The Executor (37 page)

In retrospect it seems obvious that the class should have succeeded. People in prison have nothing to do but think, and their confinement tangibly demonstrates the power of abstractions: love, hate, desire, vengeance, justice, punishment, freedom, hope. They might not have all the jargon down, but they have more than enough energy and fervor to fill an hour every other week. They are, I believe, the perfect students.

With Adam’s help, too, I have begun a correspondence course. It took a fair bit of digging to find an accredited Ph.D. program. I wrote to Linda to see if she’d arrange to send a transcript, enabling me to skip some of the prerequisites. She never replied. It’s just as well. I’m starting from scratch, however you look at it.

 

 

I HEAR FROM DREW that Yasmina’s wedding was an affair to remember. She and Pedram live in Los Angeles, where he works for her father. She’s due next spring.

 

 

THERE HAS BEEN considerable legal wrangling over Alma’s estate. Citing health problems, Palatine recused himself as executor, throwing a major kink into the process. Taxes needed paying; my lawyers (I now have several) needed paying. Andrei has brought a civil suit. And so forth, everyone grabbing for their piece of the pie.

Leaping into the fray is a certain nonprofit organization that pursues compensation for victims of the Holocaust. Eric knew whereof he spoke when he said that Alma’s family had worked for the Third Reich. It’s unclear whether the estate will be forced to pay, less clear how much, still less which creditor takes precedence. What about the money held in trust? What about interest? I don’t keep close tabs on the various motions and maneuverings. It’s a mess for other people to sort out. Even if anything is left for me, I’ll never get to use it. Which is fine by me.

In this way, prison becomes me. I have a roof over my head. I have three meals a day. I have books, and students, and time. Nobody is looking over my shoulder. Here, my opinions carry weight. I am respected. Once I believed that I stood above the judgment of the world, and while that continues to feel less true every day, I do take some small satisfaction in knowing that I’ve found a home. Alma once suggested to me that freedom obtains when we think of it. If this is true, then I ought to be the freest man on earth. And who’s to say I’m not? When I am outside, walking the yard, I look up at the great gray walls, at rows of tiny portals and curls of barbed wire and cameras and floodlights and towers presided over by shadows—I look at these instruments of control, and I know that none of them can penetrate my mind. I picture the teeming mass held in by those walls; I consider my place among that mass; and I think:
my ivory tower.

The one thing I miss is the bookend. The police took it away as evidence, and anyway, I’d never be allowed to keep such a sharp, heavy object in my cell. I don’t know where it is. In a storage locker, perhaps, in a box. My friend. I wish him well.

As for remorse: yes, I feel it. Of course I do. I took two lives, wrecked at least one family, brought shame and grief to myself and those I love. Of course I wish things had turned out differently. Sometimes, when I am in the mood, I imagine other possible worlds, worlds in which I am not this person but another. I think about Alma. I think about my brother. I weave together past and present, meditating on the foregone. It’s a silly game, giving reasons, pointing fingers, and I ought to know better by now. But I can’t help myself. It’s in my nature to wonder. It’s who I am.

I am indebted to Professor Alexi Burgess of Stanford University, whose critique of an early draft proved invaluable in crafting the final product. He is a patient and thoughtful editor, and should be held blameless for any errors, omissions, or philosophical grotesquerie. Thanks also to Luvh Rakhe, Elisabeth Mecking, Wes Shih, Jeff Forer, Dr. Eric Banks, Gary Banks, Rabbi Dr. James Davis, Jonathan Davis, Jes Handley, and Officer Jesse Grant of the Berkeley, California, Police Department.

I am blessed to count as friends the writers Norman Lasca, Saul Austerlitz, Harlan Coben, Owen King, and Gregg Hurwitz. Their encouragement and fellowship have buoyed me.

Thanks to Chris Pepe, Ivan Held, Amy Brosey, and all at Putnam; David Shelley and the entire team at Little, Brown; Amanda Ross, and Richard and Judy; Liza, Havis, and Victoria.

Thanks to my parents and siblings.

Once again, everything herein is my wife’s as much as mine.

Welcome, Oscar.