CHAPTER FIFTEEN

David Jepson’s office always made her slightly uncomfortable. As usual, he was sitting behind his enormous driftwood desk in the corner above the river, the black floor-to-ceiling shelves cluttered with the memorabilia of a billionaire world traveler and amateur anthropologist. His version of snow globes seemed to be carved fertility totems, a source of amusement for Helen Carmichael and of stress for Nora.

“What if some of those things are stolen from some indigenous people someplace?” she once asked Helen after a meeting in the office.

“Yeah, well maybe those tribes shouldn’t have been making shit out of banned material,” Helen answered in a serious voice.

“Wait, you think that’s ivory or something?”

“Don’t know,” Helen answered, her tone growing lighter. “Anyway, it’s all been on those shelves since before the import ban went into effect, and it’s not against the law in Connecticut to possess ivory—I shudder to imagine the devastating impact that would have on WASP clubs—so it’s all good.”

As usual with Helen, Nora couldn’t tell what was shtick and what was real. But they both hated the chairs. Of that, Nora was sure. She imagined Helen was at her side as Jepson gestured to one of the brown leather, sloped lounge chairs facing the gigantic driftwood desk. Helen had always enjoyed watching Nora try to keep her six-foot-tall self from sliding off the chairs, which seemed to slope forward. “Jesus,” Helen would say as they walked out of recording range, “we have to drive piece-of-shit cars but he can have fifty-thousand-dollar chairs that you can’t keep your butt on. How does that make any sense? And I’ll bet that’s the skin of some poor endangered creature.”

As Nora made her practiced move to dig her heels into the floor to stay on the chair, Jepson leaned forward to activate the recording device on the glossy surface of the desk. Nora quickly lifted her palm and David stopped, mid-lean, and stared at her. “This is a legal conversation,” she explained, “so we shouldn’t tape it.”

David paused, likely recalling their many battles over recording—including his wish to record auditors from the Securities and Exchange Commission, a request that was emphatically rejected by the government—before leaning back without pressing the button.

“What is it, Nora?” he asked, turning to the credenza behind him. There was the faintest scraping noise followed by a tearing sound as he pulled a two-inch piece of Scotch tape from a desktop dispenser, something he would do regularly during all conversations in the office—pinching and rolling the tape between his fingers before getting a fresh piece.

As was also his habit, Jepson only stole quick glances at Nora while looking out the window or down at the finger tape. And although she had rarely seen him smile, Nora felt warmth in those glances. He could be abrupt and brutal in his directness, but David Jepson was a kind man who cared about the people who worked for him—even if, from time to time, he felt obligated to tell them they were idiots and needed to be fired.

“Should we wait for Marcus?” Nora asked. She had told Jepson’s assistant that Baum should be invited for this meeting. He was “co-Chief Investment Officer,” which wouldn’t seem like a role required for this discussion, but Nora had been at Saugatuck long enough to know that titles at the firm were like points in the TV show Whose Line Is It Anyway?—they were made up and meant nothing. Whatever he was called, Baum was Jepson’s alter ego. He had joined Saugatuck out of college twenty years ago and would never leave. And Nora knew what few others did—that Jepson had given his protégé a large ownership stake in the firm, second only to Jepson’s own. If you wanted to speak to Saugatuck, you needed David and Marcus.

Before Jepson could answer, Baum entered, wearing his usual uniform—rumpled white shirt untucked over loose-fitting blue jeans and Birkenstock sandals with white tube socks. His hair looked like one side had very recently been pressed against a bed pillow.

“Hey Nora,” he said as he walked behind her, “you doing okay?”

“I am. Thanks for asking, Marcus.”

Baum stood to Nora’s left, by the window, leaning against a bookshelf with his back to the river. The two men did not acknowledge each other, something Nora might once have mistaken for tension, but there was none between them.

“Okay,” Jepson said, “what’s this about?”

Nora explained that the police would likely seek access to company records relating to Helen—emails, texts, personnel files, and so forth—and that it was important Saugatuck cooperate, but in a way that reduced the risk that sensitive company information would accidentally become public.

“Okay,” Jepson interrupted, “what you’re saying makes sense, but you are the responsible party here for these matters. That’s why we hired you as general counsel. I don’t see why—”

Nora interrupted back, an essential skill at Saugatuck. “I can’t be the one to make those decisions. I believe the police might think I killed Helen and so it puts me in a position of conflict to make those decisions.”

Neither man showed any reaction. Jepson continued speaking, his voice level. “I see. And why do they think you killed Helen?”

“Is she allowed to answer that?” Baum asked in the same level tone.

“I think so,” Jepson answered, reaching for a new piece of tape. “Our general counsel is telling us she can’t act as our lawyer in this situation and I think we’re entitled to know why.”

“I think you’re right,” Baum replied. “We should know the answer.” Looking toward Nora, he added, “What’s the answer?”

Nora had been at Saugatuck long enough to be comfortable speaking with a flat tone no matter the subject of conversation. “Because she was found with her throat cut in the bottom of my canoe and her blood was found on the back of my car.”

“Oh, I see,” Jepson said. “It makes sense that they would think you killed her. Did you kill her?”

“I did not,” Nora answered, her voice still flat despite the fact that she could feel her heart beating.

“Okay, I believe you,” Jepson answered, “but I also understand the conflict thing. How do you propose to handle it?”

After clearing her plan with Jepson and Baum, Nora had next done the hard part by knocking on Louis Lambert’s office door.

“Enter.”

“Louis,” Nora said, stepping into the small office, “I need you to handle something.”

As she explained why she could not represent the company in dealing with the police, Nora swore she saw the skin of his cheeks rise in just the slightest hint of a smile. God how she wished Helen were here. Bet he can’t stand up because he’s got a woody, Helen would say. Vulcan’s blood just all rushed to his dick, she would add.

“And so I should communicate directly with the MC on this?” he asked.

“Yes,” Nora answered. “I would lean on David and Marcus, in particular, but that’s your call. They’re aware you’ll be handling this.”

“Very well,” Lambert replied.

After an awkward silence, Nora turned to leave, adding, “I’ll direct the police to you as soon as they make contact.” Prick, Helen would say.

All prosecutions in Connecticut were handled by the appointed State’s Attorney assigned to each judicial district. Nora was on the phone with Aileen Shapiro, the State’s Attorney for the Stamford/Norwalk district, which included Westport, trying unsuccessfully to interrupt Shapiro’s description of the access investigators wanted to Helen Carmichael’s records at Saugatuck. Shapiro finally took a breath and Nora cut in. “I don’t mean to be abrupt, but the firm has decided your contact on this should be with my deputy, Louis Lambert, so I’m going to transfer you right now. Please hold on.”

“Louis,” Nora said into the phone. “I have the State’s Attorney for you. She’ll be on as soon as I hang up.”

After disconnecting the line, Nora sat at her desk. She could hear Lambert’s voice through the wall. In a world of transparency, she reminded herself, soundproofing is not a big priority.