White Man's Problems (15 page)

“So he is no longer at the bank?”

“He stayed a broker of some kind. I don't think he's a big deal—it's sort of an excuse to get out of the house. He probably manages his trust fund. They are loaded…
loaded
. Plus, Vera works. She's making bazillions.”

Stevens nodded. “They do well at Allderdyce.”

“He said he missed me, never stopped thinking about me, and on and on. Oh, goddamn it, it sounds horrible.” Carole Lee's hand was on her stomach. “And that we could be together finally—I'm so stupid, I thought he really meant it. We only did it that one night.” She saw Stevens' expression and stopped.

“Have you discussed the future?”

She looked away again. “He was fantastic at first. I thought he was actually happy. He was very scared of telling Vera, of course.” She took a tissue from an end table. “She's such a witch.” She blew her nose. “Eliot, I am so sorry, really. I just don't know who else to talk to.”

“Please,” he said. “Of course you should come to me.” He kept on with his questions. “Has he told her?”

“It was horrible. It turned into a mess as soon as he did. She went crazy. He quit calling me. Then when he did call me, he told me to talk to his lawyer. ‘George is great,' he said. As though the lawyer was going to help.”

“Is it George Dandridge?”

“Yes.” She turned her head sideways. “Wow, how did you know that?”

“There's a small circle in our world. Has George told you to get a lawyer?”

“No.”

“Ok.” Stevens reached for his pen.

“I thought it better to do whatever Tim asked. I know it sounds stupid. But I had this idea that he would leave her…”

“Never mind. You are here now.”

“You don't mind, Eliot? Of course, I will pay you.”

“Nonsense…” he said. He looked at his yellow pad in a manner that would show her he was shifting into attorney mode. Her eyes dipped in appreciation. “Let's get started here. I need to know about all of the events specifically and any contact…”

“Yes, ok. You trained me well, Eliot. I have everything he's sent. And the test results.”

“You've taken
tests
?”

“Uh-huh. Several. I wouldn't do an amnio, though. Not yet, at least.”

“Ok,” Stevens said, with a slight hint of anger. He felt from Carole Lee the surge of relief clients give off at the flex of protection, but it was more intense—more internal—than he usually received from the “let's get 'em”
of the men of the commercial world. “I know this must be terrible for you. The most important thing…” He pulled back from the bromide—not his specialty and rarely helpful. “How far along are you?”

“She sent me the worst e-mail.”

“Who? The wife?”

“I don't even want to show you.”

***

Stevens had called George Dandridge and informed him that he would be handling the case by the time Carole Lee forwarded all the correspondence and test results. Since it did no good to attack lawyers like Dandridge—savvy white-shoe creatures who operated according to their own set of rules—Stevens was cordial. Dandridge was suitably surprised and worried: it did not take much to see that the Browning family was in deep, and it was implicit between the lawyers that Dandridge had deepened the amount of shit they were in with
ex parte
communications with Carole Lee. Stevens spent the rest of the day ruminating over the proper moves to make. He felt terrible for Carole Lee's mess but couldn't deny he also had the tingle of leverage.

But even in the state in which Stevens found himself, he was not prepared for the message from Carole Lee when he checked his e-mail before going off to bed:

Eliot—I had to down a glass of wine to send this to you. I don't even want you to see it. Please don't think less of me. I think knowing this would have to come out is what almost stopped me from coming to you in the first place. Here it is:

Hi Carole Lee, this is Vera, Tim's wife. That's right, the guy you fucked in order to get pregnant. Congrats! You've succeeded…HOWEVER…what I don't understand is why you think you are in the position to raise a child? You have no job! you are by yourself! and you are obviously too stupid for words as getting pregnant underscores! Why don't you have an abortion and do what is best for this unwanted child? Do you know how horrible this child will feel—knowing how they were conceived and born only because a stupid woman wanted to play Mommy? Do you think my husband actually cares for you? He does feel badly about this child being brought into this world, but he doesn't give a fuck about you—you were a one-night stand. Why can't you do something constructive in your wasted life and dissolve this pregnancy? is this all about money? Because some money can be made available for you—and if you had any sense, that is what you would ask for. Fact: you are DUMB! Fact: you are POOR and don't have a job, career, or any prospects! Fact: no man wants a woman with a bastard child! Fact: you are thirty-five and your looks are not much to begin with! Fact: my husband doesn't give a real damn about you—oh, I forgot you guys have a real bond—you made him ejaculate! GREAT FOR YOU! I've got an idea—maybe you can do that for a living. I take it back—you are good for something. You are not fit to be a mother—not sure if you are fit to be here at all!

Stevens stopped reading. He must have made a noise, because Maribeth was at the threshold of his small office off the front hallway of the brownstone.

“Honey? Are you ok?” she said.

“What?”

“Is it that Trimark thing? I wish you'd either settle that or send it off.”

Stevens smiled at her, glad to have her think he was just working on a nasty real-estate closing. “At least all the excitement is making it a good month. Are you going up?”

“Yeah, I'm exhausted. Come watch something with me.” She lingered, looking at him closely, until she decided he was ok and turned to leave. “How about
Downton Abbey
?”

“In a minute,” he said. “Go get it ready, ok? I'll bring up something for us to share. We still have the ice cream.”

“Ooh.” She made a little scrunchie face. “Put the Hershey's on it,” she said, her thumb and forefinger an inch apart. “Just a little.”

He watched Maribeth trudge up the stairs and was transported back to the time when Alex was still in diapers, his little butt working his way up the steps, turning sideways for a rest after each one. Stevens had bought the brownstone a year to the day after hanging his shingle. He had not had a slow moment since, hitting the ground running by subletting from a small firm in the Empire State Building, of all places. Rents were cheap twenty years ago, and Stevens found he could bill 175 hours a month easily among three or four real-estate developers. There was so much more time available to focus on the work when he didn't need to play the politics of making partner. It was a cliché, to be sure, but it was the best thing that had ever happened to him. Stevens thought of his father, as he always did when circumstances stopped him flat, and the kind way he had said, “Son, you don't always need the things you think will fix you. That's why you call a doctor.” Stevens wrote an e-mail:

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Re: Browning/Bingham

CONFIDENTIAL SETTLEMENT COMMUNICATION

Dear George, as you can see from the hour, I am writing you under abnormal circumstances. Please take a long look at the attached e-mail from Vera Browning to my client. I will spare you the litany of possibilities this presents to you and the Browning family. I will also resist the temptation to scold your client for indolence and outright barbarity. Given our long relationship, out of courtesy to you alone, I will hold off on filing anything with the court until I hear from you—but, George, do get back to me ASAP. All rights and remedies are hereby reserved in the premises. Eliot.

Within the half hour, a response came:

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Re: Browning/Bingham

CONFIDENTIAL SETTLEMENT COMMUNICATION

Eliot, thank you for the below and for your forbearance. I will call you in the morning to discuss resolving this unfortunate situation before any more harm is inflicted upon either side.

I also want to give you the heads-up that you will be receiving a personal call from Mrs. Browning. As irregular as it sounds (it's safe to say we're both in pretty strange territory), you can take the call, and permission is hereby granted to speak to her directly. She understands the ramifications.

Once again, Eliot, your professionalism and friendship is appreciated in this most troublesome matter. The litigators can get this case soon enough anyway—I'm not sure either of us has a large enough magic wand at this point to accomplish a good result. Oh, for the good old days.

Unless you request otherwise, I will give her both your office number and your mobile.

Customary reservation of rights and settlement privilege.

Thanks again,

George

Stevens smiled as he read. Dandridge had a smoothness cultivated over a career filled with the management of rich men's secrets. Cornered and with devastating evidence of a client gone rogue, George had played a wily card: familiarity. Against all good practice, Dandridge had gotten chummier in his writing (“Oh, for the good old days”) than protocol allowed. He was preparing the mood in which he would have to negotiate the painful settlement that was coming for the Brownings. It was artful and something a pedestrian lawyer would have not risked.

Stevens tried to draw a profile of Vera, like a cop sizing up a pulled-over driver. He spent a little time on the Internet, and based on that research and Carole Lee's commentary, he was able to imagine a brilliant, ball-busting first-generation Russian woman who used wits and everything else to make it in the lion's den of Allderdyce. She would have been in the right place at the right time, coming of age at the firm just as the Russian and Eastern Bloc economies were opening. The well-positioned Wall Street firms made billions in that window of privatization. Vera must have leveraged her business drive and dazzle into a partnership. At the time, promoting her would have allowed management to check off two boxes: female and expanding markets. Next, Stevens assumed, came a romantic liaison, followed by a period in which she overpowered the resistance of the blue-blooded Brownings with pure personality. She probably would have contrasted her forcefulness with an unexpectedly endearing subordination to family traditions and somehow found that rare place where the established make a calculated acceptance of outsiders, the way Augusta admitted women. Ultimately there would have been marriage to the malleable Tim—whose parents probably factored in the scion's limitations—and then, after a few children, Vera was set. Big job, big money, big status—a long way from the apartment of two academics on the outskirts of Saint Petersburg.

As Stevens waited for the call the next day, he busied himself with the treble and strife of his daily grind. He reviewed a master commercial lease for CCR violations, spoke to the general counsel of an electrical-engineering firm being acquired by a conglomerate, and dictated a purchase and sale agreement for the physical equipment related to the transaction. All the while he planned his confrontation with the Russian. Should he set her up? She was obviously unhinged—he wondered if he should goad her into saying even more than she'd already written in the e-mail. Or should he play the nice guy and tell her he would help in any way he could to get some sort of peaceful result? He did feel for her after all—her life was being ripped apart.

Line two lit up.

“Eliot Stevens.”

“Hello, Mr. Stevens. This is Vera Browning. I believe you are expecting my call.” Her voice was professional but shaky and betrayed just slightly that English was not her first language.

“I am. George Dandridge told me you'd be calling and he said it was ok for us to speak directly. What can I do for you?”

“Hah,” she said, the sarcasm aggressive through the phone. “I suppose you can do a lot.”

“Listen, Mrs. Browning, I have to tell you—this feels like an awkward call…”

“Let's cut through it, ok?”

Stevens went quiet. After a second he said, “Ok. Go ahead.”

“Good. Let's begin. Your client is attempting to ruin my life. Let's begin with that. Let's also begin with me telling you it is not something I will allow. She is a stupid slut who manipulated my idiot husband into this situation.”

“Mrs. Browning, this conversation isn't going to go very far if you continue to use personal insults. I'm just not going to listen to it.”

“Oh please,” she said, the hint of accent blending into picked-up New Yorkese. “I can't believe this.” A gasket blew. “You know what?
Spare
me, ok? Just fucking
spare
me. You think you can come in here and be some kind of shakedown prick?”

Stevens, as prepared as he thought he was, hesitated. But only for a moment, and then he went into the opening. “Ok, ok. Listen, Mrs. Browning, you need to understand how much money you are spending with each word you say. Do you have
any idea
how much I love what you are saying? Do you?” Stevens paused for effect and then took his tone down a notch. “You may not realize this, but I'm the last reasonable person you are going to talk to. You think things are bad now…wait till I give that e-mail—in which you humiliated yourself, by the way—to a lawyer who would like to do nothing more than attach the assets of you, your husband, your husband's family, and, depending on how clever they want to get, perhaps a bit of Allderdyce's insurance. I'm sure your partners will like that. I'm sure your husband's grandfather will like that.” He reduced his tone once more. “Really, this is shocking—a woman of your intelligence putting stuff like this out in writing—you should know better.”