I hid behind the morning edition of the New York Globe, as I peered out at the suburban Ossining street from my Volvo SUV. Mothers stood at the ends of snowplowed driveways, waiting with their children for the arrival of the school bus. But there was one I was specifically interested in.
Her long red hair fell out her winter cap. Her heavy overcoat covered up an athletic physique that was the result of her training for her first marathon last year. But I worried that the sudden affection for distance running was her trying to run from the pain of the past. Her son, Peter, looked just like her with similar red hair and collection of freckles around his nose. His younger sister, Janie, reminded me very much of the twins. I thought they might hit it off if they met, but it was doubtful that would ever happen.
I questioned my sanity coming here. But after a day that included a return to the Wainwright estate, an FBI ambush, and almost being cookie’d to death by Gooch, I sought out the one person who always made me feel like the world was going to be alright. Not that she’d ever see it that way.
I first came in contact with Nicole Closs during the Kerstman trial, when her sharp wail interrupted my cross-examination of a witness. I turned, as did the rest of the courtroom.
“You’re a murderer!” Nicole shouted. “You killed him!”
While the courtroom was a new venue for these types of verbal assaults on Kerstman, the attacks were not. He had become the face of corporate greed, right up there with Enron and Madoff. As his lawyer, I pleaded with him not to be seen in public as the trial neared, but he continued to walk the streets of Manhattan and take his medicine from the angry public … and occasionally a fist.
But I quickly realized that Nicole wasn’t just talking to him—her comments were also directed to the man who was defending the evildoer. Her fiery eyes locked on mine as she cried out, “Did you use the blood money he paid you to buy your children Christmas gifts this year, Mr. Collins?” She then held up pics of Peter and Janie for me to see, adding, “There will be nothing under our tree this year.”
The next day the New York Globe led with the headline “Nothing Under Our Tree.” It included an artist’s rendition of our showdown in court, accompanied the caption: “Blood Money!” She became the face of the victims’ pain.
The story shed more light on the motive for her outburst, which went deeper than the usual animosity—her husband had committed suicide the previous day.
Our brief encounter changed me. I know it would be hard for people to believe that, especially after I went on to help Kerstman escape, and my failure to return the money. But when I looked in Nicole’s eyes that day, I saw my own life crumbling around me—their intense pain and vulnerability providing a glimpse into my grim future. But when I looked closer, there was also a twinkle of hope. A small diamond floating in an ocean of pain and destruction. It was that small flicker that had kept me going in the darkest days in prison. I hadn’t been able to get her out of my head since that day.
A clinking of metal on my window woke me from my daydream. I turned to see the barrel of a gun pointing right at me. Since I never took Alyson’s advice to get bulletproof glass installed, I rolled down the window.
“What are you doing here, Rudi?”
“I just came to wish you a Happy Festivus, Collins. Are you airing grievances or performing a feat of strength? Because from my vantage point, it just looks like you’re trying to get people hurt.”
“Speaking of which, put that thing away. There are children here!”
“If you were really concerned about their safety you wouldn’t have dragged the bullseye on your back down here.”
“You shouldn’t sneak up on people … what if I had a gun?”
She began to laugh. “You wouldn’t have a chance against me. Or more importantly … Scroggie’s people.”
She pointed in the direction of a driveway, two houses down from where Nicole was standing with her children. “Does that mother look familiar?”
I squinted at the woman with short bob haircut and heavy overcoat, flanked by a couple of preschoolers. She looked like a typical Ossining soccer mom. “Should she?”
“Remember your friend Jacqueline from last night? And FYI—when she pretends that she’s taking pictures of her kids with her phone, it’s not a coincidence that she makes sure you’re in the background.
“I’m going to put an end to this—it’s harassment.”
“This isn’t a court case, Collins. The best move right now is to lay low.”
“She threatened Libby last night. That’s crossing the line. If she wants me, I’m here, but leave my family out of this.”
“Libby isn’t the Kris Collins love interest that I’m worried about.”
“What do you mean?”
“They’re stalking the stalker,” she said, while glancing in the direction of Nicole. “And before long they’ll figure out who you’re stalking.”
“I’m not stalking anybody,” I said defensively.
Coming here might not have been the healthiest way to spend my morning, but I associated stalking with the sick and depraved. No matter what people think of many of my former clients, if they’d seen some of the threatening letters from their stalkers, or the photos to prove that they could get near their children, it would have been hard not to have empathy.
“Do I need to remind you, Collins, that you’re one slip-up from heading back to jail? And you know as well as I do that you’re committing fourth degree stalking in the state of New York, which will get you sent back—it doesn’t matter if you actually initiate contact. If you really care about this woman, walk away,” Alyson said.
She opened the door and pushed me over the console into the passenger’s seat, and climbed in. “How does she afford that house? I thought they lost all the life insurance money when the husband killed himself?”
“They did—it’s her mother’s house.”
She started the vehicle. “This is a nice piece of machinery. Can I have it if you go back to jail?”
She smiled, which clashed with her nose that looked like a piece of rhubarb pie topped with two very black eyes.
“You’ll have to ask Libby—she owns it now. I transferred all my belongings into her name before the feds could freeze my assets.”
“How about the Ferrari?”
“It’s stashed away in the barn on the Pound Ridge property. Although, rumor has it that it might be in danger of being evicted to make room for a couple of ponies.”
She began driving out of the neighborhood. I watched as Jacqueline Helada got smaller in the rear-view mirror. I wished it was that easy to get her out of my life.
“Where’s your car?” I asked.
“In Brooklyn.”
“Then how’d you get here? And come to think of it, how did you know I’d be here?”
“That’s a trade secret. But I will say that I heard you called in sick with a case of stupidity today. So this sounded like a place someone would come who was suffering with an ailment like that.”
“What’s your excuse for skipping out on work?”
“It’s a tradition for me to take off the 23rd to go Christmas shopping. I used to have a boss who would send me out two days before Christmas to get gifts for the staff and clients that he completely forgot about, even though his dedicated assistant reminded him at least ten times about it.”
I sighed. “So where are we going, Rudi?”
She smiled. “The North Pole.”