Graveland: A Novel (23 page)

It appears that the Coadys, originally from Florida, are a wealthy, well-respected family—or at least
were
until six years ago when old man Jeremy L. Coady slit his own throat in a Manhattan hotel room after being indicted by a federal grand jury on twenty counts of fraud, conspiracy, and money laundering stemming from his alleged role in a $4.7 billion Ponzi scheme. In the subsequent trial of his business partner, it emerged, or was claimed, that Coady had been unaware of what was going on in the company and was driven to suicide by the shame and ignominy heaped on him after the charges were made public. This was the narrative that his family—certainly his two sons, and especially the older one—chose to embrace. Julian was “radicalized” by what had happened and embarked on a so-called crusade against the bankers and financiers of Wall Street—individuals and institutions
he
saw as being responsible for the culture of greed and excess that had ultimately destroyed his father. Younger brother Alex, the quiet, impressionable one, was perceived to have been led astray by Julian.

References to Elizabeth Bishop, the “girlfriend”—incorrectly assigned to Julian in some reports—were cursory and light on detail, a fact that Frank found irksome, as if they were somehow giving her short shrift. But at the same time it was a relief, and it also meant that no reference was made at this stage (early morning, first editions) to either him or Deb. This was almost an even bigger relief, as far as Frank was concerned, though he didn’t expect it to last.

At around 5
A.M
. there was a second flurry of activity.

A phone call was made into the apartment.

As one of the cops, a Detective Lenny Byron, explained to Frank later, this was strategic, a very deliberate move, the idea being to disorient the Coadys after hours of silence, to shake them up, maybe even to
wake them up
.

But what nobody expected was that the negotiator would be greeted with a coherent shopping list of demands.

And that these would be delivered by the girlfriend.

It took both Frank and Deb a good while to bounce back from this. Lizzie was the difficult one of their two kids, the one who required inordinate amounts of cunning and guile to deal with, and who gave it all back in spades—so on one level this didn’t
really
come as a surprise …

But—

It still did.

Plus, it also led to an unfortunate and inevitable shift in focus. Because for the next editions, for the online news updates, for the TV breakfast shows, and for fucking Twitter, it was no longer a question of who are these geeky boys, and more a question of who is this nineteen-year-old
girl
?

America going, “Hey Nineteen.”

Skate a little lower now.

Frank’s heart bursting and ripping itself into bloody shreds inside his chest.

Then, by eight o’clock, on discussion panels all across the networks, professors of behavioral psychology were name-checking Patty Hearst and wondering if this mightn’t be another classic case of Stockholm syndrome. Deb was distraught at the very idea, as it seemed to bring home to her just what a circus the whole thing had become. She’d been fairly composed for most of the night and had spent a lot of it on the phone to her second husband, Lloyd, either out at the barrier or sitting in one of the NYPD trailers. She and Frank had been civil at first, united in their horror at what was happening, but they’d pretty quickly run out of things to say to each other. By morning, a combination of sheer physical exhaustion and the weirdness of this enforced proximity had led to a palpable tension between them, with contact soon limited to the occasional wordless look or cryptic shrug.

Now, just before ten o’clock, that tension escalates in a way that catches Frank off guard. Deb emerges from one of the trailers and comes toward him with her BlackBerry held up.

She looks great, as usual, elegantly dressed and with that commanding, lawyerly presence. She walks right up to him and waves the BlackBerry in his face. “You weren’t going to tell me?”

“What?”

But he knows.
Fuck
. Winterbrook Mall. It seems like a thousand centuries ago.

“You lost your job? You got fired? From a
Paloma
store? Because you couldn’t keep your
mouth
shut?”

“But—”

“And now it’s all over the Internet?” She waves the BlackBerry in his face again. “On
Gawker
? ‘Like Father, Like Daughter? Does This Man Need Anger Management Classes?’
Jesus,
Frank.”

He wilts.

Frank hadn’t mentioned anything because … why the fuck would he? The focus was on Lizzie, as it should have been. He and Deb were here for
her,
not to exchange pleasantries or career updates.

But this is being willfully naive, and he knows it. Exposure of some kind was inevitable. In fact, Deb is being naive if she thinks they won’t go after her, too. No one controls this stuff, isn’t that what Ellen Dorsey had said?

“It’s
my
business, Deb, mine only. I can’t help it if these bastards have no scruples.”

“Well, have you talked to anyone else?”

“What do you mean? I haven’t talked to anyone at all. Certainly not to anyone at Gawker. They’re the ones who probably talked to someone at Paloma, or at the mall. And don’t think they won’t be sniffing around up at Pierson Hackler either.”

Deb’s law firm.

She stares at him, and he sees a crack. “We’ve had a few calls,” she says, “from … the cable news shows, looking for an interview … just something short.” She pauses. “Lloyd thinks we should do it.”

Lloyd
.

He’s a lawyer, too, of course.

Then Frank suddenly leans in toward her. “We? You mean
us,
right?”

Deb falters, and he sees it coming. “No, Frank,” she says, “I don’t. I mean me and Lloyd.”

*   *   *

Lizzie isn’t sure, but she thinks Julian might be dead. Either that or he’s slipped into a convenient coma. He’s over in the corner, on the floor, curled up in a fetal position, not moving or making any sound.

Alex is on the couch, staring blankly at the blank TV screen.

Lizzie is at the table, an open book in front of her that she’s no longer even pretending to read.

Between the three of them they’ve drunk all the coffee in the apartment. They’ve eaten a pack of rice cakes, a bag of sunflower seeds, some cold cuts, a chunk of Swiss cheese, a few apples, and two bananas.

They’ve each used the bathroom at least twice.

They’ve each come close to having full-blown psychotic episodes—though Lizzie
sort
of felt she was faking hers, that hers was more an attempt to make Alex feel better about his. Julian’s, on the other hand, was the real deal, hysteria uncoiling slowly down to virtual catatonia—and unless something happens soon, they may have to unload him.

On medical grounds.

Which would make things a little easier for her. Relatively speaking. But it’s been nearly eighteen hours already, so surely something will have to happen soon anyway?

The police, the FBI, whoever is in control of operations—they’re clearly playing a long game here. From what they said on the phone earlier, Lizzie understood that they’re waiting for an uncle of Alex and Julian’s to show up from Florida, that they think this guy’s presence will shift the dynamic sufficiently to break the impasse. Though she also got the impression that
her
taking the call was something of a surprise to them.

Maybe they’d been assuming she was a hostage.

Not anymore.

The thing is, when it came to it, Alex just froze. It was really early, just before five, dawn breaking. The phone rang, and he picked it up, but then he held it out in front of him, as though he didn’t know what it was for. After a few agonizing seconds, Lizzie grabbed it from his hand, simultaneously reaching over to the table to pick up the list of demands they’d compiled.

“Hello?”

There was a pause. Then, “Good morning. Who’s this?
Lizzie?
Is that Lizzie I’m talking to?”

“Yes.”

“Hi. I’m Special Agent Tom Bale. Listen, Lizzie, is everything alright in there? How are the guys doing? You got enough water? Have you had something to eat?”

Soothing, eminently reasonable, all-things-are-possible negotiator voice.

“We’re all doing fine,” Lizzie said. “Feeling a bit cut off maybe, communications-wise.”

It turned out that they did have electricity in the apartment, but the TV and Internet connections had been blocked.

“Well, you know how it is, Lizzie. These are standard procedures. But let me see what I can do, okay? It’s just that … I mean, the thing is … we’re all naturally a little concerned out here, considering what Alex said and all, at the outset of this thing. He was very clearly distressed, we understand that—but we’re not sure if … you know…”

Never having undergone this process before, Lizzie found it surprising how transparent and predictable it seemed. She knew exactly what Special Agent Bale was up to and didn’t even have to think about how to respond.

“Well,” she whispered, “you
heard
what he said, the word he used, right? It was pretty unambiguous.”

She left it at that.

It was then that Bale mentioned the uncle who was supposed to be on his way up from Florida. Lizzie didn’t react. Though she did wonder, and not for the first time, about her own folks. Were they here? Standing outside the building?
Next to each other?
She found that thought a little disquieting and decided to get on with the business at hand.

“We have a list,” she said. “These are the things that we want.”

“Lizzie, that’s great, it is, but I must—”

“Just shut up, okay? And
listen
.”

Micro beat.

“You got it.”

Then she started reeling them off. Nothing about food here, or tampons, or money, or safe passage out of the building—these were hard-core political demands.

“… end the carried-interest tax break for hedge fund managers … reinstate the Glass-Steagall Act … impose a zero-point-one percent tax on all trades of stocks, bonds, and derivatives…”

And as she read these out—her eyes darting from the page to Alex, then back to the page again—Lizzie felt the peculiar, transgressive thrill of knowing that while she sounded in control here, the truth was she barely understood a word of what she was saying. She had
some
knowledge of this stuff, from listening to Alex over the months, but she was extremely vague on the specifics.

“… mandate a new separation of the banks into investment and commercial by repealing Gramm-Leach-Bliley…”

So once she got off the phone—having lobbed the ball firmly into the FBI’s court—she decided it was time to get with the program and just
bone up
on the specifics. Energized, she gathered a few of the books and papers Julian had lying around the apartment, spread them out on the table, and started reading.

This was important.

That’s what she told herself.

There was a whole language here she needed to learn, a language that both she and Alex, when they found themselves caught up—as they soon would, make no mistake—in the flaming crucible of global media attention, could use to …

To what? To
what
?

Looking back now, a few hours later, she can see that
that
was the high point—before, during, and immediately after the phone conversation with the FBI guy. It was the high point in terms of energy levels and enthusiasm, the high point in terms of being in love with Alex, of being exquisitely deluded, of being in the throes of a mindless, giddy, tingly, bring-it-on, romantic
death
wish, whatever …
that
was the fucking crucible right there.

But it didn’t last, it couldn’t, and after half an hour or so of reading about fiat currencies and the gold standard, the air went out of it all.

Literal
deflation.

She persevered, but there wasn’t much point, and the next few hours were like the comedown from an acid trip—or, at least, never having done acid, what she imagined that would be like.

The mention of a Coady uncle didn’t help matters. As far as Julian and Alex were concerned, the prospect of this man maybe standing down on Orchard Street with a bullhorn and
saying things
certainly seemed to put a dampener on the proceedings, and might have even been the catalyst for each of their subsequent “episodes.”

In any case, Friday morning lurching toward its midpoint, here they are, the three of them, one slumped in a chair, one on the couch, one on the floor.

All waiting.

But for what? The Internet connection to boot back up? Some cable news channel to come on the TV (with an update on the Carillo trial)? An amplified voice from outside to start pleading with them to surrender? The door to be kicked in, followed by the blinding, deafening flash of an M84 stun grenade?

This all feels a lot smaller than it did before—the possible outcomes more limited, the future more boxed in.

It’s the new torpor, and Lizzie doesn’t like it one little bit.

She looks at the guys and wants to scream at them.

But the thing is, what would she say?

*   *   *

The media conference is being held in the Amontillado Suite at the Wilson Hotel on Madison Avenue.

Announced at such short notice, and considering what else is going on in the city, it’ll be a low-key enough affair, but that’s fine. The event will be reported, recorded, live-streamed, and blogged. The message will get out, and there’ll be plenty of opportunity for follow-up. Howley will read his prepared statement, introduce his new COO/head of global infrastructure, and then answer a few questions.

And that’ll be that.

The takeaway here—he hopes—will be the phrase “effective immediately.”

Everything else will be noise and interference.

And heading up to the Wilson now for a midday kickoff, Howley pretty much knows what kind of noise and interference to expect. The more seasoned business hacks—the ones with a genuine sense of history—will want at least some return on the Vaughan angle. How is the old man?
Where
is he? What are his plans? Others will be focusing more on the succession process, and others again, predictably, will be fishing for any hint of an IPO announcement.