Chapter 10 – Adrian
ADRIAN
Farhadi finally calls me back when I’m on my way to Scarsdale. I left a message with his answering service over twenty-four hours ago. He’s slipping.
I stayed close to the house yesterday and didn’t plan to leave Cora today before I spoke to him.
She took the children to an all-day playdate, though.
There was no sense in hanging around the house since I couldn’t watch her on the cameras and stare at numbers blurring together on my laptop, which is all I do now.
Martinez and Johnson are with her. They’re pulling a lot of overtime since I axed Schmidt, Tiller, and that Pence woman.
She really thought to ingratiate herself with me by reporting that Cora was meeting with a divorce lawyer.
If she’d sell out her own protectee to garner favor with me, she has a price, and a kidnapper could figure that out, too.
“Maddox,” I accept the call, raising the Scorpion’s hard top so I can hear him on speaker.
“Mr. Maddox. I must apologize. I was up at Sugarloaf, and the service there is terrible. Dr. Ghosh said you didn’t call her?”
“I needed to speak to you personally.”
“Of course. Again, my apologies. What can I do for you?”
I’ve been chafing at the bit to talk to him since the incident with Cora and the garbage disposal, but now, I’m suddenly reluctant to broach the topic. He’s not stupid. He wouldn’t work for me if he was. He’ll read between the lines, and he’ll figure out that my house is out of order.
There’s no help for it, though. I’m out of my depth, and I’m not letting things go even further to hell. I plunge ahead. “I have questions. Theoretical questions, you understand?”
“Yes, of course.”
“A woman, five months postpartum and, uh, under stress . . . what are the signs . . . what exactly would be of immediate concern in terms of, uh, say a nervous breakdown, or, uh, similar?”
Farhadi is a consummate professional. He takes less than three seconds to process the question, as inelegantly stated as it was. “By immediate concern do you mean cause for immediate intervention?”
“Yes.”
“I would seek emergency care if there were any indication—verbal or nonverbal—that the mother might hurt her children or herself.”
“When you say nonverbal indication . . . would you consider, uh, vandalism to rise to that level of concern?”
“Can you be specific?”
“I don’t care to be, no.”
“Well, I would have to say if the vandalism posed a danger to the mother or children, immediate intervention is called for, and if not, I would still highly recommend assessment by an appropriate provider as soon as possible, presuming the behavior is out of character. I can refer you to a colleague and coordinate treatment, of course.”
“That is not necessary at this time.”
“Postpartum depression is very treatable. I would strongly advise a screening if you have any suspicions.”
“This is a theoretical conversation,” I remind him.
“Of course.” Farhadi pauses, probably to pull himself back from overstepping.
He really cares for Cora and the girls. It’s the main reason I employ him.
“I would say that a loss of interest in normal activities, lack of hygiene, difficulty bonding with the baby, sleeping to excess or insomnia, a loss of appetite or excess appetite, headaches, muscle aches, mood swings, worry, intrusive thoughts, or anger would be cause for concern and a reason to promptly pursue screening.”
Cora is angry, and she’s lost interest in anything to do with me, but I suppose she has cause.
She’s as attentive to the girls as ever.
She lives for them. I’ve never been jealous of that like some men.
I sought out the best possible mother for my children and intentionally chose a woman who would put me second.
Then, to be damn sure she wouldn’t leave if life did not unfold to her satisfaction—like my own mother did—I generously incentivized her to stay.
And then proceeded to recreate my father’s own colossal error in judgment, right down to the slut on the sofa.
It’s so fucking obvious. Why did I not see it until this moment?
I was young. In grade school. My mother, brothers, and I were coming home from somewhere.
The ball field? The grocery store? We walked in on a naked woman riding my father.
Mom screamed like she was being murdered.
It wasn’t the first time she’d caught him.
Dad screwed around, and Mom didn’t hide her feelings about it, but it was the first time we saw with our own eyes.
And I reenacted the whole fucking scene.
My brain is buzzing, a light bulb flashing like crazy, but now is not the time. I force myself to refocus. “So, in your opinion, vandalism on its own would not, theoretically, be a reason for immediate intervention?”
“I can’t say without knowing the details.
I mean, breaking a dish or keying a car .
. . one can imagine a situation in which such a response is quite reasonable.
Or at least not indicative of a medical issue.
” He chuckles. “But something that involved risk to life or limb . . . in that case, I’d act with urgency.
Either way, a screening can’t hurt. Theoretically. ”
But it would.
When I broached the idea of therapy with Cora, she shut me down immediately. Aggressively.
I’m not pushing her. I’m treading lightly, and not only for her own sake, or mine.
The girls need their mother. I’m not making things worse.
I have no problem ignoring what she says when it’s bullshit, but I’m not about to disregard her when she’s being forthright with me.
It’s so new and different from usual that it’s easy enough to recognize.
“I’ll take that under advisement,” I tell Farhadi, thank him for his time, and hang up.
Soon thereafter, I pull up at the Scarsdale office of Drake Chambers, Attorney at Law. The uncomfortable pit in my stomach turns to anticipation. I smell chum in the water.
Chambers is a joke. Forget T14, he didn’t even go to a strong regional law school.
Based on the file Logan compiled, Chambers’s face card has allowed him to punch above his weight with rich, old suburban women seeking a champion.
The man invests heavily in billboards and local TV. Presumably, that’s where Cora saw him.
She said, “Talk to my lawyer.” I’ve got no other move. I figured I’d take her up on it.
I didn’t make an appointment, but after his secretary sashays away to warn him, I’m escorted promptly into his office and plied with a sparkling water.
Chambers knows exactly who he’s dealing with. He shakes my hand like he wants a job.
I take the offered seat, lean back, cross my legs, and sip my water. Chambers settles himself behind his desk. He has an impressive book collection. None of the volumes look to have been released in the past few decades. He must’ve scored them off a retiring colleague.
“How can I help you today, Mr. Maddox?” Chambers leans back and picks up his own glass, mimicking my posture. “As you know, as your wife’s attorney, there are, of course, limitations to my ability to be of assistance.”
He shouldn’t be meeting with me at all. I’m not complaining, but after this is all done, if Cora still thinks she needs her own lawyer, she will be getting a better one.
“Of course.” I smile. “It was actually my wife who suggested I speak to her lawyer.”
His eyebrows rise, and he chuckles. “And you took her advice.”
“Indeed.” I make myself comfortable. “Mrs. Maddox and I seem to have found ourselves at an impasse regarding section seven, subsection R of our agreement.”
“Ah, yes. Attendance at Professional Functions.”
He doesn’t even need to reference the document. He must really think Cora is going to be the making of his career. Is he flashing her those simmering looks he shoots at Betty Page out there in reception?
When all this is done, I’m going to ruin him, and I’m going to take his stupid scorpion paper weight and keep it on a shelf in my office in between my antique globe and my bonsai.
“There is a business dinner that I would like Cora to attend. I’ve provided reasonable notice, and the event does not materially conflict with her own obligations.”
Chambers nods. “That sounds like a function that, by signing the prenuptial agreement, Mrs. Maddox has committed to making reasonable effort to attend.”
“Yes, but I’m afraid she is declining to attend. Unreasonably.”
“Perhaps Mrs. Maddox deems this function to conflict with her personal obligations.”
At least he’s not so craven that he doesn’t even attempt to fight her corner. I decide to turn the screws. “Do you know my brothers, Mr. Chambers?”
“Everyone knows the Maddox brothers.”
“Then you know my brother Gideon is the chairman of Maddox Publishing. It’s hard to remember the properties under that umbrella, but I believe you might be familiar with one of their smaller holdings. Tilly and Gaskin?”
Mary Ellen Gaskin is Chambers’s richest, oldest suburban woman.
“The firm has an excellent reputation.”
I hum in agreement. “And I believe you and I have several clients in common, as well. Drury, Anderson, Lake. GRT. Westhill LLC. Well, perhaps not the companies themselves, but there are connections there, if I’m not mistaken?”
Despite the fourth-tier law school, he’s smart enough to follow me. Corporate investors will scheme, borrow, and beg to get in with Maddox Capital, and on my word, they’d most certainly make their mothers, wives, and daughters drop their pretty boy lawyer like a bad habit.
To his credit, I can’t see him sweat. “It’s a small world,” he says.
I nod. “And it turns on the simplest of things. Like a business dinner, for example.”
He sips his water. I fold my hands and let him do the math. How many of his clients will he sacrifice for his golden goose?
After several long moments of reflection, he sets his glass down and answers. “Let me ask you, Mr. Maddox, what did Mrs. Maddox say when you cited section seven, subsection R?”