Emily was disgusted with herself for knowing the answer. She had learned it in Sunday School, but had not until this moment wondered why the Pharisees were ready to stone the woman but never deigned to consider punishing the man with whom she’d been caught red-handed.
“Do you know the verse?” Esther asked.
Emily recited by rote. “‘He lifted up Himself and said unto them, he that is without sin among you, let him first cast a stone at her.’”
“Precisely.” Esther nodded approvingly. “Reagan understands that good people can sometimes make mistakes. You know that he was divorced before he married Nancy.”
Emily nodded along with her mother as if she gave a shit about Ronald Reagan’s personal life. Emily was not an adulterous woman. She had not knowingly made a mistake.
“Ronnie told me that your father and I have set an admirable example by supporting you through this difficult time. He said it showed great strength of character.”
“Oh,” Emily said, as if everything was clear now. “If Reagan says you’re not a hypocritical coward, then what the fuck does your own daughter know?”
“I told you to watch your language.” Esther stood up from the table. The conversation ended that abruptly. “Place the pumpkin seeds by the bar in the parlor. Your father will be home soon. I want to make sure dinner is on the table by the time he is out of the shower. Your grandmother will probably …”
Esther’s entreaties faded away as Emily carried the bowl of pumpkin seeds toward the parlor. She should’ve known better than to attempt to argue with a woman whose career had been built on winning arguments.
But it was more than that.
Emily would never get through to her mother, mostly because the judge would always stand in the way. Esther was the housewife, the gardener, the food heater-upper, the mom, the daughter-in-law, the occasional field trip chaperone. The judge was the one whose principal design was to project strength. Everyone described her as intimidating. She held forth at parties like a scholar. Her opinions were circulated as if she was a deity. She wielded her intelligence like a sword. She ruled over her courtroom like a queen.
And then she came home and her husband pounded the shit out of her.
Emily ate a handful of pumpkin seeds. They crunched between her teeth. Instead of going into the parlor, she pushed open the patio door. Cold air whipped her hair around her face. She hugged the pumpkin seeds close to her chest.
Despite Sisyphus repeatedly rolling his rock across her body in the family kitchen, Emily smiled at the thought of seeing Jack. She would take him a plate of food once dinner was over. He generally subsisted on candy bars and beef jerky when he spent nights in the shed. At least going by the wrappers Emily cleaned out the next day. The pumpkin seeds would tide him over for a while.
The warped shed door hadn’t shut all the way. Emily would bring Jack one of the spare duvets from the closet. He never complained about the cold, but it was particularly brutal this time of year. There was no insulation in the shed. Even a slight breeze could rattle the single-paned glass like a train chugging down the tracks.
Emily paused outside the door, listening. Her heart felt shattered when she heard a low moan. Every time she told herself she was completely alone in the world, she should remind herself of what Jack was going through. Esther was a sanctimonious hypocrite and Franklin was a tyrant, but at least Emily wasn’t spending Thanksgiving in a cold shed.
She leaned down, thinking she could leave the bowl of seeds for him, but then she heard the moan again. Her heart ached for him. Emily had seen Jack cry before. More than a few times, to be honest. The distance he was keeping from her at school had been hurtful, but he was still her friend.
Emily pushed open the door.
At first, she wasn’t sure what she was seeing. Her mind could not make sense of it.
Clay’s back was to the door. Jack’s hands were braced against the workbench. She thought they were fighting. Wrestling. Playing. But then she saw that Clay’s pants were down around his ankles. Jack moaned again. The bench shook as Clay thrust into him.
They were having sex.
9
Andrea repeated her question. “What’s in the briefcase?”
Instead of responding, the judge’s gaze rested on Franklin Vaughn. There was no emotion on her face, no gesture of love between them. The man who had been her husband for almost half a century was going to be dead in a matter of hours. Esther herself was not going to be long behind him.
She told Andrea, “When I was given the news about my cancer, I attempted to put my affairs in order. Franklin had always managed that aspect of our lives. I assumed that the wills were in the safe along with all the financial documents. I was correct, but I had not anticipated that I would find this as well.”
Esther reached down, struggling to lift the briefcase from the floor. Andrea went around the bed to help her. The case was lighter than she expected. She lifted it with one hand onto the judge’s lap.
“Thank you.” Esther’s fingers rolled the combination. The locks clicked open.
Andrea was standing over her, so she could see inside. Sheafs of papers, a few manila envelopes, and an older-looking laptop with the power cord still attached.
“Franklin was always far more technically inclined than I.” Esther looked up at Andrea. “He recorded all of his conversations with Wexler. The Fontaine boy makes several appearances, too. There are audio recordings of the earlier meetings. Later, it appears that Franklin secreted a video camera in the bookcase so he could capture the negotiations. One in particular is very damning. They structured a land charity using Fontaine to hide a conservation easement that netted Wexler over three million dollars. The federal statute of limitations for conspiracy and continuing offenses begins not with the original act, but upon abandonment, withdrawal, or the accomplishment of the conspiracy’s objectives. The blackmail alone has lasted nearly four decades. The trick with fraud is to prove intent. The video recordings provide ample proof. You have them dead to rights.”
Andrea should have felt elated, but all she could summon was anger. This information had been available for decades. “Why didn’t Franklin—he could have—”
“Yes, Franklin could have exposed them years ago. He shares the legal blame, but the moral failure is entirely mine.” Esther’s lips pursed as she tried to collect herself. “I told myself that the difference of a few months would be inconsequential. Thanks to the death threats, Judith and Guinevere would be under twenty-four-hour protection. Bible would go to the literal ends of the earth to ensure their safety. I would reach the end of my life on my own terms. Wexler and Fontaine would be exposed after I was gone. No one else would be hurt. At least I told myself that, but I was wrong, wasn’t I?”
Andrea felt the lump come back into her throat. “Alice Poulsen.”
“Yes, Alice Poulsen.” Esther reached into the briefcase, but only to rest her hand on a thick manila envelope. She looked Andrea in the eye. “My cowardice cost another parent their child. I did not earn a peaceful death. I do not deserve it.”
Andrea watched her pull the envelope from the briefcase. The label was handwritten—
To be delivered to Leonard Bible upon my death.
Esther said, “This contains copies of all of the supporting documents for the original land transfer, the conservation easement and the charitable land trust. The laptop has all of the recordings, video and audio, as well as pertinent emails, wire transactions, bank account routing numbers and tax documents. You’ll find dates, times, locations, steps taken when they forced me to intervene in legal matters. I’ve included a summation on top outlining the case. Dean Wexler and Bernard Fontaine can be charged for tax evasion, tax fraud, wire fraud—countless other crimes. It’s all in here.”