The Art Forger (40 page)

I’m so dumbfounded that he’s spoken to me this way that I shut the fuck up. Jake’s Mike would never raise his voice, never use the
f
word, and never be rude. I stare at my feet and climb.

We finally step through the front door, and Mike points toward the metal detector on the far left. “We’ll meet you on the other side,” he says, as if speaking to an annoying child who’s pushed him too far. Which, I suppose, is an apt description.

“Sorry,” I say, as soon as we’re cleared. “My bad.”

But he doesn’t smile and forgive me as I expect him to. Instead, he spears me with his gaze and says, “You’ve got to understand that we’re no longer friends. Or not friends in the present circumstances. I’m the lawyer and you’re the client—the defendant is how you’ll be referred to in this courthouse—and it’s important that you do everything, and I mean
everything,
I say. If you don’t like my advice, you should think about getting a different lawyer.”

“M
S.
R
OTH,”
J
UDGE
Zwerdling says sternly, looking at me over tortoise-shell reading glasses. “You have been charged with four crimes against the Commonwealth. I’m going to read each one out to you, and you will respond with your plea: guilty or not guilty. Is that clear?”

I glance at the prosecutor sitting at his desk across from us, then at Mike, who’s standing next to me. Mike nods.

“Forgery,” she intones.

Mike told me to say just “not guilty,” nothing more nothing less, to maintain eye contact, and to think about how innocent I am. I was sure I could do this, but now I look down at my shaky hands, and heat rushes to my cheeks. My mouth is so dry, I don’t think I can speak. I must look like a guilty mess.

“Forgery.” This time it’s louder, more harsh.

“Not guilty,” I say, but my voice comes out a whisper.

“Speak louder, Ms. Roth.”

I clasp my hands behind my back in a losing attempt to still them. “Not guilty.”

“Transportation of stolen goods.”

“Not guilty.” I square my shoulders and look at her.

Mike leans in. “Good. Better.”

“Sale of stolen goods.”

“Not guilty,” I say, with more force as the charges get more and more absurd.

“Conspiracy to commit fraud.”

I do everything I can to maintain eye contact, to show her I’m not afraid of the charge. “Not guilty.”

Judge Zwerdling looks at me, then at the papers in front of her. She reads through some files, frowns. She turns to the prosecutor, who’s shuffling files at his table.

“Mr. Oden, is there anything you want to add.”

“Yes, your honor.” Oden steps forward, holding a sheaf of papers in his right hand. He’s clearly quite young, but his wispy hair has receded to behind his ears, and he’s flabby and pale and has the look of a fish. I dislike him immediately.

“The government believes that Ms. Roth is a danger to the people of the Commonwealth and a flight risk,” he says. “We make a motion to revoke O.R. status in lieu of bail to be set at $100,000.”

I grab Mike’s arm. “Jail? Me back?” is all I can manage to get out.

“Stay cool,” he whispers, but the look he exchanges with Emma is anything but.

“But $100,000?” I hiss in his ear. “I don’t have $100,000.”

“On what do you base this motion, Mr. Oden?”

“Ms. Roth has admitted to painting a forgery of a priceless painting by Edgar Degas that was stolen from the Gardner Museum in 1990. It is such a good forgery that experts believe she copied it from the original Degas taken in the heist. This would put her in direct contact and collusion with the thieves, making her both a danger and a flight risk.”

I can’t believe I’m hearing this. My worst nightmare. The absolute worst outcome.

“May I speak, your honor?” Mike asks. When the judge grants permission, Mike says, “There is absolutely no basis to the contention that Ms. Roth had the stolen Degas in her custody. Not only is there no evidence to place it in her possession, but the thought of anyone being able to attest to this fact is absurd. The painting hasn’t been seen by anyone in over twenty years.”

“Do you have any proof of this claim, Mr. Oden?”

“There is also another concern, your honor. The painting that Ms. Roth does admit forging was found in the hands of Ashok Patel, a man suspected of trafficking in stolen artworks. Now, we know for a fact that that painting was in her possession and that it ended up in his. So it follows that she is also involved in criminal trafficking. It is also quite interesting that her own artwork is to be displayed at the Newbury Street gallery Markel G, owned by Aiden Markel, who, incidentally, has been arrested for selling this very same painting to Patel. The coincidences here are as large as the profits involved in such crimes, and her access to a large amount of cash is definitely a risk factor.”

“Again,” Mike says, “there is absolutely no evidence supporting Ms. Roth’s purported involvement with art thieves and traffickers. The logic is completely circular and erroneous. There is no evidence that Mr. Markel is guilty of the crime with which he is charged, and there is absolutely no evidence that Ms. Roth was involved with his business dealings. Should every artist represented by Markel G be locked up in jail? This is complete fantasy on the part of the—”

“I’m not as sure of that as you appear to be,” Zwerdling interrupts. “She did admit to painting the forgery, and it was confiscated by the FBI soon after she claims to have finished it. There very well might be a connection there.”

“Ms. Roth has never admitted to painting a forgery,” Mike corrects. “She has admitted to painting a
copy
of a
copy.
There is a large difference here, and it is this difference that makes Mr. Oden’s argument moot.”

“Go on,” the judge says.

“The only reason the painting was confiscated in the first place,” Mike continues, “is because the authorities assumed it was a real Degas, a stolen masterpiece. It has now been determined not to be a masterpiece, not to have been painted by Degas, and not to have been stolen. If it had been known to be a copy painted by Claire Roth, it never would have been seized, and the men now in jail for its sale, possession, and suspected trafficking would not have been arrested. Nor would Ms. Roth.”

“Even if what Mr. Dannow says was true,” Oden interjects, “which it isn’t, the government also contends that as this case has a very real bearing on a much more serious crime, the multimillion-dollar Gardner heist, we need to be assured that any evidence pertaining to the second case is preserved.”

“I may not be a constitutional lawyer, your honor,” Mike says, “but that sounds like an unconstitutional argument to me.”

“Yes, Mr. Dannow,” the judge agrees, “you are not a constitutional lawyer.”

Emma laces her arm around the back of my waist. “I don’t think it’s as bad as it sounds,” she whispers. Unfortunately, I’m pretty sure it is.

Zwerdling again studies the papers in front of her. “Mr. Oden, is this police report complete?”

“To date, your honor. But of course, there is more evidence to be collected.”

She frowns at the report, then looks up and scowls at each of us in turn. “Is this your best case, Mr. Oden? The sum total of your current evidence?”

“At the present time, your honor.”

I lean into Emma, close my eyes.

“Motion denied,” the judge finally says. “Ms. Roth will remain free on her own recognizance.”

Before I can react to this statement, Mike says, “Your honor, I request an oral motion to dismiss.”

Judge Zwerdling raises an eyebrow. “All the charges, Mr. Dannow?”

“Yes. Now that you’ve heard what Mr. Oden says is his best case, I make a motion for dismissal on the basis of lack of evidence to proceed to the grand jury.”

“Interesting move,” Emma whispers.

“And which evidence is lacking?” Zwerdling asks.

Mike clears his throat. “According to the arrest report, there is no evidence that Ms. Roth had contact with any stolen goods, no evidence she had contact with any known criminal, no evidence that she transported these goods she didn’t have, and none that she sold anyone the goods she didn’t have. And yes, while she has admitted to painting the painting that was confiscated by the FBI, the last time I looked, copying a painting was not a crime. As a matter of fact, this is exactly what Ms. Roth does for a living as an employee of Reproductions.com.

“Therefore,” Mike continues, “the government has no evidence of forgery or of possession, sale, or transportation of stolen goods. In addition, they have no evidence of Ms. Roth’s involvement in any conspiracy to commit fraud. Frankly, your honor, there isn’t even evidence that there was any fraud. Ashok Patel, Aiden Markel, and my client all tell the same story: Ms. Roth was copying a copy. Which is not against the law.”

“Your honor,” Mr. Oden argues, “the fact that three persons currently under arrest attest to the same lie in no way sanctions the release of one of them.”

“I’ve heard enough,” Zwerdling says. “I’ve never seen a more insubstantial arrest report in all my days on the bench.” She taps the police report. “This is either complete police incompetence, or as I suspect, a bit of political theater.”

I look to Mike and Emma. They stare straight ahead, their faces impassive.

“Where’s the beef, Mr. Oden?” At his blank stare, the judge laughs. “You may be too young to catch the reference, but I’m sure you’ve caught the meaning.”

“Your honor, I—”

“No need, Mr. Oden.”

“Yes, your honor.”

She turns to me. “I’m in no position to fully understand what’s involved in this situation or to know how innocent or guilty you might be of these or any other charges. But I am in a position to recognize that the evidence the state has amassed is flimsy at best.”

Mike takes my hand and squeezes it. Am I getting this right? Is what appears to be happening really happening? I don’t want to think it, but it looks like I might finally be getting a break.

The judge frowns at both Mike and Oden. “Mr. Oden, you better go out and collect that ‘more evidence’ you promised, or you’re going to find yourself on your butt on the dance floor. And Mr. Dannow, you should know better than to attempt this type of fancy footwork in my courtroom.”

Her frown flattens a bit when she looks at me. “I’m sorry, Ms. Roth, but an arraignment is not the appropriate venue for this decision.” She slams down the gavel. “Motion denied. The defendant remains under arrest and free on her own recognizance. The probable cause hearing will take place next Monday at eight o’clock in the morning.”

Forty-seven

Instead of accepting Mike’s offer of a ride or taking the T, I walk home from the courthouse. I need some time and space, not to mention cold air, to process everything that’s happened in the last twenty-four hours. Markel G is closed down, my show canceled.
Bath II
has been declared a forgery. I glance at my watch. It was just about this time yesterday that I stood on the sidewalk in front of the gallery ogling
Nighttime T.
Six hours after that, I was sitting in a jail cell, and now, I’m walking free. Sort of.

Talk about highs and lows. I look up at the cloudless cobalt sky, breathe in the painfully sharp air, smile at the people coming toward me. An admittedly odd occurrence in reserved Boston. The judge—Mike said she must have started taking Zoloft—was nice enough to let us leave the courthouse through a back door, duping the media, who are probably still lined up on the entrance steps. I laugh out loud at the image as I cross the wide, brick eyesore that spreads out in front of Government Center.

As I head toward Downtown Crossing, I plan my next steps. Go see Aiden, find out what he knows. Call Rik, find out what he knows. Call Sandra Stoneham, find out if she knows Virgil Rendell’s middle name so I can track down his mother’s family. Somehow get into the Gardner basement to assess their progress and find out if Aiden’s got a chance.

I hand a dollar to a woman crouched on the stoop of an empty storefront shaking a Dunkin’ Donuts cup. I wave at a toddler who’s chirping, “Hi! Hi! Hi!” from her stroller, and I scratch the head of a tail-wagging cocker spaniel straining against its leash to get closer to me. I’m no fool. Things are bad, but not as bad as they could have been, and I’ll be damned if I’m not going to enjoy this admittedly minor victory. If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that things can change in a nanosecond, and I don’t want to regret not having savored the moment.

As if to prove my point, my phone rings. It’s Agent Lyons, and he wants to come by and talk to me.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “On the advice of my attorney, I will not say anything unless he is present.”

“It’s really not necessary.” Lyons’s voice is warm and friendly. “I’ve no reason to arrest you. Frankly, I think the Boston police, prodded by your friend Alana Ward, jumped the gun a bit. I just wanted to give you an update on the case and pick your brain about Virgil Rendell’s sketchbook and the whole painting-in-the-basement thing.”