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THIS IS PART XV of LARB’s serialization of Seth Greenland’s forthcoming novel The Hazards of Good Fortune. This is the last week of our serialization of the book but it isn’t the end of the novel. To finish the novel, you can pick it up in bookstores or order it upon its release on August 21st. Links to pre-order the book are below.

Greenland’s novel follows Jay Gladstone from his basketball-loving youth to his life as a real estate developer, civic leader, philanthropist, and NBA team owner, and then to it all spiraling out of control.

A film and TV writer, playwright, and author of four previous novels, Greenland was the original host of The LARB Radio Hour and serves on LARB’s board of directors. The Hazards of Good Fortune will be published in book form by Europa Editions on August 21, 2018.

To start with installment one, click here.

To pre-order (and finish the book) on Indiebound, click here; on Amazon, click here; at Barnes & Noble, click here.

Chapter Forty-Nine

The weekend had been taxing for Nicole. She spent most of it holed up in the hotel suite frantically trying to figure out who had hacked her. She still had no idea. Her friend Audrey called on Saturday to commiserate and invite her to Nantucket, but Nicole declined. She felt safer in the city. As far as Nicole’s vague plan to somehow repair her marriage, the release of the tape rendered the degree of difficulty nearly insurmountable. Not only was it humiliating for all the obvious reasons, but she had inadvertently added another layer of stress to Jay’s life, and knew her chances of getting him to reverse his decision existed in inverse proportion to his anxiety. She surmised it was still DEFCON 4 in her husband’s head. She wanted to talk with him but not enough time had passed. Yesterday afternoon she contacted Bebe. To Nicole’s relief, Bebe did not sound angry on the phone, nor was her affect in any way chilly. Jay’s sister made sympathetic noises and when Nicole asked if her sister-in-law would join her for a drink after work the next day Bebe was game.

They met at the Oak Room in the Plaza Hotel. Nicole was in a corner, nibbling mixed nuts, nursing a glass of chardonnay. Bebe sat down and ordered a vodka martini. Nicole thanked her profusely for coming, a crumpled a cocktail napkin in her hand. Nerves. When Bebe asked how she was doing Nicole looked down, shook her head, and moaned. She put the napkin on the table and with the index fingers of each hand proceeded to smooth it out. It was around six, and the bar was starting to fill up with after-work pleasure seekers and several tables of tourists. The waiter placed Bebe’s drink in front of her, glanced at Nicole—did he recognize her? She hoped not—and departed. Bebe took a sip and gazed into Nicole’s watery eyes.

“What possessed you to make a tape?”

“I was drunk; it was idiotic. I was mad at your brother.”

“You were going to show it to him?”

“No. I don’t know. I wish I could unwind everything.” She told Bebe about their fight before he left for Africa, her desire to have a child, his unwillingness, and her resentment. “I keep telling myself I’m going to call my therapist who I haven’t talked to in five years, but I don’t want him to judge me.”

“He’s a therapist. They’re not allowed to judge you.” One of the many reasons social success accrued to Nicole was because she exuded a potent mixture of refinement and aplomb that captivated men and women alike. She operated in a matrix of hints and signals. Her default mode was one of surpassing subtlety, but with the decision to take Dag to bed she had precluded that approach and the luxury of indirection was no longer hers. Too much was slipping away too quickly.

“Who do you think put that tape out there?”

“You’re asking me?” Bebe said. “How would I know? I have no idea.”

Nicole was at a loss. “I might as well ask the waiter.”

Bebe studied the martini.

“How can I help?”

“Talk to Jay,” Nicole suggested.

“And say what?”

“I love him, I’m horrified by my behavior, and I’ll do anything to get him back.”

“I’m not sure he’s going to be receptive to that message right now, but when I talk to him next I’ll try to figure out what he’s thinking, and if it’s appropriate, I’ll say something. All right?”

Nicole effusively expressed her gratitude. Bebe told her she had to get going. Franklin had invited her to a fundraiser for Christine Lupo, and because she enjoyed harassing her cousin, and wanted to take the measure of the woman who was prosecuting her brother, she could not resist.

“Wait a minute,” Nicole said. “Franklin is hosting her in his home? Why would he do that?”

“To be fair, I think he arranged this before Jay’s—” Bebe searched for the right word—“setback happened.”

“Franklin should have canceled the event,” Nicole said.

“Franklin,” Bebe said, “should have done a lot of things.”

When the waiter brought the check, Nicole took it and placed a credit card on the table. She began to say something, hesitated, then asked, “Do you think Franklin would mind if I came with you?”

“Probably.”

A look of concern clouded Nicole’s worn face. Continually recalibrating her social position was exhausting and, given its downward trajectory, destabilizing.

“You really think he’d have a problem?”

“Yes,” Bebe said. “Which is why you’re going to be my date.”

The Statue of Liberty set against the velvet jewel box lining of New York Harbor at night never failed to move Christine. She stood at the window of a Tribeca penthouse in a guest bedroom having gone there to take a phone call from her daughter, who had a question about homework. Christine remembered when her parents brought her downtown as a small child, how they pointed to Ellis Island, the portal through which her grandparents passed on their journey from Italy to the Bronx. She remembered standing on the docks for the bicentennial celebrations, July 4th, 1976, captivated by the sight of the tall ships sailing upriver as bouquets of fireworks burst overhead, tendrils of light illuminating the New York and New Jersey shorelines. Recalled bringing her children down here to see the display on a more recent July 4th, and how she had told Dominic Jr. and Lucia they were all part of a chain and that one day they would bring their children to watch the celebration in the harbor. Her relationship with Dominic Jr. had deteriorated since he discovered what she had done to his T-shirt, but he would get over it. Mothers and sons found each other in the end.

Perhaps she would stage a photo op for her campaign on Liberty Island, one mighty, torch-wielding woman in the shadow of another. A link with history, an image for tomorrow. Her immigrant grandparents could not in their wildest imaginings have conceived that their granddaughter might rise from Arthur Avenue to become the Governor of New York.

The idea of charging Jay Gladstone with a hate crime was Lou Pagano’s, but this didn’t matter because, as District Attorney of Westchester County, she would get the credit. It was a bold move that would demonstrate her credentials as a crusader against racism and generate support in the black community (plummeting since the nonindictment of Russell Plesko) while doing nothing to antagonize law enforcement. It was an elegant legal maneuver that was sure to pay political dividends. But the decision to add the charge to the indictment had not been arrived at easily. Pagano called her at home on Sunday and was surprised she had not immediately agreed but instead had asked for time to think about it. To charge Jay Gladstone with a hate crime was to raise the stakes considerably. The bar for proof was high, but it could serve as a useful bargaining chip, should he decide to accept a deal. More important, it would send a signal to voters that she was sensitive enough in matters of race to bring the weightiest charges against one of New York’s ruling elite.

Again, she called Franklin Gladstone. Now that they were about to augment the original indictment with a charge that would immeasurably compound its severity, she felt the need to at least mention it as a courtesy so her patron would not be caught off guard when he heard about it. Franklin told her not to worry and expressed his admiration for her integrity.

To Christine’s pleasure, the hate crime charges had led the local news that evening. She noted with no little satisfaction that Imam Ibrahim Muhammad had called a well-attended press conference during which he commented that while the Westchester County District Attorney’s office should have brought charges against the officer who killed John Eagle, the new ones against Jay Gladstone were “a positive step in her relations with African-Americans.”

All of this was going through her mind as she tore herself away from the view to greet the guests at the fundraiser Franklin and Marcy Gladstone were hosting for her gubernatorial candidacy. From the other room came the restless sound of money.

Despite the retention of a prominent interior design team, Franklin and Marcy had expensively decorated their penthouse loft in no particular style. The gathering of more than a hundred that filled the living room and spilled out on to the deck was a glittering portrait of achievement. A smattering of media people gathered in a corner listening to Roger Ailes hold forth. Across the room, Rupert Murdoch chatted with the actor Jon Voight. Near the free bar manned by a white-jacketed waiter, Ezra Gladstone and his twin brother Ari sipped artisanal beer and engaged the daughter of a casino mogul with whom they were exploring a co-venture. Dr. Bannister and his wife chatted with Michael Steele, who had recently become the first black man to chair the Republican National Committee. It was a coup to have attracted such prominent African-Americans.

A hedge fund manager approached with his wife and asked about Wall Street regulation. Several others immediately were drawn to her orbit, and so Christine Lupo began to work the room.

Standing in front of a framed pair of boxing trunks worn by the heavyweight fighter Sonny Liston, Franklin was talking to a bond trader from whom he planned to extract a six-figure contribution when he noticed a woman scanning the crowd. It was his cousin Bebe, chatting to another woman who had her back to him. He immediately realized that Bebe’s companion was Jay’s wife. He had invited his cousin as a courtesy never imagining she would attend. That she had brought Nicole was an overt provocation. Why had Nicole come? Franklin immediately crossed the room to greet the women.

“I didn’t expect to see you two,” he said, approximating friendliness.

Bebe said, “You invited me, didn’t you?” She was drinking club soda. “Nicole wanted to come. Who was I to say no? I like your loft.”

Franklin nodded at Nicole, who smiled uncomfortably and said something about how it was important to listen to all political points of view.

Franklin to Bebe: “Haven’t you been here before?”

“Remind me,” she said. “When would that have been?”

Franklin’s parrying skills were minimal, but his arrogance rendered them unnecessary. Rather than offering a wisecrack, he said, “Well, I’m glad you’re here tonight. I think Christine’s going to make a hell of a governor.”

Bebe raised her well-tended eyebrows. “She seems like a strong-minded woman. I’d like to meet her.” Franklin looked stricken, which only heightened Bebe’s determination. Turning to her sister-in-law, she suggested the two of them immediately say hello to the candidate.

“She’s getting ready to speak,” Franklin said.

“If you don’t introduce us,” Bebe said, “I will. Come on, Nicole. I want to talk to her.”

Nicole excused herself and went to refill her wineglass as Franklin grumpily accompanied his cousin across the room. From her position near the bar, she watched Franklin introduce Bebe to Christine Lupo. The politician was pretty and relaxed, two qualities Nicole felt herself to be decidedly lacking at present. Men beset Nicole whenever she stood alone at a party; they would babble and flirt, gauge their chances with the unobtainable. But tonight, many of the guests had probably watched her have sex with D’Angelo Maxwell, so she had no idea what to expect. The amateur porn shattered the illusion of her inviolability. A spasm of self-doubt seized her. Why had she come? Did she really want to face the woman who was trying to send her husband to prison? Was it only because she could not endure once again returning to her hotel suite alone?

A familiar-looking man in a business suit approached. Mannequin handsome, with graying hair and a friendly expression, he seemed to know her. Who was he?

“Nicole?”

“Yes, hello, you are—?”

“Fred Panzer, Lynx News.”

That was it! She didn’t know him, just recognized his face from television. Immediately, she wanted to retract the warmth of her greeting.

He said, “I’m a little surprised to see you here.”

“You don’t know me so why would you expect one thing over another?”

Panzer shrugged. “No reason.” She looked over his shoulder for someone else to talk to. “Have you thought about doing an interview?”

“About what?” She knew what but wanted to make the creature say it. The wine in her glass was disappearing again.

“Recent events. Get your version out there, gain control of the story.”

“I think you want to contact my husband.”

“He won’t talk to us.”

“Because he’s a very intelligent man,” Nicole said.

“Jay Gladstone would be the get of the decade today. He’s O.J. in reverse.”

“What does that mean?”

“Famous white guy who killed an African-American. The trial’s going to be a circus.”

“My husband didn’t kill anyone.”

“Dag’s still in that coma, isn’t he?”

Nicole briefly thought about tossing her drink in Panzer’s face but preferred to consume the dregs of the glass. Now another problem presented itself. Marcy was slicing through the guests like a Coast Guard cutter, headed in her direction. What could that woman possibly want? Marcy might ask her what she was doing here or, worse, suggest she leave. Without saying goodbye to Panzer, Nicole tottered off to find a bathroom. There was one adjacent to the kitchen where the busy wait staff were working. She felt their eyes on her as she passed through.

When it came to audacity in another woman, Christine Lupo was of two minds: Since it was the quality she cultivated that allowed her to achieve her exalted position, she admired those who possessed it. But when it was employed by another woman to challenge her, she found it distinctly less appealing. Men she squished like they were bugs. They didn’t scare her the way women did. This Gladstone lady had fixed her with a dark-eyed gaze and, as Franklin gaped like a trout, was saying, “To not at least convene a grand jury seems like a remarkably tone-deaf response to what happened. How can black people have any confidence in the government if they don’t get their day in court?”

“I’m sorry, tell me your name again.”

“Beatrice,” Bebe said. The nickname was for people she liked.

“Well, Beatrice, to answer your question, I don’t think about what works for me on a personal level because that would be a betrayal of the contract I have with the citizens of this state. You’re a New Yorker?”

“Born and bred.”

“Well, I will never betray you. I weighed the facts and made the best decision for the citizens of Westchester County.”

“You’re dying to be governor,” Bebe said. “Aren’t you?”

“I will be governor.” Then Christine Lupo winked at her interlocutor. “With the help of people like you.”

Wanting to end the conversation, Franklin said, “I think it’s time for the DA to speak.”

As the host led the guest of honor to safety in another part of the room, Bebe watched them. While she was not going to mention her brother’s case, she had intended to test the politician. The DA was a formidable adversary, self-possessed and unyielding. Words bounced off her armor. Jay needed to prepare for war.

Where was Nicole? Bebe peered around the room, searching for her. Had she gotten flustered and left? That would be understandable.

Marcy approached and demanded to know whether she was enjoying herself.

“Immensely,” Bebe said.

“How’s Jay doing?” Marcy asked, with barely concealed relish.

“Under the circumstances, he’s all right.”

“What he did? It’s a shanda!” Bebe looked at her quizzically. “D’Angelo, the tape—” Her voice trailed off as if she could barely bring herself to enumerate his transgressions. “Why did you bring her?”

“You wouldn’t understand.”

“Hmmpf,” Marcy said, a noise intended to convey that to respond would be beneath her. But curiosity won out: “Try me.”

Before Bebe could answer, Franklin tapped a spoon on a glass and called the room to order. Without bothering to excuse herself, Marcy flew to his side and when everyone had turned their attention to the host and hostess, Franklin introduced Christine Lupo as the next governor of New York. After the polite applause died down the district attorney spieled with great conviction about lower taxes, more police, and eliminating regulations that limit what businesses can do. Attentively, the wallets listened. “And for everyone in this room who works on Wall Street, I want you to know that a Lupo administration will be in your pocket.” Far from humorless, the district attorney knew how to land a well-timed joke. After the briefest pause during which the marks realized the verbal slip was intentional, a wave of laughter rippled through the room. She shouted: “I mean on your side!” and the levity rose.

In the wings, hands clasped at his waist, Franklin beamed. Christine Lupo was his politician and who could identify her ceiling? The DA had everyone reaching for their checkbooks.

Nicole spent five minutes locked in the bathroom, several of them staring at her reflection in the mirror. How could she have let herself sink to such depths? The dalliance with D’Angelo was bad enough, her role in his current predicament unbearable, but an emotional collapse in its wake? That was inexcusable. Malingering for days in a luxury hotel suite swilling champagne like some dissipated royal was not how she had reached her enviable station in life, and neither was hiding out in Franklin’s bathroom. Why did she not stand her ground with Marcy? She couldn’t let that virago intimidate her. Why should she care what Marcy thought? Marcy was a rigid, conformist nonentity, mother of three spoiled children, all of whom would be living in a cardboard box under a bridge were they not born Gladstones, a woman whose entire existence involved doing the bidding of her overbearing husband. Marcy was nothing.

Nicole reapplied her lipstick and touched up her eye makeup. She wanted to have a word with that Lupo woman.

When Nicole emerged from the kitchen, her target was addressing the packed room. She pushed between two tall bankers to get a better view. There was Franklin, staring at the guest of honor adoringly with Marcy next to him, thrilled to have famous people in their home. There were Ezra and Ari, those charter members of the lucky sperm club. The Lynx reporter lurked near Bebe.

The guests were rapt. Nicole could not understand it. Yes, the politician was a compelling woman who seemed in control of her life in a way that shone a light on Nicole’s precipitous fall. But Christine Lupo struck her as decidedly second-rate, an ambitious hack whose road company charisma stood in sharp contrast to that of President Obama, the only politician Nicole had truly loved. Why had she not done more than just say hello to him at the Waldorf dinner? She had been too distracted by Dag. She remembered his speech in Chicago the night he was elected. The poetry of his words had brought her to tears. Christine Lupo droned; the moneyed mollusks opened. Who were these pasty-faced white people? And who were these black people? What were they doing in the enemy camp? Could none of them discern the falsity at her core? The clones of these men and women packed Washington to the rotting gills. Nicole knew them, worked with them, slept with them, and now their avatar, an empty suit with padded shoulders, intended to use the power of her office to ruin Jay’s life.

“A few minutes ago, I was looking out the window at the Statue of Liberty, and I thought of my grandmother who was born in Calabria, Italy, and took a boat to Ellis Island where—”

From the back of the room, Nicole said, “You’re a fake,” loud enough to be heard. Several pairs of eyes swung in her direction. The attention only emboldened her. Christine Lupo stopped in the middle of a sentence and looked in her direction.

“Excuse me,” she said.

A woman shushed Nicole, but she paid her no mind. “You’re a big fake and shame on you for using Jay Gladstone to advance your political career!”

Several people made hissing noises to indicate their displeasure. Who is that woman, someone said. Oh, for heaven’s sake, said another, it’s Jay Gladstone’s wife. Is she drunk? Jon Voight and Roger Ailes were gaping at her. As Nicole continued to interrupt the DA, the quiet downs and shushes increased in volume. The Lynx reporter filmed with his cell phone.

Franklin moved in her direction.

Nicole was undeterred. Louder: “You need a well-off white man on the docket so you can prove you have no racial bias, but you didn’t have the guts to lock up the cop who killed that black guy.”

The two bankers flanking Nicole moved away from her so Franklin, his face tainted with rage, had a clear shot. He seized her arm, pushed his face close—the tip of his nose pressed against her hair, she shuddered in revulsion—and whispered, “Everyone’s sorry your phone got hacked, but you should leave right now.”

“Franklin, it’s okay,” Christine Lupo said. He looked at her questioningly but did not release his grip. “Let the lady speak.”

Under his breath, he hissed, “Goddammit.”

Nicole wrenched her arm away and said to Franklin, “You’re a putz.”

How much had she imbibed? There were the two glasses of wine at the Oak Bar, two at the loft—wait, no, one and a half at the loft. She wasn’t that drunk. A little food might help. Perhaps she’d grab a canapé on her way out. Nicole cleared her throat and focused on the district attorney: “The people here tonight, who have a lot more in common with my husband than they do with that poor black man who got killed by a policeman, they’re all nodding in agreement because by crucifying Jay you absolve them of their sins.”

She waited now, pleased with her insight, the freedom with which she expressed it, and wondering if Christine Lupo would respond. Would the Christian reference disturb Marcy? She had more: “Who made you Pontius Pilate?” The smile on Nicole’s face after delivering the last barb was disreputable and rakishly appealing, the kind one uncharitably recalls when sobriety reasserts itself. Nicole deployed it like a ninja.

“It’s nice to meet you, Mrs. Gladstone,” Christine Lupo said from the front of the room. Her manner was noncombative. “You look better in person than you do on the Internet.”

There was a brief pause while the refined attendees contemplated whether it was permissible to display their delight at this insult, concluded that Nicole deserved it, and burst into sustained laughter followed by applause. Nicole felt hot, blinding shame that rose from her feet to her calves, her hips, belly, up through her back, flaming her neck and thickening her tongue. The entire room was mocking her. Why had she not left ten minutes earlier? Why had she come at all?

Christine Lupo concluded with, “I can’t comment on a pending case.”

Bebe was at her side. They were in the elevator. The air in the street refreshed her.

“That was impressive,” Bebe said.

“I don’t care what those assholes think of me.”

Bebe asked if she was all right and Nicole told her she was, and that calling out Christine Lupo was liberating. Heckling was not Bebe’s style, but she was impressed with Nicole’s commitment, rash though it might have seemed. Her brother was already in bad shape. It was hard to see how his wife’s outburst could make it worse.

They chatted about the presidential election during the cab ride uptown.

Nicole hoped Bebe would tell Jay exactly what his wife had done, although she wasn’t going to ask her. If Jay’s sister performed that modest task, the wretched humiliation Nicole experienced in Franklin’s penthouse would be worth it.

What was it Franklin had told her? Everyone’s sorry your phone got hacked. How did he know someone hacked her? None of the accounts she read had mentioned that detail. No one knew that that horrid clip had come from her phone. What else would have provided it? No one used video cameras anymore. Franklin had assumed—that was all. But the more she thought about it, the less sense her conjecture made. Franklin wasn’t clever enough to guess something like that. When she returned to the hotel Nicole sent the following text to her husband:

Franklin hacked my phone. He’s the leaker.

Chapter Fifty

It was a serene Christine Lupo that gazed across the East River at the Queens skyline from the backseat of her town car as Russell Plesko drove north on the FDR. Pagano’s request had gone through, and the cop had been assigned to the DA’s office where he filled in on an as-needed basis. The evening had been an unmitigated triumph. Christine’s ability to charm a roomful of New York City honchos had her thrumming with confidence. They didn’t just respond to the message—they loved her. Her policies, humor, and improvisatory ability combined to showcase considerable political skills and all of it resonated with the donor base. Even that slatternly wife of Jay Gladstone was a gift. The interruption had allowed the district attorney to display poise, forbearance, and quick-wittedness. The woman had opened fire with both barrels and Christine had crushed her without sacrificing likeability. What a nasty person that pipe-cleaner skinny, entitled, rich bitch seemed to be. Christine thought of the Bronx nuns who taught her at Our Lady of Perpetual Sorrow. They would have loved the poke she delivered. What kind of depraved world was this where people leaked sex tapes on the Internet? She wondered if the woman had done it herself. This suspicion made her think of Dominic Lupo and the personal dishonor she had suffered as a result of his behavior. At least the evidence of his sexual incontinence wasn’t smeared all over the Internet.

Poor Jay Gladstone. She immediately froze the sympathy she felt and examined it. The declaration became a question: Poor Jay Gladstone? Yes, yes, he was a man made of blood and sinew and a beating heart. Christine Lupo understood what it was like to have a spouse who was a curse. Her quarry was an estimable man—It’s what made him such valuable prey—brought down by a poor choice in mates. Certainly, his predicament was thornier than that, the car had not run over D’Angelo Maxwell by itself, but none of the auto-da-fé he was enduring would have occurred had his wife honored her marital vows. As for the fiasco that had taken place in the basketball arena, the man had paid for his sins in the currency of shame.

These thoughts created a disturbance in her well-ordered moral universe. Before this evening, Jay Gladstone was only a prominent citizen charged with crimes, an abstraction. But seeing his wife tonight—flushed face, firing squad eyes—listening to her aria of abuse, had brought Jay into sharper focus, and the picture that formed was of a human being who was suffering. And suffering caused by a cheating spouse was something about which Christine was not without sympathy.

Then what of mercy? Well, mercy was not exactly hers to dispense, was it? That was more God’s bailiwick. Why was she even thinking these thoughts? Sin and mercy were not helpful when considering a defendant in a pending criminal case. Sin and mercy were ideas, and she needed to stick to facts. If the luxury of a Jesuitical debate were permitted, she would never prosecute anyone. Many of the accused that came under her purview had partners who betrayed them. Humanizing a defendant was against the rules.

As the car sailed over the Third Avenue Bridge and north on the Major Deegan Expressway, Christine realized that something about Jay had been peeled back by his wife’s presence and it kept niggling at her because it felt familiar. She and Jay were public people with families in the process of fracturing. Until recently, they both had been paragons, the kind of citizens others were encouraged to emulate. The vehicular assault charges he faced? Had she not done something similar in the parking lot at work? Sean Purcell had bumped a demonstrator with her official vehicle. Knocked the woman down. A black woman, no less. It wasn’t on the cataclysmic scale of what Jay had done but to pretend there was no parallel would be disingenuous. Had that been racially motivated? Of course not! Moreover, Christine knew it was an accident. By a stroke of luck, no one had reported that incident. Who knows what cynics might have made of it? What if what Jay had done was an accident? What if his lawyer’s claims were accurate? Was she persecuting him? Reasonable people might disagree on whether there was a political tinge to the initial indictment and the subsequent hate crime charge but Jay Gladstone would get his day in court. That was the beauty of the system. She needed to stop seeing moral equivalence where there was none. Ultimately, all that united them was philandering spouses. It was impossible to have anything in common with someone so wealthy. Still, her cerebral push and pull would not cease.

They were riding east on the Cross-Westchester Expressway.

“Russell, what do you think about Jay Gladstone? Do you think he’s guilty?”

Plesko did not answer right away. Christine waited. She didn’t want to influence him so did not offer a further prompt.

“Permission to speak frankly?”

“Granted,” she said.

“He did it, that’s pretty obvious. But did he mean to do it?”

“That’s what I’m asking.”

“People wanted to hang me,” Plesko said. “Like they could all read my mind. But no one can do that. I don’t care who they are. If Gladstone says it was an accident, I believe him.”

“Even after what he witnessed? He accidentally ran over the man he caught with his wife?”

Plesko adjusted the rearview mirror so he could see his passenger. “Does he seem like a violent guy to you?”

“I indicted him.”

“Hey, look, you gave me a break, and I’ll always be grateful for it.”

“Tell me what you think,” the DA said.

“I guess you can’t let everyone off.”

With all the certainty at her disposal, she declared: “Jay Gladstone has had enough breaks.”

By the time she climbed out of the car in her driveway Christine had convinced herself it was true.

Her mind returned to Jay as she lay in bed. Their fathers were both men of the Bronx, first-generation Americans who served in World War II, raised families in New York, pillars of their respective communities. Bingo Gladstone was a version of Mario Lupo with a lot more money. Like something caught between her teeth, the similarities continued to nag her. To her growing consternation, all of it added to this nascent kinship with Jay that she found harder and harder to dismiss.

Twenty minutes later, when she could not fall asleep, Christine went to the kitchen to make a cup of herbal tea. As she waited for the water to boil, she booted up her laptop. Jay had an extensive online presence. Christine skimmed sports pages and business sites, noted his philanthropic activities and the awards he had received. There was a group photograph with Archbishop Desmond Tutu celebrating Universal Children’s Day that she had previously missed. It was not the profile of a criminal.

When the kettle whistled, she brewed the tea, spooned honey into the cup, and returned to the computer. On a real estate site, she typed in Jay’s Bedford address, which for reasons Christine did not want to think about she knew by memory. Up came a single photograph and a description. The image of the palatial house on a hundred and twenty acres, with pool house, barn, paddock, and bridle paths did not produce resentment or envy or in any way stick in the DA’s craw. Jay Gladstone had Sultan of Brunei money, but he employed thousands of people and paid untold millions of taxes into the public treasury. In her view, this was how America was meant to work.

Since the separation from her husband, Christine occasionally found herself missing, not Dominic Lupo exactly, but the companionship he had provided. Case in point: The night of the incinerated T-shirt on the backyard grill. Had Dominic been there, she would have asked him to play the heavy. Something in her had loosened. It was energizing.

She finished the tea, rinsed the cup, and put it in the dishwasher. Went upstairs, but instead of getting into bed, she slipped on a pair of jeans and a sweater. Checked on her sleeping children and went downstairs. Closing the back door quietly behind her, she climbed into her black Lexus sedan, slipped La Boheme into the CD player, and backed out of the garage.

Chapter Fifty-One

Just after eight the same evening, Bobby Tackman arrived at Jay’s Bedford estate to conduct a simulated interview in preparation for the real one. The communications expert reviewed a list of fifty likely questions and made sure his client had responses to each of them. The theme of the evening was Apology. Keep apologizing, he advised. Then apologize some more, and you will be redeemed because America loves a redemption story.

When Tackman left, Jay called Herman Doomer. A team of attorneys was preparing to wage war with the league, but the lawyer warned him that when facing a player boycott, their influence was limited. “You have to knock this interview out of the park,” Doomer said. Jay asked what was going on with the Planning Commission regarding the Sapphire situation. Doomer had made inquiries, but as far as he knew, no new information was available. Jay had hoped to hear from Aviva since he had withdrawn from participating in the commencement, but she had not returned his calls. With all of this on his mind, he shambled to bed.

It was a surprise to find the house situated on a dirt road bounded by low walls built from stones. This evocation of the rural past left Christine strangely moved. She, too, yearned for a time before the current fractiousness, when America had a common purpose. What were Jay’s political preferences? Her Internet scavenging revealed he had made contributions to Democrats and Republicans. What he believed in, she recognized, was the efficacy of the system.

She parked on the road in front of the property, turned off the headlights but left the engine idling. The night was cloudless, pricked with stars, and a half moon impassively shone. Although the house was dark, several security lights painted the grounds in pale yellow. A single light illuminated an upstairs window. Probably on a timer, she thought. From a fawning profile on Forbes.com, she knew Jay owned horses and wondered if whoever looked after them lived on the premises. Lowering the car window, she inhaled the pleasing earthy scent. An owl broadcast its presence. A breeze disturbed the branches. Homes like this one often had security cameras, but none were visible.

She placed her hand on the steering wheel and saw her bare ring finger, moonlit. For ten minutes, she observed the house. No cars passed. Christine had never done anything remotely like this. The burning of her son’s T-shirt, she knew, was indicative of the heightened emotional state she was in, but this amounted to stalking. As long as it did not become a habit, she believed her behavior on this night was justifiable. How else to get a feel for her adversary if not by entering his world? She wanted to know what it was like to be this man, to live in storybook surroundings with a gorgeous young wife and a geyser that spouted money. She imagined him riding a horse along the edge of a luminous meadow, wind at his back, savoring yet another victory. And then he was not alone. There she was, Christine Lupo, the girl from Arthur Avenue, astride a golden palomino. The two of them, together in the gloaming, the broad land spread out intoxicatingly before them, like a Technicolor movie. She could almost hear the brass and strings swell on the soundtrack. Christine had never ridden a horse. Once, as a girl, her father had put her on a pony at a church fair in Yonkers. What was she doing on an imaginary horse next to Jay Gladstone riding into a Hollywood sunset? Smirking at the silliness of it, she repressed the vision. Jay Gladstone and Christine Lupo together in a sylvan fantasy, on horses, no less. It was ridiculous.

Jay was drifting off when Nicole’s text arrived. Was Franklin the mastermind? Nicole certainly thought so. It was impossible to know if she was drunk and raving, or if it was true. He turned off his phone, but could not get back to sleep. For half an hour, he lay in bed listening to the night and trying to slow his rampaging mind. Was Franklin capable of treachery on this level? It was not beyond the realm of possibility. But could he have acted so aggressively? Jay did not realize he possessed that degree of malevolence. Perhaps he had underestimated him. As reprehensible as it was, Jay had to give his cousin credit. The sheer chutzpah of the gesture was impressive.

The road in front of the house rarely saw nocturnal traffic and Jay listened as a car engine hummed in the distance increasing in volume as it rolled past and then died away. Several minutes later he heard another car. It got louder as it drew nearer but then the sound did not recede. A lone vehicle in the middle of the night was not a welcome sound. Someone had parked in front of the property. He lay there for a few seconds, but when he did not hear the car go away, he climbed out of bed, crossed the hall, and entered a guest bedroom in the front of the house where a timer light was on.

Sitting in the car, Christine was in a reverie. Dominic was gone, she had a career-making case on her hands, and with adroit handling, there was no reason she could not spin it into political gold. Thomas Dewey was a New York prosecutor, and he had nearly become president. No one knew how far she could go. Then the light in Jay Gladstone’s upstairs window went out.

Jay immediately saw the car at the end of his driveway. It was not there because of a flat tire. Whoever it was, they were there for him. In a way, he had wanted this. It was why he was reluctant to be saddled with personal security even after the rampage at the arena. He went to the safe, opened the combination lock. Removed the gun, felt the heft of the weapon in his hand. Checked the clip. Fifteen rounds. Boris had shown him how to shoot.

He walked downstairs and sat in a chair facing the front door with the weapon on his lap. He thought about prison versus death and concluded death might be preferable. He wished he could have resolved the situation with Aviva. His will was in order. The floor was cool against the soles of his bare feet. He wondered who would say Kaddish for him.

After sitting there for ten minutes, his nerve failed him, and he called the police. The cop on duty the night of the accident arrived at the house. Officer Wysocki. He acted like he was pleased to see Jay and asked how he was doing. He told Jay there were no other cars on the road.

When Wysocki left, Jay drove into the city.

Chapter Fifty-Two

The next morning, he did not make the mistake of arriving at the office alone. Behind a flying wedge of corn-fed security, he made it through the demonstrators without incident. He had coffee. He met with Bebe and Boris and briefed them on his preparations with Tackman. The Sapphire matter was taking suspiciously long to resolve and Bebe told him she was going to reach out to someone she knew in the city bureaucracy to find out what was going on. Jay told Boris to prepare to fly to Hong Kong the following week to familiarize himself with the Asian branch of the business and brief Bebe when he returned. When the confab was over, Bebe stayed behind and reported what Nicole had done at Franklin’s house the previous evening. They were in the sitting area of Jay’s office. He tilted his head back and closed his eyes.

“She was battling for you.”

“That’s not the way to do it,” he said, rubbing his temples.

“Nicole wants to save the marriage.”

Jay opened his eyes and regarded his sister. “Would you stay married to someone like that?”

“You remember that secretary who worked for Dad in the late seventies?”

“Miss Sloves?” Bebe nodded. She had a throaty laugh and always acted pleased to see him when he visited the office as a gangly teenager. “What about her?” Bebe’s knowing look spilled the old secret. “You can’t be serious.” She slowly nodded.

Layers of certainty, conviction, and belief began to dissolve. Jay found himself searching for words to express inchoate thoughts. His father, who had coached him in youth basketball, who had passed him the Torah at his bar mitzvah, had been prowling around Manhattan unpeeling his secretary? It was inconceivable. “How do you know?”

“Mom told me years ago. She almost left him, but she didn’t.”

The news caused a tectonic shift in Jay’s perception. The ground swayed. Foundations adjusted, recalibrated. For his entire life, he had modeled himself on his father, held him up as a shining example of how to be a man in the world, prostrated at the feet of his exemplary life when all the time, in this most basic measurement of goodness, Bingo was an imposter, a failure. But as much of a punch to the solar plexus that this represented, in some indeterminate way that he could only begin to discern, it was a relief.

When Bebe left the office, Jay lay on the sofa and thought about his father and how he had behaved in the wake of this dalliance. He reviewed family dinners, Sundays watching football, skiing and sailing vacations, business meetings, shows, charity events they’d attended, endless conversations shared about topics distant and local, and there was nothing he could remember that hinted at Bingo carrying on with his secretary. So, did Jay have to reexamine his perception of his father, adjust his place in the pantheon? Did he have to demote him?

It was with all of this still reverberating that Franklin appeared. Jay did not want to deal with his cousin, who was standing at the foot of the sofa looking down at him over his gelatinous belly.

“Your wife caused quite a scene last night,” Franklin said, satisfaction mixed with the outrage he was impelled to convey.

“I heard. As you know, I can’t control her.”

“Someone needs to. She’s an embarrassment.”

His cousin’s presence further agitated Jay, who rose from the sofa and lumbered to his desk where he flopped into the chair. He thought about the text he had received last night from Nicole: Franklin hacked my phone. He’s the leaker. What had led her to that conclusion? Could it possibly be true? It was certainly of a piece with Franklin’s surreptitious financial maneuvers.

“What did you want to talk about?”

“You’ve got a lot on your plate,” Franklin said. “For your own well-being, I think maybe you shouldn’t come to work until things cool down.”

Here was the Franklin he knew, blunt, artless. Bebe had said nearly the exact words, but her intent was far different.

“Did you hear what happened to me on Saturday night?”

“It was all over the sports page.”

“But you didn’t call or text to see if I was all right?”

Franklin ignored the question. “Fans, Christ, they’re fuckin’ fickle! You okay?”

“Yes,” Jay said. “Thanks for your concern.”

Never before had he felt vulnerable to Franklin. The dynamics of their relationship had been set years earlier and had remained static. Jay believed that Franklin had come to accept the structure of the company and was satisfied with his role. For his cousin to use the current situation to try and maneuver him out of the way seemed entirely out of character. But that appeared to be what was going on. He second-guessed telling Doomer to delay bringing legal action.

“What do you know about that tape?”

Franklin regarded him uncertainly. “What do you mean?”

“Was I not clear? Do you know anything about how that tape got out there?”

“Only what I read,” Franklin said.

“You’re sure?”

“What are you asking me? It’s awful. It’s a crock of politically correct bullshit what’s happening to you. I’ll tell you something, Jay, I never liked Nicole. She was beneath you. Between you and me, if I had walked in on Marcy schtupping some guy, I would’ve killed them both.”

“Yes, I’m sure that’s what you would have done.” Jay had not checked with the hospital since yesterday. He made a mental note to do that when he finished with his cousin.

“Crime of passion,” Franklin said. “People understand.” He made a brisk motion with his hand as if to wave away culpability.

“About the tape?”

“I sympathize, believe me. I do.”

“Did you leak it?”

Jay saw Franklin’s slack body stiffen, the planes of his face become rigid.

“What? No! Me? Wha—?” Franklin shook his head vigorously. “No, no, no. Why would you say that?”

“You know nothing about it?”

“Jay, come on! Are you fucking kidding me?”

“I’m going to tell you one thing, and then we’re done.” Jay paused to let the weight of what he was about to impart sink in. It appeared Franklin might say something but his only response came from his shoulders, driven upward by the tension he was unable to conceal. “If I find out you had anything to do with the leaking of that tape, I will cut your legs off. Between that and what else you’ve been up to, I’ll have you so tied up in court you’ll be afraid to leave your house without calling your lawyer to see if it’s allowed.”

“I had nothing to do with it.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Why not?”

“Because I know what’s going on in Asia,” Jay said.

“What are you talking about?”

“Let’s not get into that now. Did you or did you not hack my wife’s phone and leak that tape?”

“Did I hack her phone? I can barely work a fucking blender.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Hand to God, Jay.” Like a Boy Scout taking an oath, he held his hand up.

“Hand to God? Now I know you’re bullshitting.”

“You don’t trust me? Go fuck yourself.”

“Go fuck myself?”

“You got what you deserved,” Franklin said. “You’re an arrogant schmuck, and you always were.”

He left the office, barreling through the door and slamming it behind him. The room was silent as a cave. Absent Franklin’s sulfurous presence, it felt strangely empty. Jay still had no idea if Nicole’s accusation was valid, or if she had been drunk texting. He had assumed it was the latter. After having confronted Franklin, he was unimpressed with his denial. There was a risk in trying to ascertain guilt. If Franklin was culpable, the ramifications for the future of the business were profound. But a rupture in their relationship was inevitable anyway. It was going to happen as soon as Jay informed Franklin of the lawsuit he intended to file.

An unfamiliar sensation overcame him, and his heart began to tom-tom. He cursed to himself. Was this a heart attack? Unbelievable. Franklin will have finished the job. He remembered that a coronary event was often accompanied by pain radiating down the arm. Was it the left or the right? He didn’t feel pain in either one. He willed himself to relax and took several deep breaths, letting the air run slowly out of his nose, which he was able to do since the swelling had decreased. A minute later his heart rate ceased its campaign of terror.

When Jay reached Dr. Bannister, the surgeon informed him there had been some hopeful signs since they had last spoken. Something about brain waves that Jay did not have the bandwidth to absorb but had encouraged the doctor. He called Doomer and inquired about the situation with the league. Doomer reported that the commissioner was intransigent. The league was insisting that he sell the team. In desperation, Jay pulled up the list of NBA owners on his computer. He knew them all from league meetings and considered himself friends with several of them. Of the twenty-eight calls his secretary placed, she managed to reach five of the owners. Jay jumped on the phone with each. He wheedled and inveigled. He recounted his history and reminded them of his sterling reputation. They listened dutifully. But of these five men, all of whom expressed sorrow at his predicament and conveyed their sincere sympathies, none would speak on his behalf in public. Too sensitive, was the consensus.

Bastards, Jay thought.

Chapter Fifty-Three

Late that afternoon, the television crew arrived at the apartment to set up. Bobby Tackman paced and offered silken words of encouragement as Jay sat in a chair with a bib over his shirt having makeup applied by a quiet young woman with a nose ring and a tattoo of a peace sign on her forearm. She treated him professionally, which he took to be a positive sign.

Jay was in the kitchen nursing a glass of whiskey when Anderson Cooper arrived and said hello before conferring with the producer, a fussy man in a snug suit who seemed barely out of his teens. Jay freshened his drink and as the whiskey slid into his bloodstream he began to feel its effects. Nervousness receded. It occurred to Jay that in many ways he had been preparing for this his entire life. Always he had chosen to rein in his personality, content to let the light shine on Bingo. This self-abnegation had begun when he was young and continued until his father’s passing. But now circumstances required Jay to step on stage, and he was ready.

Tackman continued his magpie chatter, but Jay was no longer listening. He visualized himself conversing sagely with Anderson Cooper about the scars of American history, the travails of black people, and “the deep well of empathy I’ve drawn from my whole life.” He pictured the easygoing host nodding sympathetically. He imagined viewers across America, around the globe, and all of them coming to see the untarnished quality of his soul. Church Scott (that traitor!) didn’t know what was in his heart? Jay would show the world. He took another sip of whiskey.

“Ten minutes,” a production assistant said.

Jay slipped on his suit jacket. Tackman looked him over. The consultant did not like the picture.

“You need to lose the suit. Put a sweater on.”

“I always wear a suit in public.”

“Millions of people are going to watch this and you’re going to remind them of their boss. A sweater makes you more relatable.”

In his bedroom Jay selected a gray cashmere number with a V-neck. As he pulled it over his head, the soft material masking his face, he felt dizzy so he sat on the bed. To steady himself he took several deep breaths. His balance returned and he felt a surge of energy. He wanted to talk, get a few things off his chest.

In the living room, Jay sat in a director’s chair next to Anderson Cooper, who was checking notes on a clipboard. A sound technician pinned a microphone to him. The television lights were warm, but he was not uncomfortable. Behind one of the two cameras, Tackman stood next to the producer and gave a thumbs-up. A voice said, “Rolling,” and Anderson Cooper introduced Harold Jay Gladstone as a real estate executive and NBA franchise owner to the millions of viewers who would be watching the interview later that evening.

“Please call me Jay,” he said.

“All right,” Anderson Cooper said. Then: “Are you a racist?”

Man, Jay thought, right out of the gate. But he was ready.

“I am not a racist. I made a terrible mistake and I’m here to apologize to all the people I’ve hurt. I don’t know how I could say such disrespectful words. I’m so sorry.”

“Who, specifically, do you want to apologize to?”

Jay was ready:

“There are so many people, starting with D’Angelo Maxwell.” Here Jay paused. Acknowledging this first seemed like the wisest course. He wanted the first apology to resonate like a bell. “I feel terrible about what happened to him. I wish I could undo it. When he recovers I will do everything in my power to make it up to him. He’s doing better, you know. I talked to the doctor this morning, and he’s improving.” Again, Jay paused. He wanted to allow any helpful information time to register. “And I hurt my wife, Nicole. She didn’t need this. I blew up her life.”

“You seem remarkably forgiving about her behavior. What about what she did? She had relations with a player and you caught them.”

Anderson Cooper was not pulling punches. Jay pressed on.

“Yes, I did. I did. But this isn’t about her.”

He congratulated himself on the magnanimity he displayed. So far, he was hewing to the Tackman plan. This was easier than expected.

“Did you know you were being recorded?”

“Of course not. I did a terrible thing and I want to explain. I’m not sure how to say this because for a man in my position, well, everything can be misinterpreted.”

Anderson Cooper wanted some elaboration, but Jay just looked at him. He was having trouble accessing this part of what he had reviewed with Tackman. All he could remember was the apologizing he was supposed to do, and he had already done that. His mind went back to the previous night and the car that stopped in front of his house. By the time the police officer arrived at the house, it was gone. Now he wasn’t even sure a car had been there at all. The sweater was making him hot. What did Anderson Cooper want him to say?

“I think you better ask me another question.”

“You said ‘Why is everyone in this family having sex with black people.’ What did that mean?”

“That’s the question you’re going to ask now?” Jay was trying to be light, amusing. Cooper was stone-faced. “Don’t you want to work up to it?”

“It would help if you answered it. What did that mean?”

“What did that mean? It meant what I said.”

“Everyone in this family?” Jay did not respond. “Would you elaborate?”

Jay paused for a long time. The television lights were getting hotter. His lower back was swampy. He could feel Tackman’s eyes willing him to take control. To steady himself, Jay locked into Anderson Cooper’s unwavering gaze. “I have a daughter who I love very much. She’s an intelligent young person who is in a phase of life where she is experimenting. Her girlfriend is a black woman, which is fine. Nothing wrong with that. So, there’s my daughter and my wife. The word ‘everyone’ was hyperbole, something perhaps you can understand, under the circumstances.”

Anderson Cooper wanted more but Jay decided that he had said enough on the subject. He leaned back and waited for the next question. But before it arrived, Jay wanted to make another point:

“My daughter’s friend happens to be very anti-Israel and she expressed that opinion at our Seder where she was a guest. So, I admit, I may have had some residual bad feeling. But, look, I’m not saying that excuses anything.”

“What do the political opinions of your daughter’s girlfriend have to do with what occurred?”

“We had a rainbow Passover this year, black people, white people, a thing of beauty. The next day I flew to South Africa where I’m doing a major project. When I arrived home, I said a few unfortunate words that, believe me, I’ll regret for the rest of my life. That’s not how I talk. You can ask anyone who knows me. I don’t talk about people. I talk about ideas. May I tell you what I’m doing in South Africa?”

“Let’s stay on this subject for now. Who do you think released the tape?”

“I can’t say on television, but I believe I know the person’s identity and he’s someone who for his own personal reasons does not wish me well.”

Although Jay was tempted to go into more detail, he chose not to.

“When you first heard the tape, did you remember making that statement?”

“I’ve said all I have to say about those words.”

“All right, let’s talk about you.”

“I’m responsible. I have twenty-nine partners in the league. They’re an incredible group of men. I want to apologize to my partners and the commissioner. This mess lands on his desk and I caused it and I’m sorry. Stupid words. Foolish. A man gets upset, says things he shouldn’t say. I was jealous.”

Revisiting the experience was making Jay increasingly uneasy. His mouth was dry. He wanted a glass of water.

“The league wants you out.”

“The media wants me out.”

“And the league. I’ve had sources tell me—”

“Look, I put the league in a difficult position. My partners there are understandably angry. I have a lot of respect for the commissioner and he’s frustrated. But let me ask you—is what I did so terrible that it merits banishment? Is it fair that I should lose a business that I’ve been devoted to, that I love, because of a few words that are being misinterpreted? No one who knows me will tell you I’m a racist. No one. My family has been in the real estate business for generations. Years ago, not every landlord would rent to black people. There are prominent real estate families in New York City—I’m thinking of one in particular—that would not rent to minorities. That was never the Gladstone way. Back in the 1930s, when my father was on his high school prom committee, he refused to hold the event at a hotel where they were going to make the black kids use the service entrance.”

“What does that have to do with—”

“I’m telling you. I’m not saying Bingo Gladstone was Abraham Lincoln, but what I am saying is that I was raised in a liberal tradition, my parents taught me that God created everyone equal, and that’s how I’ve always lived my life.”

“Church Scott, the coach of your team, was quoted as saying, ‘I don’t know what’s in his heart, but I’m praying for him.’ What would you say to Church Scott?”

“Church Scott’s reaction to this—” Jay considered his words. “I’m disappointed. That’s my only comment. He’s a friend and I wish him well. Do you know he’s the highest paid coach in the league?”

“You say that like he mugged you.”

“He mugged me? He didn’t mug me,” Jay said. “Don’t put words in my mouth.”

“Are you saying that because you’re his employer, he should suspend judgment?”

“In this situation, I think he should get the players to stop this silly talk about a boycott, suit up, and go win some playoff games.”

“When Mayor House of Newark was asked to weigh in on your situation, he had no comment. What would you say to Mayor House?”

“Mayor House is a fine man who’s a little confused right now.”

“Confused how?”

Jay knew he was standing on the edge of a cliff. He took a step back.

“I’m not going there. Let me just say that our family foundation has given away millions of dollars in scholarships, we’ve funded nutrition programs. Half the charitable organizations in Harlem, Bed-Stuy, and Newark have the name Gladstone on the wall because we want to help. But there’s someone else who’s leading the attack on me, this Imam Ibrahim Muhammad fellow, who happens to be a Muslim.”

“What does that have to do with the situation?”

“I want to tread lightly here because it’s a sensitive area. Some Muslims, not all of them, have issues with Jews. Some of them take extreme points of view. Some of them, quite frankly, are worse than Rumanians, who during the Holocaust were worse than the Nazis.”

“Some of them. Is that code for—”

“No, no, no! It’s not code for anything. This particular imam has been leading demonstrations against me in front of the arena where the team plays, violent demonstrations in front of my offices, spreading the most scurrilous lies. It’s pretty obvious that my personal situation is being used to advance several agendas that have nothing to do with me. But I occupy a certain position in society so people feel like they can say whatever they want. And you know what? That’s fine. The Constitution guarantees that right. Everyone just needs to be a little less sensitive, but people are extremely sensitive, they’re so sensitive it’s like no one has skin anymore, only nerve endings. So once again, I want to be clear, I apologize to everyone.”

“You have said that your words have been misinterpreted, misunderstood—”

“I have.”

“I want to give you a platform now to say whatever you want to our audience.”

“Thank you.” Jay turned directly to the camera. He paused, and then said, “Please look inside and ask yourselves whether you have ever done, or said, or even thought something that would embarrass you if it were made public. I would like to say to anyone who hasn’t, you’re a better person than I am.”

“What happened that night in Bedford?”

Jay was prepared for this. What further light could he shine on the question that would not doom his chances of exoneration? That he had been cuckolded by Dag and in a spectacularly misguided attempt to—to what, exactly? To discuss what had occurred? To arrive at some kind of rapprochement? He still did not know. Now the door was open and his restless intellect impelled him to articulate all the subtle gradations of intent that had led to the catastrophe and then dive into the waves of remorse that subsequently rolled in and gambol like a seal. But instead, he said:

“It was an accident.”

Anderson Cooper let the moment linger. Considering the circumstances, Jay was relatively pleased with how the interview had gone, and would not be lured into a rhetorical trap to be destroyed by his own words.

“That’s the extent of your comment on the subject?”

“On the advice of my attorney, that’s all I can say about it.”

Anderson Cooper recognized the immovable object in front of him and pivoted.

“Will you sell the team?”

“When Hell freezes over.”

Chapter Fifty-Four

Jay believed the insight and distress he had displayed would go a long way toward rehabilitating his image. He believed he had come across as folksy, honest, and repentant. He believed he was on his way back to the sunny uplands of acceptance and admiration. When the interview ended, the panicked look on Bobby Tackman’s face told him otherwise. Tackman took Jay aside and ordered him to not say another word to the host. He watched as the consultant buttonholed Anderson Cooper, who was being congratulated by his now ecstatic producer, a man who knew broadcast gold when he saw it, and begged him to not run the interview, a request that was summarily rejected. The television crew wrapped their gear and vanished.

Jay was in the kitchen sipping a glass of water when Tackman barged in. He made it clear that the opportunity had been outstandingly botched. Jay listened as the consultant enumerated his sins:

“You can’t apologize and then disparage your daughter’s black girlfriend, why did you express any opinion at all about Church Scott or the mayor of Newark? How would you feel if some well-meaning black man spouted off about Jews? And don’t get me started on what you said about the Muslims. I’m not even sure you and I can work together anymore.”

Tackman ordered him to not engage in further direct contact with the media until they could formulate a new plan.

As Jay absorbed this litany of transgressions, the apartment, which seemed to have cooled with the extinguishing of the television lights and disappearance of the crew, felt like it was heating up again. A mule was trying to kick its way out of his skull. He was about to respond to Tackman when he noticed the vision in his left eye had become occluded and the entire room lost definition, straight planes bending, becoming curvilinear, vibrating, melting, the floor rising and the entire space beginning to disintegrate. Tackman had stopped talking and was looking at him strangely. Jay lost his balance and crumpled, his head striking the floor. Indistinct voices rose and fell. There was so much to do and undo, and yet as consciousness slipped away, what he felt, oddly, was release.

An ambulance brought Jay to Mt. Sinai Hospital where doctors determined that he had not had a coronary or a stroke. He had fainted, the resident who examined him concluded. Probably from stress. He ordered Jay to remain in the hospital under observation for the night. A nurse inserted a needle into his arm for hydration.

Jay had been born at Mt. Sinai. Although his parents lived in Queens at the time, his mother had insisted on it because she wanted her son to be able to say he had been born on Fifth Avenue. When thoughts of his death inevitably arose, he marveled at the symmetry. Staring at the ceiling Jay felt the weakness and frustration that had become his constant companions, but, more than anything, there was the growing sense that he had slipped on some cosmic banana peel and was now in a continuous state of imbalance. From Dag to Nicole to Aviva, the ability to make things conform to the way he wanted them to be had deserted him.

Although Dag had shown slight improvement, the doctors had hinted that a full recovery might not be possible, something that would forever haunt Jay. Additionally, although it paled in comparison to how he felt about the havoc he had wreaked, he feared losing his NBA franchise and not receiving permission from the city to begin construction on the Sapphire, because those endeavors represented a significant part of his future. But what overrode all of this, casting a shadow the size of the world itself, was death. It wasn’t so much that he dreaded the prospect of nonexistence, although he had a healthy terror of that. What concerned him was that he would die now, with his reputation not just deteriorating but seemingly in free fall. How long was he going to live if stress landed him in a hospital bed? Long enough to salvage his reputation and avoid the ignominy of dying in disgrace?

It was not difficult to locate Dag’s room and because he was wearing a hospital gown, the night nurses assumed Jay was just padding along the crypt-quiet halls on a late walk. When he peeked in and saw Dag was alone, he entered and sat in the chair next to the bed.

Dag’s long, lean frame lay still. His chest rose and fell. Clear fluid ran from an IV drip into the soft flesh of his wrist. An oxygen mask covered his features. His eyes were closed. Someone had arranged for a shave, and his cheeks were smooth. Jay glanced at the squiggly green lines of the monitors.

Leaning his head back, he said to the ceiling, “I don’t do this often, but please God, save this man. Please, please Yahweh, Jesus, Allah, whoever is listening.” Humble and emotionally naked, he felt like he was performing a sacred duty. “Little help here, okay? I’m begging.”

Tentatively, he reached his hand out and laid it on Dag’s bicep. It was warm. There was a hitch in Dag’s breathing which caused Jay to start, and he removed his hand and watched Dag’s face for signs of distress. When steady breathing resumed, Jay gently returned his hand to the big man’s arm.

Heas leaned toward Dag’s ear and whispered, “I have no idea if you can hear me, probably not. But, listen. I’m so deeply sorry for this. With my hand on a Bible, I will tell you I didn’t mean for it to happen. I was angry, and because you humiliated me, I wanted to scare you. I admit that. I wanted to put the fear into you in a way you would never forget, and then I did the most unimaginable thing I’ve ever done. I will regret my behavior as long as I’m alive, Dag. I will pray for your recovery each day, and when you recover, I hope you can forgive me.”

Dag’s eyes opened. Jay was dumbfounded, tried to talk, but his tongue would not obey.

“I’m going to be all right,” Dag said.

Jay was crying, tears streaking his face. The mixture of relief, shock, and gratitude paralyzed him. Again, he tried to talk but his tongue expanded to fill his mouth and words would not come.

“How are you feeling?”

Whose voice was that? He still could not get words out.

Swimming to consciousness, he saw Doomer and Tackman at the foot of the bed. Next to them was his sister Bebe. He had been dreaming. It was morning. Through the fog, he realized the tears were real and he wiped them away with the back of his hand. He hoped his visitors didn’t notice. It was Bebe who had spoken. Her voice was soft and solicitous. Once more she asked how he was feeling.

Chapter Fifty-Five

A nurse arrived to administer another round of intravenous hydration. The hospital would discharge him as soon as she checked his vital signs. The only thing the attending physician prescribed was blood pressure medication and a few days of rest.

Jay tried to concentrate as Tackman related the extent of the damage. This took several minutes. True to Tackman’s postgame analysis, the Anderson Cooper interview did not serve the purpose Jay had hoped. The reaction, on television and the Internet, was predictably merciless. “Self-indulgent,” “non-apology apology,” and “insensitive” were leitmotifs, as were “slanderous,” “anti-Muslim,” and, of course, “racist.” Jay was a whipping boy, caricatured, lampooned, dismissed, and the consensus was that his time was over, what he represented was an abomination to right-thinking people, and the acceptable repentance, according to public opinion, was to self-immolate in the middle of Marcus Garvey Boulevard. Tackman concluded by saying, “The only surprise was that no Rumanians complained.”

“There’s still time,” Jay said. The rattle of his laugh had the gallows in it. Everything had gone so transcendently wrong it had begun to seem perversely funny.

“I spoke with the commissioner this morning,” Doomer reported. “He wants to know if you’ve reconsidered. The team is still refusing to play.”

“I’m not selling,” Jay said.

“You’re certainly within your rights to maintain that position,” the lawyer said. “However, we’ve been notified that if you don’t sell the team, he’s going to ban you for life. They can go to court and force a sale. They can get a judge to issue an injunction removing you from day-to-day management of the team by asserting that the rights of the other owners now supersede yours. We can challenge it, but they’ll win.”

“This is America,” Jay reminded them. “The government can’t seize your property because you said something stupid.”

Tackman suggested they explain the interview by saying Jay was “pre-stroke.”

“I stand by every word,” Jay said.

The consultant looked at the lawyer, imploring him to intercede.

“Jay, I think Bobby is right. You can help yourself by embracing the stroke.”

“I didn’t have a stroke.”

“Pre-stroke,” Doomer said.

“It makes you a victim,” Tackman pointed out. “The equation changes. We can suggest the entire episode, going back to the car accident, was a result of physical deterioration.”

“There could be significant ramifications for your legal defense,” Doomer said. “It’s a persuasive mitigating circumstance.”

Bebe had heard enough. “My brother didn’t get to be who he is by bending to the prevailing winds,” she said. “As long as he’s in possession of his faculties, I think we can all depend on him to make a sound decision.” Bebe held Jay’s hand. Their eye contact excluded Doomer and Tackman, who knew not to intrude. “Jay, you need to wait until you’re out of the hospital and you’ve gotten some rest. Don’t make any decisions today.”

He appreciated his sister’s advice and neither Doomer nor Tackman contradicted it. They arranged a conference call for the next day to discuss subsequent steps. Boris arrived and, after a few minutes, the others departed. While they waited for a doctor to sign the discharge papers, Jay complained: He had believed in the legal system his entire life, and now it was gearing up to steamroll him.

But he had another idea.

Chapter Fifty-Six

On a summer day about a month after Jay graduated from college, his mother invited him to accompany her on a roots trip to her old haunts. They visited her modest home on a quiet street in Bensonhurst. Several members of the Italian-American family that lived there were home and when Helen explained that she had grown up in the house, she and Jay were invited in to look around. The rooms were neat and small and Jay remembered thinking that it could not be possible that his mother, who explored multiple continents, hosted sophisticated dinner parties, and lovingly smoothed the jagged edges of her coarser husband, could possibly have grown up in such mundane circumstances. To be able to witness the distance she had traveled was to be reminded of his own astonishing luck. After lunch at Nathan’s in Coney Island they went to Brooklyn College where Helen had graduated, although did not attend the ceremony because she had to work that day and so never collected her diploma. Miraculously, it remained on file decades later:

Helen Shirley Goldstein, BA Brooklyn College, 1952

Jay was aware that his mother existed in a whorl of parents, siblings, aunts, uncles, and cousins before she married her husband and eventually became Helen Gladstone of Scarsdale, but his mental image of her earlier identity remained unformed. This tangible evidence, first her house, and then the degree, and the pride that filled her as she held it in her unwrinkled hands, enabled him to complete a vibrant picture. She seemed younger than he had ever seen her that afternoon, and so vivid. Now he was glad she could not understand what was happening to him because it would utterly violate the sense of propriety she had worked so hard to cultivate.

A wedge of purpling clouds roiled over Sheepshead Bay and by the time Jay and Boris arrived in Brighton Beach the sky was sloppy with rain. Boris slid the SUV into a parking space down the street from the Rasputin nightclub and he and Jay jogged along the sidewalk through the deluge. They breathed the salt air and heard the rough surf batter the deserted beach a few hundred yards away. Boris pounded three times on the door. A pierogi-shaped woman with six inches of teased black hair waddled past them holding an umbrella and smoking a cigarette. She was walking a small dog with the muzzle of a lion. When the dog sniffed Jay’s leg the woman said something to it in guttural Russian and jerked the animal’s chain without stopping. A moment later the door opened revealing a huge man in a tracksuit. Unkempt brown hair and a mustache the size of a pickle. He, too, was smoking a cigarette. In a borscht-flavored accent he asked what they wanted. Boris told him whom they were there to see. The man ordered them to wait and closed the door. The rain intensified. After all Jay had accomplished, after reaching the dizzying heights he had, socially and in business, he was standing on a rain-splattered sidewalk in front of a nightclub in Brighton Beach. He almost laughed at the wildly improbable nature of the situation but was interrupted by the return of the bearish man, who waved them inside.

The words were being sung in Russian but the big, sultry voice was unmistakably that of a black woman, or a white woman who was trying to sound black. The unseen chanteuse was belting the disco anthem “I Will Survive” in the language of the Moscow trials. The place smelled like a mixture of sea breeze, disinfectant, and stale cigarettes. Jay had to adjust his eyes to the shadowy darkness. The nightclub was a large, multi-tiered space ringed with tables surrounding a dance floor. On a small stage, the singer, a statuesque black woman with a huge Afro, belted the Russian lyrics as if she had been raised on the banks of the Dnieper. A laptop that stored her backing tracks rested next to her on a high stool.

The mustache motioned for Jay and Boris to wait. He approached a table where two men in suits sat listening to the performance. When the song ended, the men conferred. In English, the singer asked if they wanted her to sing another song and one of the men replied that she should audition for one of those talent shows on television, but meanwhile, they would like her to perform in the club starting this weekend. The diva thanked them, gathered her gear, and hustled off the stage. One of the men rose from the table and escorted her out a side door. The mustache beckoned Jay and Boris to the table.

It had been years since Jay had seen Marat, from whom he kept a wary distance. He did occasional favors for him, like arranging apartments for associates in Gladstone buildings, but their contact was minimal. Marat rose from his chair, smiled, and embraced Jay and Boris in succession.

Only his height was unchanged. When Jay thought of Marat, it was as he looked in the 1970s, with a barrel chest, more hair, and a coiled aspect. In his late sixties now, his hair had thinned and grayed. The Cyrillic letters tattooed on his ringed fingers had faded. His chest had shrunk, and his girth expanded. Most surprising to Jay, he smiled when he asked if they had enjoyed the singer. They assured him that her talents were exemplary.

“During sixties, in Soviet Union, all kinds of Africans showed up to attend school,” he said. “She reminds me of those days.”

Marat indicated they should join him at the table. He inquired whether they would like a drink and, without waiting for an answer, called into the darkness for a bottle of vodka. He asked after Boris’s mother, and Boris told him that she was well. Marat sent his greetings.

“Is my son causing you problems?” Marat asked with mock concern. Boris looked away, embarrassed by the teasing. Jay assured him he was not. He had trouble imagining what it must be like for Boris to have Marat Reznikov as a father.

A beefy woman with bleached blonde hair appeared with the vodka, deposited it on the table, and toddled away. Marat poured three glasses and lit a Lucky Strike.

“I’m trying to quit,” he said, taking a deep drag and blowing an impressive cloud. “You see how well it’s going.”

Boris asked if he could have a cigarette. His father lit one and handed it to him. It was a surprisingly intimate gesture. Jay had never seen Boris smoke.

Marat stared at Jay. “You look like shit.”

“It’s been a difficult time.”

“I always tried to keep my name out of the papers.” Marat waved the smoke away. “The more people know your name, the more people want to take you down. Why you go on television? I watched that interview. You dug your own grave with your mouth.” Jay did not respond. Being addressed like this in front of Boris was painful. “What kind of idiot goes on television?” Marat still pronounced it “eee-dyote.” His accent still redolent of the Odessa docks.

“My advisors suggested it.”

“Your advisors?” He spat the word like a bloody tooth. Now it sounded jarring in Jay’s ears. Marat called out for appetizers. The same waitress arrived in seconds with a plate of herring and crackers. Marat slapped her backside as she departed.

Jay thought back to the summer when he met his Ukrainian cousin for the first time. To a college student from a world far removed from the first-generation Bronx and Brooklyn experience of his parents, this immigrant seemed like a wild beast. His surface was composed, but underneath something simmered that could erupt without warning, like the steamy day when the two of them crossed a potholed street in the Mott Haven section of the Bronx, and the gypsy cab lightly struck Marat. Jay never forgot the sick feeling that overcame him as he watched his cousin pistol-whip the driver.

His mouth full of herring, Marat said, “You drove all the way to Brooklyn to see me on this beautiful day. What’s on your mind?”

Jay wrenched his thoughts back from the Bronx. He outlined his situation with the league, related that the playoffs started soon, and told Marat that a judge was going to rule on the matter shortly.

“What can I do?”

“You still know a lot of people in the sports book in Las Vegas?”

“One or two.”

“And that league referee who went to prison for gambling.”

“Not personally, no.”

“There are rumors, Marat, we discuss them at the owners’ meetings.”

“Always there are rumors.”

“Any hint of fixing in a sport can make people think it’s like professional wrestling. It would kill the league.”

“Rumors are like oxygen, Jay.” Marat glanced around the dim room, over one shoulder, then the other, to illustrate his point. “Everywhere.”

“I’m not asking you to confirm or deny.”

The expression that had been so welcoming hardened, replaced by a feral wariness that appeared at home in Marat’s weathered features.

“Boris, give us a minute,” Jay said. He did not want his protégé to witness his further abasement. Boris took his glass of vodka and retreated.

Jay leaned over the table, lowered his voice: “I only want to be able to communicate to the commissioner that facts might come to light that could cause trouble for the league exponentially worse than what my situation is causing so he’ll have to back off and figure out a way to line up behind me.”

Jay hadn’t intended to drink the vodka, but now he took a sip.

“That’s your plan?”

“I don’t have a lot of options.”

“If they push back then on top of all the other trouble, they’ll get you for extortion. Not only will they get you, they get me, and then I’m going back to prison. But, Jay, I’m not going back to prison.” Marat had done time upstate for running a gasoline racket.

“I can’t go to prison.”

Marat took another drag of his cigarette and released a plume of smoke.

“Take your medicine. I did five years. You are big boy, you can do it.”

The club was starting to feel like the middle of the night on a deserted subway platform in the 1970s, the atmosphere rank with bad possibilities. Jay started to perspire. His clothes were already moist from the downpour and now he wanted to take a shower.

“Listen to me, Marat.”

“I’m listening.”

“When you asked me to forget what I saw—”

Marat interrupted, “I’m not going to tell you I’m grateful because I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He drained the vodka in one gulp and poured another.

Jay knew his cousin would admit nothing out loud but it didn’t matter. It was a decision that went against his grain at the time and in the ensuing years he had carried like a virus.

“That’s all you’re going to say?”

“You are bigger man than your father, and Bingo was great man. Is handicap to be born with money because hard to learn how shit works. But you learned.”

Marat, philosopher.

Marat, dispenser of favors.

Marat, lands’ end court for petitioners with no hope.

Jay knew exactly how shit worked, which was why he was here in the Rasputin nightclub swilling vodka with his grizzled cousin. He reflected on his father, wondered if he would have traveled to Brooklyn to sit down with Marat and attempted to pull invisible levers that would shift the planes on which everything was built. He concluded that that is just what Bingo would have done. But Jay didn’t know if he had Bingo’s nerve. Perhaps the easiest thing would be to arrange a deal with Marat and then not live up to his half of the bargain. Marat would turn him into a pavement stain and that would be the end of it.

“I could lose everything.”

“What everything? Don’t be dramatic. You’re a fucking billionaire.” Marat picked a piece of tobacco from between his teeth and flicked it off his finger with a callused thumb. “I tell you what. Say I make a couple of phone calls.” Jay straightened his back. This negotiation is why he was in Brooklyn. “What can you do for me?”

“Whatever you want.”

“I didn’t say I would do it.”

“Marat, just ask.”

“I love basketball.”

“I do, too.”

“Remember when Russian men’s team stole 1972 Olympics from the Americans?”

“Who can forget?”

Marat smiled as if he were the one who had arranged that farce himself. He drained his glass and called for coffee. The same waitress arrived with the same speed and placed two espressos in front of them. Jay inhaled the pleasant smell. Its familiarity comforted him, but he did not touch his cup. Marat downed the shot in one gulp.

“I hear your team is worth more than billion dollars.”

“So I’m told.”

“Give me half.”

“Cash?”

“Ownership.”

His cousin was throwing him a lifeline, but it was one that would strangle him. A partnership with Marat would be like sharing a confined space with a sleeping lion. Eventually, the cat would awaken.

“That’s not possible.”

“I should risk my ass for a box of chocolates?”

Jay insisted such a transaction would be remarkably difficult to engineer. There are few businesses as public as professional sports. Owners have to vote, Marat was a convicted felon. There were ways to disguise ownership, Marat said. His name was on only a fraction of the enterprises he controlled.

“Those are illegitimate businesses.”

At first, Marat seemed insulted. At this point, Jay did not care.

“Not all of them, boychik. Not all of them.” Marat named a well-known Manhattan restaurant operated by a famous chef and informed Jay that he owned a controlling share. When Marat saw the look of surprise on Jay’s face, he said, “See, even a guy as smart as you, you don’t know everything.”

“I don’t think it can work.”

“Don’t tell me it can’t work if what you want to say is you don’t have the balls to pull it off.”

Jay said he would think about Marat’s offer and call him. Marat told him not to use the phone. He should come back and shake on the agreement in person.

“If you don’t want to do it, I understand. Big decisions are not easy. When time comes, if things are bad, perhaps then I help you.”

“How?”

“You say you can’t go to prison.”

“I won’t do that.”

“Then maybe you want to disappear.”

It was still raining when they drove back to Manhattan. Jay did not mention the particulars of his discussion with Marat, only that he had agreed to consider helping him. Boris listened and nodded. Who knew what he was thinking about his father, their relationship, and the different roads their lives had taken.

Was it worth it to make Marat a silent partner? If it could help Jay avoid prison, perhaps it was. One of the reasons he had hired Boris out of college was because Marat had asked, but also, he viewed it as a means to keep Boris out of his father’s orbit. As corny as it was, Jay wanted to be the kind of example for his young cousin that his father had been for him, someone to admire, to emulate. In going to Brighton Beach, he had utterly betrayed that idea. In the Gates of Heaven Cemetery, Bingo Gladstone lay not far from where Babe Ruth was buried. Today Jay was glad of it. As they drove over the Brooklyn Bridge and slid beneath the cloud-shrouded towers of Manhattan, the wash of shame he experienced was tempered by the distant hope that his gambit might work.

Chapter Fifty-Seven

Dag’s coma lasted ten days. After a week, when Dr. Bannister and his team attempted to bring him out of it, the patient was unresponsive. The wounds were beginning to heal, but his slightly enhanced brain function proved a false dawn. The prognosis went from hopeful to guarded. The international medical team Jay had assembled could not say if he would emerge from a “persistent vegetative state.” Jamal Jones had not been back after the first week and Brittany Maxwell had returned to California to look after her children. But Dag’s brother Trey, Lourawls, and Babatunde were a constant presence, as was Imam Ibrahim Muhammad. When his friends took a break, Trey remained at his brother’s side with the imam.

Muhammad told Trey his own story: The crimes, prison time, and conversion. They discussed the fragility of existence and the innate need of humans to submit to something greater than themselves. The cross on Trey’s neck was inked when he was trying to make Church Scott’s team and he derived limited comfort from the art when he was cut loose. He told the imam that he wished it had been something more than a decoration. Now that his life had once again derailed he found himself compelled by the spiritual succor his new friend offered. The words of Ibrahim Muhammad were seductive and welcoming and offered sensible solutions to seemingly intractable problems.

At Dag’s bedside Trey perused the pamphlets the imam gave him with heightened interest. What he knew about Islam mostly came from television: Jihad, Kareem Abdul-Jabbar, seventy-two virgins, a grab bag that did not cohere into anything he could comprehend. Because white people controlled the media, he viewed much of what it purveyed as inherently suspect. He wanted solace in a time of need, not to strap on a suicide vest and blow himself up. He was impressed that the Prophet was a warrior who vanquished his adversaries and had multiple wives (the Prophet actually reminded him of several guys he knew growing up in Houston). The idea of being part of a vast community of believers that stretched around the world held deep appeal. The no drugs or alcohol business might be a problem, but following every rule wasn’t the point, was it? Besides, if he had to quit, he could.

He considered the Five Pillars of Islam: Al-Shahadah (Testimony), Al-Salah (Prayer), Al-Siyam (Fasting), Al-Zakat (Almsgiving), and Al-Hajj (Pilgrimage). All of them seemed not only doable but an effective program for gaining control of a sybaritic existence defined by running errands for his brother, whom he loved, but wasn’t it time to think about his own life? Trey Maxwell needed to create some sacred space for himself. He needed to stand up and be his own man, gain inner strength, purify, and if one point six billion Muslims could be trusted, Islam was the answer, the word, the “for real” thing.

Dag’s room was on the tenth floor, overlooking the heliport adjacent to the East River. Each day the helicopters would come and go, arriving and departing in an endless cycle. One came in and another took off, climbing above the river and banking into the distance. There was something mystical about the helicopters to Trey, something he could not quite put into words. But he felt it. Then, it hit him: The helicopters lifting off reminded him of the Prophet Muhammad ascending from Al Aqsa astride his winged steed to begin his heavenly journey. His mind never used to work like that. He felt something good was happening.

When the imam arrived at the hospital the following day, Trey asked how he could become a Muslim. The imam praised him and said he knew Trey would find happiness, tranquility, and inner peace. His friends took the news in stride, which is to say they asked him if he was going to wear white robes and sell bean pies up on 125th Street. When Trey said, “Ain’t funny,” and they saw he was serious, that temporarily ended the comedy.

On Wednesday afternoon of the second week Dag was in the hospital Trey, Lourawls, and Babatunde were playing poker (Trey’s conversion did not include a prohibition against a friendly card game in Dag’s room). Exuding the false cheer of hospital rooms where the possibility of upsetting news flickers like a lightning storm on the horizon, Lourawls gloated as he raked in a twenty-three-dollar pot. Babatunde cursed and told Lourawls he had no talent for the game, it was just luck. Trey ordered the winner to shut up and deal the next hand. As Lourawls began to distribute the cards, Dr. Bannister entered with a group of residents and asked if they would mind stepping out. This was routine, Bannister saw Dag each day, and the entourage left the room. The banter continued in the hallway while they waited for the doctor to finish the examination.

Bannister emerged from the room accompanied by the residents, the graveyard in his eyes. He said, “It looks like your brother might have sepsis.” Trey had no idea what sepsis was and asked if it was dangerous. “It’s a systemic inflammatory response and, yes, it’s dangerous. His organs are failing.”

Trey asked if they could do anything to reverse what was happening and Bannister informed him they were doing all they could.

Trey spent the night at the hospital, grabbing snatches of sleep in the chair next to his brother’s bed. Teams of doctors attended Dag, changing IVs, hooking him up to different machines. As the night wore on Trey stared at the blinking lights. He talked to Allah and with every cell in his body he supplicated, begged, and prayed. Dawn arrived and, bleary-eyed, Trey watched as helicopters rose up like flying horses and arced over the river through the early morning light soaring above the pallid sun toward Arabia.

D’Angelo Maxwell died that afternoon.

This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously.

Seth Greenland is the author of five novels. His latest, The Hazards of Good Fortune (Europa Editions), will be published in 2018. His play Jungle Rot won the Kennedy Center/American Express Fund For New American Plays Award and the American Theater Critics Association Award. He was a writer-producer on the Emmy-nominated HBO series Big Love.

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How an Ex-Cop Rigged McDonalds Monopoly Game and Stole Millions

On August 3, 2001, a McDonald’s film crew arrived in the bustling sea municipality of Westerly, Rhode Island. They carried their cameras and a monstrous cashier’s check to a sequence of townhouses, and thumped on the door of Michael Hoover. The 56 -year-old bachelor had called a McDonald’s hotline to say he’d won their Monopoly competition. Since 1987, McDonald’s customers had feverishly rallied Monopoly game pieces attached to booze goblets, french fry containers and advertising inserts in periodicals. By ending groups of assets like Baltic and Mediterranean Avenues, musicians earned money or a Sega Game Gear, while” Instant Win” activity bits composed a free Filet-O-Fish or a Jamaican vacation. But Hoover, a casino pit boss who had recently registered for bankruptcy, claimed he’d won the splendid loot -$ 1 million dollars. Like acquiring the Powerball, the peculiars of Hoover’s win were 1 in 250 million. There were two ways to prevail the Monopoly splendid medal: find the” Instant Win” game slouse like Hoover, or parallel Park Place with the elusive Boardwalk to choose between a heavily-taxed lump sum or $50,000 checks every year for 20 years. Precisely like the Monopoly board game, which was invented as a advise about the damaging sort of avarice, musicians traded competition patches to acquire, or outbid one another on eBay. Armed raiders even held up diners challenging Monopoly tickets.” Don’t go to jail! Run to McDonald’s and play Monopoly for real !” wept Rich Uncle Pennybags, the game’s mustachioed mascot, on TV commercials that transmitted patrons flocking to buy more nutrient. Monopoly speedily became the company’s most lucrative marketing maneuver since the Happy Meal. Inside Hoover’s home, Amy Murray, a loyal McDonald’s spokesperson, encouraged him to tell the camera about the luckiest time of their own lives. Nervously clutching his massive check, Hoover said he’d fallen asleep on the sea. When he flexed over to wash off the beach, his People magazine fell into the sea. He bought another imitate from a convenience store, he enunciated, and inside was an advertising insert with the” Instant Win” play piece. The camera crew listened patiently to his wandering floor, mutely recognizing the insignificant details may be in narratives told by liars. They suspected that Hoover was not a lucky win, but part of a major criminal scheme to victimize the fast food chain of millions of dollars. The two men behind the camera were no longer from McDonald’s. They were undercover agents from the FBI. This was a McSting. At the FBI’s Jacksonville Field Office in Florida, Special Agent Richard Dent lent the Hoover videotape to his growing stockpile of testify. Sandy-haired and highly-organized, Dent was a 13 -year veteran of the Bureau, who devoted his periods investigating public corrupt practices and bank hoax. But in the last 12 months his desk had filled with fast food paraphernalia. Circulars for “Pick Your Prize Monopoly” and” Who Demands to Be a Millionaire ?” described McDonald’s games play back 14 countries. He predicted small print that disclosed how the quirkies were stacked against the customer: McDonald’s compiles one section from each position of assets extremely rare, so while thousands have three of the four railroads, the stranges of gathering the Short Line Railroad–and winning a PT Cruiser–were 1 in 150 million. Dent’s investigation had started in 2000, when a inexplicable informant called the FBI and claimed that McDonald’s games had been rigged by an insider known as “Uncle Jerry.” The party been demonstrated that “winners” paid Uncle Jerry for plagiarized recreation pieces in various ways. The$ 1 million champions, for example, guided the first $50,000 installment to Uncle Jerry in money. Sometimes Uncle Jerry would necessitate money up front, compelling champions to mortgage their dwellings to come up with the money. Harmonizing to the snitch, members of one close-knit lineage in Jacksonville had claimed three$ 1 million dollar medals and a Dodge Viper. When Dent alerted the McDonald’s headquarters in Oak Brook, Illinois, managers were deeply concerned. The company’s pinnacle lawyers pledged to help the FBI, and faxed Dent a list of past champions. They explained that their sport pieces were produced by a Los Angeles company, Simon Marketing, and reproduced by Dittler Brothers in Oakwood, Georgia, a conglomerate trusted with printing U.S. mail stamps and lotto scratch-offs. The party in charge of video games cases was Simon’s director of security, Jerry Jacobson. Dent thought he had observed his boy. But after installing a wiretap on Jacobson’s phone, he realized that his tip-off had led to a super-sized plot. Jacobson was the head of a sprawling structure of mobsters, psychics, strip fraternity owners, criminals, drug traffickers, and even a family of Mormons, who had falsely claimed more than $24 million in money and loots. But who among them had divulged Jacobson, and why? Dent knew agents had to move carefully. If they apprehended a “winner” too soon, he or she might alert the other officers of the plot who would destroy ground, or flee. With the scheme still in full-swing, the FBI needed to team up with McDonald’s to catch Uncle Jerry and his crew red-handed. JEROME PAUL JACOBSON ever dreamed of becoming a police officer. He was born in 1943, in Youngstown, Ohio, and endeavoured to Miami, Florida, as a teen. Chronic reactions and a series of luck hurts ever seemed to ruin his ambitions, like when he applied for the Marines, but was accomplished from basic training with high-pitched arches. In 1976 he was cuss in to Florida’s Hollywood Police Department, but really a year later he injured his wrist in an altercation. During a continue medical leave, in 1980, Jacobson crumbled with a severe paralysis in his arms, legs, looks and respiratory structure. Doctors diagnosed a rare neurological disorder, and Jacobson’s police officer wife, Marsha, took a leave of absence to care for him.” I grew his private harbour, I soaped him … massaged his muscles, fed him ,” she withdrew. With Jacobson incompetent to return to work, the city interrupted him. By 1981 the couple had moved to Atlanta, Georgia, where Jacobson recovered enough to work as a car-mechanic, building alternators for automobiles he couldn’t afford. Luckily, Marsha was offered a errand as a security auditor for the accounting house Arthur Young, and was assigned to one of their clients, Dittler Brothers. In 1981, she recommended her husband for a errand there too, but the couple constantly debated at work, and by 1983 they had divorced. Concluding his feet in private protection, Jacobson started to climb the grades until he oversaw all make for Dittler’s client, Simon Marketing, and their $500 million McDonald’s account. When Jacobson rallied through the printing works, with his slicked-back fuzz and a little paunch that overhung his loop, he looked every fraction the ex-cop. He was speedy with a pun, but dominated respect for his hard work and preoccupation with loss-prevention.” He scrutinized laborers’ shoes to check they weren’t embezzling McDonald’s game patches ,” one colleague told me, while a truck driver who transported sport portions recollected:” I couldn’t even go to the shower without someone going with me .” Astonished by Jacobson’s attentioned to detail and police credentials, in 1988 Simon Marketing poached him. ” It was my responsibility to keep the stability of video games and get those wins to the public ,” Jacobson would later tell reviewers. Before each bi-annual sport, Jacobson arrived at the drab Dittler Brothers’ role at 5 a.m to mention their Omega III supercomputer manufacturing the McDonald’s prize draw. He watched the printing presses that hooted for 24 hours a day for three months, applying 100 railroad cars of article to print half a billion recreation cases. Laid end-to-end, the paper tickets would extend from New York to Sydney-nearly two tickets for every American. Jacobson discovered technicians exerting the” INSTANT WINNER !” mold to blank activity segments, and pioneered random watermarks that prevented counterfeiters. He fastened the prize pieces in a tomb behind coded keypads and dual-entry combining fastenings. It was Jacobson who personally scissored out the high-value play articles and declined them into envelopes, before sealing each angle with a tamper-proof metallic sticker. In trade secrets vest, of his invention, Jacobson brought the win cases to McDonald’s packaging factories throughout the country. Everything he did was overseen by an independent examiner. On flights she sat in tutor, while Jacobson piloted first class, where he was attempting to impress other fares by blinking his old police stamp. On one flight, Jacobson and another security manager mailed an breath overseer back to demonstrates the controller the empty-bellied liquor bottles they’d guzzled. When they arrived at the factory, Jacobson would summon a forklift of french fry receptacles, disguise the victory recreation slouse, and route it into the mad. Then he liked to hit a Ruth’s Chris steakhouse and prescribe “everything” -more than he could feed, and blame it to his expense account. The 1980 s was America’s” decade of desire ,” and “its been” Jacobson’s job to create instant millionaires. Frisking God was intoxicating, as was holding a stranger’s demise in the palm of his hands. Female hires among the 30 staff he saw complained that he criticized how they garmented, and he often wrote up craftsmen for mistakes. Jacobson’s $ 70,000 salary was six meters his police officer’s offer, and he was haunted with achieving the gold medallion airline status, sometimes flying to plants via various municipalities to accrue airline times, to the discomfort of those who had to darknes him. Jacobson was also late into his own get-rich-quick arrangement. He boasted to collaborators that he was waiting to collect his “riches” from a inexplicable “investment.” All he necessity was to find 10 more parties to sign up and devote.” A psychic had told him to invest fund and he would be extravagantly reinforced ,” one former peer told me. But they believed he’d invested in a Ponzi scheme. One peer told me Jacobson swore by the advice of a regional tarot reader, and often excused himself from cultivate, mentioning:” I speculate she needs to tell me something .” ” In trade secrets vest, of his invention, Jacobson brought the prevail fragments to McDonald’s packaging factories across the country .” div > div> This was the man entrusted with creating a theft-proof arrangement for one of America’s largest corporations. It was a thrill to protect the Monopoly promotion, and exclusively a natural part of his responsibility to consider the system’s fallibilities. But soon the temptation to steal had become inescapable. One day in 1989, at their own families gathering in Miami, Jacobson declined his step-brother, Marvin Braun, video games fragment importance $25,000.” I don’t know if I just wanted to show him I could do something, or bragging ,” Jacobson afterward declared, but he only necessary” to see if I could do it .” When his local murderer in Atlanta received information that Jacobson was in charge of the McDonald’s Monopoly prizes, he said he’d like to acquire a trophy. Jacobson boasted that he could make it happen, but it would look too questionable because they were friends and neighbors. The butcher offered to find a distant friend to assertion a $10,000 medal, and rendered Jacobson $ 2,000 for the embezzled ticket. It was easy money. McDonald’s was already overwhelmed with hire theft. In Sheboygan, Wisconsin, a 17 -year-old restaurant employee was arrested for plagiarizing 3,000 Monopoly game parts. In answer, McDonald’s started passing out game parts from a procure go at the bar. As a solution, Jacobson was removed from the “seeding” process for several years. But in 1995, as McDonald’s ramped up the dimensions of the the advertisement, activity segments were’ blown’ onto soft drink beakers and hash brown wrappings. That time, Ronald McDonald and Monopoly’s Rich Uncle Pennybags rang the opening bell on Wall street, and Jacobson procured himself back in charge of distributing the game pieces. During that 1995 loot attraction, something happened that would change the game. Harmonizing to Jacobson, when the computerized prize draw adopted a factory spot in Canada, Simon Marketing administrations re-ran the program until it chose an neighborhood in the USA. Jacobson claimed he was ordered to ensure that no high-level prizes ever arrived at the Great White North.” I knew what we were doing in Canada was bad ,” Jacobson remembered.” Sooner or afterwards someone was going to be asking questions about why there were no winners in Canada .” Believing the game was rigged, he decided to cash in very. Not long afterward, Jacobson opened a package to be presented to him by mistake from a supplier in Hong Kong. Inside he found a situate of the anti-tamper seals for the game piece envelopes–the only act he needed to steal sport cases en route to the factory.” I would go into the men’s room of international airports ,” he later admitted, the only place the female supervisor couldn’t follow him.” I would go into a stop. I would make the seal off .” Then he’d move the winning activity pieces into his hands, replace them with “commons,” and re-seal the envelope. First, he embezzled a$ 1 million” Instant Win” activity portion and fastened it in a deposit box. Then he plagiarized documents that he claimed attested the Canada conspiracy.” I recalled I would need that to safeguard myself ,” Jacobson recollected. If his employer ever shot him, he had a” get out of jail free” card. But when he misappropriate another$ 1 million recreation bit, Jacobson did something awesome. ” Sooner or afterwards individual was going to be asking questions about why there were no champions in Canada .” div> — Jerome Jacobson On November 12, 1995, a gifts clerk at the St. Jude Children’s Research Hospital in Tennessee rent open the morning’s mail, and discovered a brightly colored card. At first, Tammie Murphy presumed “its been” junk mail, until she discovered the minuscule Monopoly game piece inside. McDonald’s officials pitched on research hospitals and examined the game bit under a jeweler’s eyepiece. Ronald McDonald himself attended a news conference, where research hospitals was announced the$ 1 million win. Despite an investigation, the New York Times could not uncover the name of the generous sponsor. Back in Atlanta, Jacobson’s murderer was ready for another earn. This time, he proposed that he’d traveling with his sister to Maryland where she would “find” the lucky competition fragment on a container of fries. Jacobson gave the butcher a stolen recreation part worth $200,000 in exchange for $45,000 of the prevails.” I figured I could trust him because he paid me the first time ,” Jacobson recollected. But the killer double-crossed him in Maryland and claimed the prize himself. All Jacobson went was $4,000, and a big amaze. One night, Jacobson was watching television when he saw a busines for the McDonald’s Monopoly game. To his complete mistrust he watched his butcher celebrating his big win. He contacted for the phone. ” You live here ,” Jacobson complained.” You know me .” LOTTERIES AND SWEEPSTAKES have been mired in decay since biblical seasons, when bunches were drawn to read the will of God. But it was the Medieval Italians who firstly applied prize portrayals as a sales publicity. In 1522, a Venetian human was condemned to death after tampering with the medal describe for 1,500 gilded ducats, a parcel of silk and a live mad “cat-o-nine-tail”. Allegations of fraud and corruption shuttered an English lottery in 1621, which money America’s earliest colonies. In the New World, centuries of sweepstake chicanery followed, until 1890 when lotteries were banned in every mood except Delaware and Louisiana. This ushered in an age of promotional “contests” in which marketers could avoid prosecution by making no buy required. Today, you can penetrate a McDonald’s contest without to purchase a burger–just write in for a free ticket and make your chances. It was by chance that Jacobson met the man who would industrialize his Monopoly scam. Jacobson was sitting in Atlanta’s airport one day in 1995, when a beings gentleman folded himself into the next seat. Gennaro Colombo, 32, was like Al Capone, and when Jacobson enquired where he was headed, Colombo unzipped a bulging purse full of $100 invoices, and announced: “Atlantic City.” Colombo said he was born in Sicily and raised in Brooklyn, New York, before moving to South Carolina, where he operated adult nightclubs, underground casinoes and a sports gambling sound. He claimed he was a member of New York’s infamous Colombo crime family. When Jacobson been demonstrated that he worked in promotional gaming, Colombo was intrigued. He experienced encountering new ways to mislead a structure. When Charleston County, Georgia transferred new legislation limiting where divest sororities could be operated, Colombo opened a house of worship called The Church of Fuzzy Bunnies.” I want them to read the Bible for two hours every night, and then we’ll glas and let the girls move ,” articulated Colombo, who claimed that God came to him in a fantasy with the relevant recommendations. By November of 1995, Jacobson had plunged Colombo a game slouse for a brand new Dodge Viper. The Italian, who was obsessed with The Godfather and had ambitions of becoming an actor, agreed to wave a beings automobile key in a McDonald’s business. Instead of the sports car he took the money, his wife, Robin Colombo, told me.” He was a big person. A Viper? No .” With a clean of black curly “hairs-breadth” and a contagious scream, Robin, 34, had become engaged to Colombo after a two-week adventure. She was thrilled with the trappings of a Mafia wife: defenders, chauffeurs, two rottweilers and a last name that dominated suspicion and respect. By now, Colombo was traveling with sidekicks from Atlanta to Boston, where they’d “win”$ 1 million booties, thanks to embezzled tickets from Jacobson. Soon Colombo innovated Robin to Jacobson, announcing him “Uncle Jerry,” and in 1996, her father-god, William Fisher, received a stolen$ 1 million winning ticket. Fisher traveled from his house in Jacksonville, Florida to Litchfield, New Hampshire, to claim his loot, before Robin’s brother-in-law in Virginia became a millionaire more. Every winner communicated a kickback in money via the Colombos to Jacobson. In 1997, Robin interposed Colombo to her friend Gloria Brown, 37, at an Applebee’s in Jacksonville.” He questioned … how much money I could come up with…in order considered eligible ,” Brown recalled. A few weeks later, on the side of the I-9 5 superhighway, Brown passed Colombo $ 40,000 in currency. He showed her a tiny bottle containing the$ 1 million play bit, dwarfed by his beings side.” I’ll let you know the rest eventually ,” he mumbled. Brown traveled to South Carolina to “find” her booty, because too many recent champions now lived in Jacksonville.” It was so reticent ,” she withdrew. Colombo and a cousin drove Brown to a McDonald’s and parked a safe length apart. They instructed Brown what to tell McDonald’s staff, but doubts unexpectedly ingested her.” I had to just tell, you know, outright lies ,” she recognized. She was just thinking about loping. Do I lose it all or do I keep going? But she did the deed, and subsequentlies attained the two Italians sweating.” They were a bit apprehensive because it made so long ,” Brown withdrew. They facilitated her fill in the trophy assemble, writing her epithet together with the cousin’s South Carolina address. To make it appear like she lived with the cousin, Brown registered the content on his answering machine, and later told reporters a long-winded floor about spotting the earning ticket while cleansing out her car. Robin told me that Uncle Jerry’s coin soon money specific Colombo-run enterprises, including a private members’ organization in Hilton Head. She thought he was sophisticated and liked the mode he dressed. In income, Jacobson communicated other ” openings” to the Colombos, Robin told me. Late one darknes, she was stoned and rifling through the kitchen for a snack, when she found in their freezer a inscrutable plastic handbag. Inside was a single gray-colored M& M candy, which was part of a promotional controversy, she enunciated. In 1997, the Mars candy company launched a competition to find an “imposter” M& M, along with video games portion that met the champion an instantaneous millionaire.( Mars did not respond to enquiries, but registers been demonstrated that Cyrk, a company that produced promotional materials for Mars, integrated within Simon Marketing in 1997.) Colombo unexpectedly appeared behind her, grabbed the pocket and bawled TAGEND ” Do not devour this !” Meanwhile, Jacobson was now living with a huge secret–he had not even told his new spouse, Linda, what he was doing. By now he had given his step-brother, Marvin Braun, three more play fragments including one for$ 1 million. Braun, who owned a order of maternity dres places, claimed he didn’t need the money.” I plunged tickets into Salvation Army tins ,” he told me,” Jerry would give me a million dollar ticket … I would pass it apart … I’ve evened million dollar tickets down toilets .” By 1998, Jacobson’s nephew, Mark Schwartz, had made a $200,000 tournament case after a powwow in Miami.” I told him what I demanded and the rest was his ,” Jacobson cancelled.” I craved $45,000.” At Schwartz’s wedding that time, Jacobson was discussing the Monopoly game when a remote cousin fell into the conversation and too agreed to prevail a award. Uncle Jerry’s family tree was germinating coin. ” To make it appear like she lived with the cousin, Brown preserved the sense on his answering machine, and later told reporters a long-winded fib about feeling the prevailing ticket while emptying out her automobile .” div > div> By the end of 1998, Jacobson had now become Rich Uncle Pennybags, and America was his play council. He tooled around the United States embezzling almost all the big-ticket sport articles, acquiring brand-new belongings on a fancy, and compiling kickbacks from other actors. Now he was hanging out with potent Italians, he garmented in sharp-worded dress and sometimes consumed the refer” Geraldo Constantino .” He and his wife moved into a fine, red-brick home in Lawrenceville, Georgia, where he tended to its excellent lawn. He purchased a plot of land on Lake Hartwell, a hobby reservoir on the Georgia border, and pay money expensive cruises, and attached a classic automobile guild. There, he sold one member four recreation sections and used the $65,000 to buy a handsome Oldsmobile. Bill LaFoy, who lived opposite Jacobson, lost tally of the new gondolas appearing on the driveway:” I used to kid him about where the triumphing tickets were ,” he did. After three years married to Colombo, Robin had tired of life as a mobster’s bride. Since the birth of their son, Frankie, her husband seems to waste all his time at his gentleman’s sororities and casinoes. Meanwhile, Robin felt that the Colombos had trimmed her off from her friends.” They were the type of people who don’t like interlopers ,” she answered. Lonely and stood, she began disclosing in Jacobson during late darknes telephone call. One light she told him that Colombo was sleeping with her personal tutor.” I was upset about my husband ,” she did,” and he goes,’ Well, you are able marry me .'” ” No, I can’t. I’m marriage ,” she mentioned instantly.” I love my husband .” Robin is seeking to conclude her union to Colombo work.” He had done some things in Charleston that I freaked out about ,” she alleged,” I told him I needed to get out of South Carolina .” On May 7, 1998, they drove to the Georgia state line to look for land on which to build their nightmare dwelling. Colombo’s pager had been bleeping all morning, but he rejected it. Robin was behind the rotate of their Ford Explorer as they approached the entering to the road. At the on-ramp, a tractor trailer stymie Robin’s view. When she swung onto the freeway, a race F-1 50 truck demolished into them, dragging their gondola 250 feet and into a concrete wall. Colombo crawled from the debris, but emergency gangs had to use the Jaws of Life to cut Robin and her son free. ” The polouse told me he recollected I was gonna be the one to live because I was the one covered in blood ,” Robin told me. But at research hospitals, Colombo’s blood pressure plunged so low-spirited they wrap his person in refrigerated blankets.” My mother-in-law pas over to me and told me she knew this was going to happen ,” Robin recalled.” She had a vision in a dream the nighttime before. That’s why she was trying to sheet him all day .” At his bedside, Robin shook Colombo’s beings weapon, and entreat him to wake up.” He was my soulmate ,” Robin articulated. But two weeks later the doctors turned off his life subscribe. The secret of Jacobson’s success was that he banked his co-conspirators at random, and soon he was looking for a replacement for Colombo. Jacobson was in London with his step-brother Marvin and their partners, waiting to card a Royal Caribbean Cruise ship, where reference is convened Don Hart and his wife.” The six members of us were talking, and we found out that Mr. Hart and his wife emerged from the Atlanta range ,” Jacobson withdrew.” And they wound up changing counters to ingest with us on the cruise .” Hart had sold his trucking firm for a small fortune, and still had a system of contacts all over the United States. When Jacobson revealed his defraud, Hart, an honest industrialist, saw it very good to be true. But he agreed to try it, to” see if it made ,” withdrew Jacobson. In 1998, one of Hart’s accomplices exchanged a $200,000 tournament segment.” After that Mr. Hart told me he didn’t want to be involved in handling any recreation piece tickets or treating any coin ,” Jacobson told. Instead, he established Jacobson to two friends who could find the disadvantaged and the covetou. The first was Richard Couturier, who owned a chain of deep-fried chicken seams. He was duped into believing he was helping McDonald’s find real winners, because most people threw away their tournament articles.” Mr. Jacobson told each time they operated the game and had champions, the sales were up 38 percentage ,” Couturier read. He primarily banked random parties he met at defendants. At Mardi Gras in 1999, Couturier was travelling on a swim through the streets of New Orleans, pitching balls into the crowd, where reference is hollered to another reveler:” Would you be interested in has become a McDonald’s win !” Jacobson caused Couturier” around ten” acquiring cases, including several for sports cars and two$ 1 million trophies.” If I bought a piece of owned, I would borrow from my house equity and then Mr. Couturier would write a check to my home equity loan ,” Jacobson explained. Then, at a dinner party in Atlanta, Hart interposed Jacobson to Andrew Glomb, a affable adventurer who lived in a luxury Spanish-style home in Fort Lauderdale, Florida. Glomb invested his days partying, or sauntering his puppy through the lime trees that territory his property, where neighbors all knew of his checkered past. In 1983, Glomb had been convicted of sending pure cocaine on a Pan American flight from Miami to Dallas. He’d rushed bond and escaped to Europe for 16 months, before completing his 12 -year sentence. Glomb principally made his triumphing tickets to old-time buddies from his drug trafficking periods.” It was only the exhilaration, to have the power ,” he told me.” Because I like you, I can form you a millionaire .” But Glomb’s winners established little salubrious characters to the planned. In 1999, a million-dollar win was a man who had pleaded guilty to strewing 400 pounds of cocaine in Pittsburgh, while loping a numbers racket from an Italian restaurant. Glomb said his winners were all destitute:” They were on their ass…they had nothing. I mean, if you could imagine winging across country, dedicating individual a million dollars, and I had to pick up the dinner check .” One epoch, Glomb arrived in Pennsylvania to visit his family, where his cousin picked him up at the airport. The cousin supposed:” I got to stop at McDonald’s because my girls wanna represent this Monopoly game .” Glomb smiled, and announced:” You know, don’t waste your time .” Across America, McDonald’s purchasers were becoming baffled by the Monopoly game.” Are McDonald’s employees deterring competition cards to themselves ?” requested a concerned citizen in a letter to the Atlanta Constitution.” We’re talking coin here ,” articulated another participate in North Miami, who paid for a classified advert for video games segments he couldn’t find. Instead of lodging those game articles to customer’s soft drink bowls and french fry packets, Jacobson referred them everyone to Andrew Glomb, including eight$ 1 million wins.” He told me,’ Don’t talk about this, don’t talk about that ,'” Glomb echoed. Paranoid Jacobson now had dozens of reward winners out there, appearing in TV business, and bickering with their spouses about the pillage. His black hair had diverted gray-headed, and he was bothering his clairvoyants about his future. One receives an $50,000 activity bit in exchange for chiropractic service and fortune telling (” he did both ,” Jacobson suggested .) But the clairvoyant didn’t see how Jacobson’s fate had already been sealed. Ever since her husband died, Robin Colombo felt precarious around her in-laws. The Colombos probed the car gate-crash, she replied, believing that she might have killed her husband.” My mother-in-law, Ma, she told me,’ Do you think if we didn’t know it was an accident you’d be sitting here today ?'” At her husband’s funeral, Robin said her father-in-law promised to keep the New York area of the family at bay.” In my psyche I was picturing,’ Papa, I’m really not to be concerned about them, I’m worried about you sniping me down, because I was the driver .'”( Addressing in a thick-skulled Sicilian accent, Colombo’s mother revoked the family was already in the Mafia but substantiated they are related to the late Joseph Colombo, onetime boss of the Colombo crime genealogy .) Robin had tried to keep up the’ good life’ but had turned to imitation, guarantee and debit card scam. During one of her brief spells in prison, Robin experienced the Colombos were “brainwashing” her “sons “, and said she didn’t want Frankie to grow up in the mob. She tried to cut herself off from the “the family,” which she said infuriated them.” Frankie[ was] their first grandson, and, you know how Sicilians are ,” she answered. Robin believes it was the Colombos who told the FBI that her papa, William Fisher, her cousin, and best friend Gloria Brown had all illegally acquired McDonald’s loots. They required her in prisons, she pronounced, to avenge the death of their son. ” That was their reprisal ,” she contributed. The tip to the FBI came in March of 2000. Special Agent Dent announced Amy Murray, the McDonald’s spokesperson, to say he was held that William Fisher, the$ 1 million win of the 1996″ Deluxe Monopoly Game ,” was a fraud. Murray was a quick-thinking Midwesterner who had risen through the ranks at McDonald’s, and was often the public appearance of the company during any theatre. She was the “McQueen” of McDonald’s, added Joe Maggard, a dishonored Ronald McDonald actor who was convicted of making attacking phone calls while posing as the clown. Murray telephoned Fisher at his house in Jacksonville. “[ Fisher] told Ms. Murray that he won the accolade in Litchfield, New Hampshire, where he was living for a year ,” Dent wrote in an affidavit. However, dimension and electricity enters has been demonstrated that Fisher had lived in Jacksonville all along.” I repute[ Fisher] furnished specious and misleading information to Amy Murray ,” wrote Dent. When he asked about Gloria Brown, Murray revealed that she, like Fisher, had re-routed her annual $50,000 checks to Jacksonville. Dent opened public officials investigation, mentioning it Operation” Final Answer ,” after the” Who Wants to Be a Millionaire ?” McDonald’s game. The operation would concern 25 negotiators across the country, who tracked 20,000 telephone number, and registered 235 cassette tapes of telephone calls.” You use from the outside in ,” illustrated John Hanson, a former FBI Special Agent who specializes in complex fraud strategies.” But “youve been” want the ones who organized the idea .” Hanson said the FBI would have investigated the McDonald’s scam just like any boiler room capital hoax or pyramid arrangement: by picking evidence without anyone finding out. Jacobson made this hard by banking co-conspirators in person, in remote locations. On April 29, 2000, Jacobson was driving through the South Carolina countryside, with the crests of the Appalachians in his windshield. In the passenger set was his love Dwight Baker, a real estate make who had sold Jacobson his lakeside planned. Baker was a well-respected is part of the local Mormon church, and a devoted father-of-five who are in a split-level mansion next to hayfields and farmland. He was a charismatic being with large-scale daydreams, who’d tried to build a championship golf course and a five-star recourse, but couldn’t entice enough investors. The two men were equally bold, and they each had a partner appointed Linda. That spring, Baker was recuperating from a severe collision. The dampers had failed on his tractor and after rolling helplessly downwards down a mound, Baker had injured his spinal column in a disintegrate. On hearing of Baker’s misfortune, Jacobson arrived and be submitted to get him out of the members of this house. Baker feared he would never walk again, but Jacobson was insistent. He cured his acquaintance into the car, and they drove up into the mountains. When Baker first found out that Jacobson saw the McDonald’s Monopoly promotion, he had mixed appears.” Well, in 1985 we lost our residence ,” he justified.” Our category had five children, and…for the last several years we’d been, as a family, chasing these recreation parts to … have a little hope of earning one of them .” Baker’s business owed practically $30,000 in back taxes, and county charge officials had started to sell packets of his ground at auction. ” Let me give you hypothetical ,” Jacobson told suddenly.” If I were able get a game part, do you know someone who you trust that would money it ?” ” Are you serious about this ?” requested Baker. He said he’d need to think about it. But Baker soon realized a windfall would ease his fiscal woes. Soon, Jacobson handed him a$ 1 million activity piece. Whoever exchanged it, he ordered, would have to say they plucked it from a hash chocolate-brown pocket. This time, Jacobson craved $100,000, the biggest bribe he’d ever demanded.” He was a sidekick ,” Jacobson remembered.” I contemplated I could trust him .” ” George, you’re not going to believe this ,” whispered Baker, reclining over a Waffle House table in Seneca, South Carolina.” But I was at breakfast with a love of excavation and he attracted off this winning recreation segment .” George Chandler, 30, was the owner of a successful plastic infusion firm, and Baker’s foster child. Chandler was a teenager when Baker made him in.” One period he indicated up on our doorstep with ruptures in his eyes ,” Baker recollected.” His momma had just thrown his clothes out in the middle of the ground because he helped his sister go to Georgia get married .” Baker testified Chandler the triumph competition segment in a insignificant Ziplock bag, and offered to sell it to him for $100,000. Baker explained that the champion was going through a divorce and didn’t want to split his McDonald’s winnings with his wife.( Or that was his narrative .) Chandler could have been come up with $50,000, but on June 6, 2000, Baker cured him fill out the McDonald’s claim form. They photocopied video games section and forwarded it off to the recovery core. Baker reminded him four times not to participate in any publicities, but on June 26, his telephone rang. ” You need to be up now at South Union McDonald’s at eleven 0′ clock ,” Chandler remarked casually. McDonald’s was presenting him with a beings check, he pronounced. Baker was incensed.” There’s more to this than you know ,” he rasped. But it was too late. When Baker arrived at the McDonald’s restaurant, two Tv word gangs were filming Ronald McDonald showering Chandler with confetti. That footage felt its channel to the FBI field office in Jacksonville. In March of 2001, the McDonald’s promotion started again, with a” Who Demands to Be a Millionaire ?” promotional recreation.” That’s where the real greed on my part developed ,” Baker acknowledged. He invited Jacobson if he’d consent a plot of land in Edgewater Hills for a got a couple of competition fragments. Baker yielded a$ 1 million winner to a acquaintance, Ronnie Hughey, and a $500,000 win to his wife’s sister, Brenda Phenis. He returned them strict teaches on how to set up fake lives in other territories, claim their pillages, and keep their cavities shut. On April 27, 2001, Dent received a announce from McDonald’s, informing him that a Mr. Ronald E. Hughey, a lifelong tenant of Germantown, Tennessee, had claimed the$ 1 million medal. When Amy Murray announced Hughey’s phone, she asked him to appear in a Tv commercial-grade, but Hughey said he’d prefer to remain anonymous, “because hes” suffered by recession. Technological operators soon discovered that Hughey’s Tennessee telephone number was just a call forwarding invention. He actually lived in Anderson, South Carolina, really miles from the dwelling of George Chandler, the latest winner. To secrete his sister-in-law’s South Carolina address, Baker made Brenda Phenis on a artery outing to North Carolina, he recollected.” She had set an accommodation, had rented it, acquired telephone calls, a mailing address, bank account, and I think a North Carolina drivers’ permission .” On May 16, 2001, Baker stood over Phenis’ shoulder as she dialed the McDonald’s hotline and claimed the $500,000 prevailing ticket. Phenis had agreed to pay the taxes, impart Baker $ 90,000 and Jacobson $ 70,000, and retain $90,000 for herself.” “Shes had” constructed commitments to other parties that she was going to buy them a automobile, build a home, and she overcommitted ,” echoed Baker. Phenis also told her son about the intrigue, and his wife, and her other sister. On May 30, 2001, McDonald’s notified Dent of Phenis’ $500,000 earn. He checked the recognition bureaus and quickly been observed that she more lives in South Carolina, in a town called Westminster. Dent determined a map on the part of states, and pinned the statements of Hughey, Chandler, and Phenis. He had uncovered a 25 -mile golden triangle of suspicious McDonald’s winners, and at its midst was the lakefront home of Jacobson. Dent sought that McDonald’s retarded sending checks to Hughey and Phenis while he applied for wiretaps.” This intentional delay…proved very fruitful ,” he recollected, because 3 weeks later everyone was panicking. On recorded bellows, Jacobson told Baker that Phenis needed to insist on” something in writing” from McDonald’s so Baker could make a “legal issue” about the procrastinate.” I’d suggest …’ do we need an attorney or do I need to call the home office'” Jacobson indicated,” or do I need to call Burger King ?” “That’s right,” concurred Baker. But deep down, he had a’ gut feeling’ that they’d been caught.” I detected the eyes ,” he told me. Phenis, extremely, was find the pressure. She admitted to her rector and stopped answering Baker’s announces. He dreaded she was going to keep the part check for herself. Dent listened to Baker’s tense telephone call with his wife. Baker said that if Jacobson knew that Brenda had gone rogue, he’d report the ticket plagiarized and say he was threatened to hand over the game patches. Baker decided that Phenis should give him the money, otherwise he’d have to “raise his hand” himself, and have the U.S. Marshals arrest her.” I demand everything there is ,” Baker told his wife.” No if, ands, or buts about it .” He raced to Phenis’ imitation apartment where the check was due to arrive. When he opened the door “hes found” the light on and the air conditioner seethe, but no one was in. On the storey he found a tear-off airstrip from a FedEx envelope. Baker announced his wife, and breath:” Brenda’s running with the money .” Time was now ticking for Dent and the FBI. On July 11, they are able to launch the second largest and final promotional tournament of 2001. Knowing that the game was settlement, Golden Arches directors considered canceling the whole act. But Dent insisted he needed one more recreation to gather enough exhibit. Jack Greenberg, the McDonald’s CEO, had a big decided not to originate. To flow the game knowing it was tainted could invite suits and mar McDonald’s reputation. His company had stayed a bumpy year, with a scare over mad moo-cow canker increasing European marketings, and the brand’s domestic business was in a funk.” I had to do what was right ,” Greenberg later told the Chicago Tribune.” If you’re sitting in my chair, I think you’d do the same thing .” Backed by a massive promotional safarus, in July McDonald’s propelled the “Pick Your Prize Monopoly” competition. Diners nationwide were decorated with Monopoly rooftop placards and drive-thru decals. Diners couldn’t flee Rich Uncle Pennybags, who peered out from tray liners and even trash bin, to ask them to comedy. McDonald’s shared 57 million paper sport committees in Time, People and Sports Illustrated, while radio commercial-grades whipped up those who are interested in the two$ 1 million pillages, payable in” money, golden, or diamonds .” But the two prevailing sport portions were already in the sides of Jerry Jacobson. He gave one to his trusted recruiter, Glomb, putting the former drug trafficker on the FBI’s radar for the first time, and the other to Baker. ” I got to have certain kinds of lodge ,” Jacobson told Baker, in a phone call preserved by the FBI. ” My word’s not good enough, huh ?” told Baker. ” Your text is good ,” Jacobson remarked.” Are you willing to back it up, though ?” ” Yeah, I &# x27; ll back it up .” Baker had other troubles. His sister-in-law Phenis had hovered to California to receive her $500,000 prize immediately from Simon Marketing. Baker and his wife had devoted epoches staking out the Indianapolis International Airport, watching every incoming flight for her income. On July 20, when Phenis finally strolled into reachings, the Bakers approached her and observed she had $20, ooo in cash and a cashier’s check for $480,000. Their tense confrontation was filmed by an undercover unit of neighbourhood FBI agents. Driving to a quiet corner of Corbin, Kentucky, Baker sided Jacobson a McDonald’s paper bag containing $70,000 in cash, as fee for the next earn ticket. Baker planned to pass the ticket to his last winner, Ronnie Hughey, who had recruited” his guy in Texas” to earn. Listening in to their order, Dent rolled his finger down a list of numbers recently dialed by Hughey. The only Texas number belonged to Hughey’s brother-in-law, a creation director in Granbury referred John Davis. On Sunday, July 22, at 10 a. m ., two FBI surveillance teams tailed Baker and Jacobson to a secluded sphere in a South Carolina town, ironically specified Fair Play. But the thick-witted, woodland area is an impediment from evidencing the delivery. Negotiators then followed Baker to Hughey’s home in Anderson, where they believed he passed him the$ 1 million earning activity bit. Eight days later, Dent received a label from Amy Murray. Person had claimed the$ 1 million, she did. Dent ended her. He asked if the winner’s word was John Davis. Yes, she said. ” From Granbury, Texas ?” By throwing the go-ahead to control video games, McDonald’s CEO Jack Greenberg had allowed the feds to discover Glomb and his system of million-dollar wins.” I would do it again ,” Greenberg pronounced.” What we found out earmarked the FBI to complete its investigation .” Knowing that juries are reassured by splashy stings, the FBI questioned McDonald’s to help them captured the doubts. Together with Amy Murray, they cooked up a plan to invite every tainted winner to Las Vegas for a” champion reunion ,” where the FBI would bust them all at once. But they decided against the idea. It was just as effective to shoot imitation McDonald’s commercials, catching Glomb’s final winner, Michael Hoover, at his house in Rhode Island. Nineteen days later, on August 22, 2001, the FBI fanned out and fixed eight apprehends, including Dwight and Linda Baker, John Davis, Andrew Glomb, Michael Hoover, Ronald Hughey, and Brenda Phenis. In a pre-dawn raid, FBI negotiators circumvented Jacobson’s red-brick home, slithered up the garden path and slapped on his entrance. A shocked Jacobson was taken away in handcuffs and charged with plot to commit forward fraud, his ligament defined a staggering$ 1 million. Organization at Simon Marketing were left in disbelief. How could the man who scoured their shoes be guilty of crime? The detains organized a media superstar, and Attorney General John Ashcroft told the press:” Those involved in this type of corruption will find out that smashing the law is no competition .” Americans were stunned that McDonald’s customers had been duped for so long. Jeffrey Harris, a onetime Deputy Attorney General, complained to CNN:” Parties “thats been” buying the burgers, all they were getting at this point was cholesterol .” Meanwhile, Jacobson grew the as of the media’s mockeries:” Are you worried the police are going to take him down the station and give him a grilling ?” one newscaster invited.” I’m sorry, I couldn’t resist .” During his six-hour interrogation, agent Dent presented Jacobson with their evidence. For over 12 years, Jacobson’s scheme had existed only in his judgment. Now his bending proposal was a chart on FBI stationery. But Jacobson still thought he had his” sensation in the hole .” In the weeks that followed, he supported the FBI with substantiates he claimed proved that Simon Marketing rigged McDonald’s contests to bilk Canadian purchasers. A root close to Jacobson told CNN that he also hoped to use his St. Jude’s million dollar donation to try and rating a reduced prison term. But inspectors believed he mailed the game portion to the hospital as” a lark ,” after failing to recruit a win in time for the tournament deadline.( Jacobson declined to be interviewed for this article. Most of his story comes from courtroom certificates .) With each of Jacobson’s nine accuses carrying a 5 year retribution, investigates informed him he’d be 104 on his liberate appointment.” I wouldn’t be going out ,” he told them, because “hes having” multiple sclerosis. In exchange for a signed confession and his testimony in law, Jacobson pleaded guilty to three tallies for a total of 15 years. The authority also took everything he owned. Back in Lawrenceville, his neighbours watched as workers drove apart in his brand new Honda S2 000 sports car, and other vehicles including a comfort Acura, a minivan, and an’ 86 Chevy El Camino. McDonald’s CEO Jack Greenberg told the country in a television address that the company had instantly started its relationship with Simon Marketing. In Los Angeles, personnel quietly packed up their desks as the company evaporated.” McDonald’s is committed to uttering our customers a chance to acquire each dollar that has been embezzled by this criminal ring .” Greenberg read afterward, in a somber video commercial-grade in which McDonald’s unveiled a special $10 million instantaneous giveaway, and asked for a” second luck .” To ensure wins were truly chosen at random, there were no play fragments or prize councils. Instead, a award garrison tapped random patrons on the shoulder. McDonald’s, who declined to comment for this article, too quietly status the$ 1 million reward sent to the hospital, which is now being spent on care for children duelling cancer and other terminal diseases. The colored court case, held in Jacksonville, Florida, started September 10, 2001, the previous day gunmen crashed planes into the World Trade Center, the Pentagon, and a environment in Pennsylvania. The stupefied press and media speedily forgot about the McDonald’s trial, which explains why so little Americans retain the scandal, or how it objective. During the visitation, jurors watched defendants celebrating in McDonald’s commercials, including the counterfeit one filmed by the FBI. Glomb recalled that the victim of the McSting, Michael Hoover, told him that he recalled Amy Murray” kind of liked me ,” before discovering she was part of an FBI operation. ” For over 12 years, Jacobson’s scheme had existed simply in his head. Now his bending schedule was a graph on FBI stationery .” div > div> More than 50 defendants were imprisoned of mail cases of fraud and conspiracy. Jacobson’s ” super-recruiters ,” Schwartz, Hart, Couturier, and Glomb were sentenced to a year and one day in prison, and entrust gargantuan penalties. Baker recalled that one of the FBI’s top agents, known as the” human lie-detector ,” interrogated him, and added that if the FBI had focused on surveilling gunmen not McDonald’s champions, 9/11 might never have happened. Baker, who was expelled from the Mormon church, his wife Linda, her sister Brenda Phenis, and the dozens of other ” winners” received only probation and are still paying back their prize money at $50 a month. Four wins, including Baker’s foster son, Chandler, had their decisions overturned by an appeals court, who agreed they were scam by recruiters. Richard Couturier, who was sleeping in his auto at the time of the line, told the court that a adult he believed was in the Mafia alarmed him not to mention Don Hart’s name to reviewers. He said he feared getting “whacked.” Then, just before the adjudicate announced her decision, Robin Colombo caught a peek of her lawyer’s paperwork, and identified she was going back to confinement. She bawled and made a hopeless scoot for the outlet, and reached an outer alley before marshals staggered her. She was sentenced to 18 months. Behind forbids, she discovered the Bible and wrote her life story, From a Mafia Widow to Child of God. She was later reunited with her son, Frankie, who did not affiliate the mob. Jacobson took the stand dressed in a blue-blooded golf shirt, seeming tired and grey-haired. One attorney described him as” a gigantic ruler criminal ,” before he admitted to plagiarizing up to 60 game sections over a dozen years, totaling over $24 million in medals.” All I can tell you is I drew the biggest mistake of my life ,” he mentioned calmly, before agreeing to pay $12.5 million in refund. The adjudicate mailed him to penitentiary for 37 months. He did not pass leave. But before leaving the court he shook pass with the person who is imparted him to justice. Perhaps Jacobson identified in Richard Dent the man he could have been, a steely-minded detective. Dent, who declined to be interviewed for this article because he does not speak to the media, calmly returned to his is currently working on white collar offense, and is now adjourned. McDonald’s indicted Simon Marketing, who counter-sued. A group of Burger King eateries tried to get a class act litigation together, so did a group of unhappy McDonald’s patrons in Canada. The Monopoly game had demonstrated the scourges of chasing riches at the expense of others, but the epic also have confirmed that strange circumstances happen where individuals conspire to mislead demise. Gennaro Colombo triumphed a vehicle employing a stolen booty ticket and died in a automobile shipwreck. And when lady fluke retrieved controller of the McDonald’s rivalries, she entrust earning tickets to a somebody wearing a full Pizza Hut uniform; a Taco Bell owner; and a former homeless soul who was later charged with an offence beating up his fiancee-a PR nightmare. An audit of newspaper repositories from Jacobson’s reign turned up some other, interesting “wins.” In 1986 a patrolman in Florida struggling with unpaid bills told reporters how he found a prevail McDonald’s game part in his patrol car. A years later, their own families living precisely 43 miles from Jacobson’s home won $250,000. Then there’s the “imposter” M& M sugar, like the one in Robin Colombo’s freezer. In 1997, a newspaper reported that a college student in Florida won the$ 1 million trophy, somehow receiving the gray-colored M& M before Mars even announced the contest. The boy’s father, a Baptist, said that if his son had wasted his fund on a lottery ticket, he would have been sinning.” The Lord doesn’t approve of gambling ,” he added.” But a candy contest is something different .” The win and his family did not rebut enquiries sent to their home in the Carolinas , not far from the golden triangle of Jacobson’s phony winners. Not long ago, I spoke to Glomb, one of Jacobson’s” super recruiters .” He was theoretical about his sentence.” I’m not one of those people who are mad at[ the FBI ],” he spoke.” It was a game, and I lost .” Glomb says he still speaks with Jacobson, who is 76 and in poor health, but living a gentle life in Georgia.” I dislike to say it but I’d likely do it again for similar reasons ,” Glomb articulated, rakishly.” Every day I talk to Jacobson, I always taunted him, I suppose,’ You got any tickets ?'” Read more: https :// www.thedailybeast.com/ how-an-ex-cop-rigged-mcdonalds-monopoly-game-and-stole-millions http://dailybuzznetwork.com/index.php/2018/07/31/how-an-ex-cop-rigged-mcdonalds-monopoly-game-and-stole-millions/

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