Angela Harper off the stool like some inconvenient cat and took possession of the telephone.

“Camilla, you are not in jail. It’s simply too dreadful. So is that Los Angeles airport. I only have a minute. Lester thinks I’m at Bergdorf’s.”

“Hello, Mother.” Camilla tried to smooth her hair as her mother scrutinized her through the glass.

Her mother bit her lip in stoic pain.

“All I can say is, I hope you have no concept of how perfectly awful you look. But don’t worry. I anticipated this. I’ve brought you a whole line of Lancôme: make-up, shampoo, skin cream…” She narrowed her eyes as she appraised Camilla’s face. “I’m afraid, though, that the make-up may be all wrong. I assumed you’d have a tan. You live in California. I can’t imagine what you find to do here if you don’t go to the beach.”

Her mother slipped off her sable coat and draped it across her lap.

“It’s ridiculously warm here,” she said. “It was ten degrees when I left New York. I haven’t brought you any clothes, since they tell me that everyone is compelled to wear those—things.” She gestured at Camilla’s faded prison shirt and pants and leaned forward to scrutinize them. “What do you call that color, green?”

“I think it’s blue,” Camilla said.

Her mother went on. “Of course you’ll need clothes for later. So I’ve got some things on hold. You’ll want some good, conservative things for the trial. Giorgio has a suit in a nice menswear stripe, and Porfirio’s offered—well, I’ll send you four or five outfits to start. You don’t know how long the trial will last, I suppose?”

Camilla had no idea how to respond.

“Oh, and Camilla, dear, I do wish I could get you out of there, but you know I haven’t a penny of my own these days, and Lester simply won’t budge. He lets me spend all I want on clothes—I wish the bail people would take a Bergdorf’s card—but then I don’t know what I’d do with you anyway. Lester is such a pill.”

Camilla pressed the phone receiver to her ear, hoping she was hearing right.

“Lester was terrible to your father. He’s the one who pulled in all those loans that made the bank collapse, you know. I found that out after the wedding. He was supposed to go hunting with your father on the day of the…gun incident. I haven’t been able to forgive Lester for spreading the rumor it was suicide. But I’ll think of something.”

Camilla tried to make words. Everything she suspected. It was true.

“Lester—he knew Dad? He worked with him? He was there on the day he died?”

Her mother sighed. “Oh, yes. I introduced them. I can’t remember why. Lester insisted he wanted to know about fox hunting. I knew he had some shady financial deal going, but I had no idea he’d make your father take the blame…” She stopped herself with a sniff. “But I want you to know I’m planning for the future.”

“You’re going to divorce him?”

 “Don’t be stupid, dear. But I have made Despina learn to make all sorts of cholesterol-laden desserts, and I’ve hired a weekend cook who does those greasy, southern-fried-in-pig-fat things. Lester has a very bad heart.”

Her mother smiled as if she had made a world of sense and glanced at her watch.

“I’m sorry, but I’ve got to get back to the airport. The taxi is waiting. Oh, and I’ve brought you some things to read—
Mademoiselle
,
Vanity Fair
, and the new
Vogue
. At least you can do something constructive with your time while you’re here.”

With a wave, her mother started for the door, but at the sight of Violet, she stopped dead. She surveyed the old woman from the purple bow in her white ringlets to the lavender running shoes that clashed dismally with her new jogging suit. Covering a look of pained confusion with a cough, her mother resumed her stride toward the exit.

Angela moved toward the phone, but Violet grabbed the phone first and plunked herself down on the stool.

“Now, Camellia,” Violet said. “I told your girlfriend she’s just going to have to wait, because I don’t want to forget all the things I’m supposed to tell you. That boss of yours—Genghis what’s-his-name—made me memorize all these things to say to you. They won’t let any newspaper people in here, so he’s waiting outside.”

“Jonathan is here? To see me?” Camilla was elated for a moment until a second thought came to her. “Oh, he probably came here with Angela, didn’t he?”

“No,” Violet said. “He came with me. How was I supposed to get here? You know I’m not supposed to drive.”

Violet Rushforth and Jonathan Kahn. Not easy to picture together.

“I didn’t know you knew my boss, Violet.”

“Well, I knew his name, because you told me. I remembered on account of old Charlie Gengris. After those men took you away, and the police made such a mess of your apartment, well, the first thing I did the next morning was go over to that newspaper of yours and ask ‘Mr. Genghis Kahn, what are you going to do about it?’ I would have called Planty, but I didn’t know where he lived, and I wasn’t sure how you were feeling about poor Jamey.”

“You went to the newspaper office?”

“Don’t interrupt me, Camellia. I’ve got important things to say. Genghis brought a box full of papers that the people here are supposed to give you. He said that a week is long enough vacation for anybody and he wants you to get back to work. Dr. Lavinia will die without you—that’s what he said. And oh, yes, and this is very important: Dr. Lavinia’s secret is safe. Whatever that means. And Bob said he’s sorry.”

“He’s sorry?” Poor Bob. He’d only done his job.

Violet took a deep breath. “I think that’s it. I hope that all made more sense to you than it does to me. Now, for myself, I’ve got only one thing I want to say.” She leaned forward so her nose almost touched the glass.

“Did you kill this fellow Jon Parker?”

“No, of course not.”

“Did you sell him drugs?”

“No.”

“Was there any hanky-panky going on between you two?”

“No. There wasn’t.”

For a moment, Violet scrutinized Camilla with a cold, fierce gaze. Then she stood up and smiled.

“Well, it just goes to show, doesn’t it? You can’t always believe what you read in the papers.”

As Violet relinquished the telephone to the hovering Angela, a voice said, “OK, Randall, time’s up.”

Camilla tried to make an apology to Angela, but the guard took her phone and led her back to the long, gray corridor, wondering what awful lies were being said about her on television.

Back in her cell, she stretched out on her metal bed and closed her eyes. She hadn’t slept much for days, and now felt incredibly tired. She thought of Plantagenet’s loving, tearful face and imagined his arms enfolding her as she relaxed into sleep.

She dreamed she walked down gray corridors with doors on either side. The corridors weren’t in the jail, but at the stables of Randall Hall. But all the stalls were empty. In the last one, she found her father’s body slumped over, covered in blood. Behind him was a man with a gun—Lester Stokes. He gave her an evil grin. “It wasn’t an accident, sweet thing,” he said. “It was murder.” He aimed the gun at Camilla’s heart.  She turned and ran—along the corridor, down the staircase and out onto the wide green lawn, where her mother served canapés to luncheon guests in morning coats and flowered hats. She pushed through the crowd, as Lester’s footsteps pounded behind her. She ran until she came to the familiar high, rocky cliffs that looked over Long Island Sound.