Chicago
Dirksen Federal Courthouse
2014
When the judge entered the courtroom, the packed room stood up with audible anticipation. Hundreds of people had crowded in behind Becky, and although she willed herself not to turn around she could feel their presence like a furnace of fury at her back. So many faces, so many voices she would recognize if she allowed herself to look or listen.
Judge Merida was in his late fifties, Latino, a pair of spectacles pushed up onto the top of his head as if they were sunglasses. He spoke to the lawyers, both hers and the prosecutors (all men), about motions and countermotions, exhibits, notices of intent. Becky concentrated on breathing slowly. She wouldn’t break down. She’d let the process unfold.
Her hands, though, twisted violently against each other in her lap.
Witnesses for the government began to appear in the witness box. FBI agents testified to her method—writing fraudulent checks—and the numbers, which produced actual gasps from those in the pews: For example, between April 2011 and July 2011, the defendant wrote thirty-two checks to total three million nine hundred fourteen thousand, which as you can see only sixty-nine thousand of which was for legitimate town business. A worker from Pierson Streets and San—Callum Briggs, who smiled hugely at her before he remembered to look away—testified that the town pool went dry for three summers, that she’d denied funds for playground maintenance, tree pruning by the riverwalk, and cemetery repairs. Town council member after council member got up to testify to her malfeasance. The librarian wiped away tears while reporting how many fewer kids and seniors they’d been able to accommodate because of shortened hours. Ingrid testified, quietly and calmly, not looking at Becky. Becky held herself still during each person’s testimony, kept her gaze steady. She had to work not to swallow too much; the dryness in her throat was a constant danger.
Those in the courtroom who were out for blood had a real disappointment when it became clear that Mayor Ken Brennan would not be appearing. Literal boos rippled through the room when one of the attorneys for the government began to read into the record Ken’s pat statement, causing Judge Merida to call for order. Becky knew what they were thinking: Can’t show his face. He was in on it, how could he not be. All those years, he just left her with the keys to the candy store.
In the years since her arrest, Ken had hung on to his job, but in name only. Editorial after editorial raked him over the coals. He was charged, then the charges were dropped. In May the town council unanimously voted to reverse-engineer the government structure to a “management plan,” executed by a group of hired consultants. After Ken’s term was up at the end of the year, he was out. From what little Becky had found out, at home in her ankle bracelet, he had put his house on the market and moved the kids to Rockford to live with his sister. No word on where Marie Brennan was.
Becky had waited to hear from him all those sleepless months, and no message ever came. She realized in her courtroom seat that she’d even been hoping to hear from him today, in some way. But the bland statement that disparaged her conduct and praised Pierson for its fortitude sounded nothing like Ken. Nothing like how he used to talk with her.
After that, the proceedings picked up speed. The government concluded its case. The only person willing to speak on Becky’s behalf—of hundreds pursued by her lawyers, or so they told her—was Tracy Moncton, although she too declined to attend in person. Instead, she sent a video.
When Tracy’s face and upright posture came on the screen of the monitor that was wheeled to the front of the courtroom, the place buzzed with murmurs and whispers. Over the past ten years Tracy Moncton had become a director of movies the audience had heard of, if not actually seen. Independent films with name actors, including one that took the big award in France.
“My name is Tracy Moncton. I’m a visual artist and a filmmaker. I understand that I don’t need to take an oath for a sentencing hearing. I’m going to read a prepared statement.” Tracy put on a pair of yellow reading glasses, low on the nose, and lifted one typewritten page. Her height made it easy to see most of her torso in the camera’s frame: thin, long-limbed, in a loose black jacket over a black blouse. Her hair seemed the only undisciplined part of her: a wild and frizzy soft halo, shades of gray and blond. “Boy with flag (version one),” she read aloud. “Boy with flag (version two). Emily in her kitchen (editioned series). Hero Lake (artist proof). Mika’s yarn (editioned series). Going Underground (film and print). Going Underground (installation).” Several minutes passed. Tracy read a dozen titles, twenty, fifty, more—no context, only the bare essentials of title and medium.
Becky’s lawyers glanced at each other. The government’s lawyers bent toward each other to confer in whispers. Judge Merida had a slight frown, looking down at the monitor. Becky alone understood. These were all the works Tracy had made during the years of their patron agreement. She recognized many of them, had owned several. They were in museums and collections around the world.
Tracy Moncton paused, blinked several times at the page in her hand. “I offer this list in lieu of what I was asked to prepare, that is, a more traditional statement of character. In lieu of a description of a longtime business arrangement whose origins were more important to me than I could explain within these circumstances. And in lieu of my gratitude for her patronage, and my misgivings about that now. I hope this list might be useful to Ms. Farwell in the coming years.” Tracy raised her face then, and Becky watched intently as the artist’s gaze blindly swept past her on the screen. With a quick motion, Tracy took off her reading glasses. “Thank you for including this statement into the proceedings.” She nodded at someone off-camera, and the screen blacked out.
Warmth in her limbs, a tingle of energy. The first feelings of well-being she’d had all day. Becky tried to hold on to it, this inner strength, tried not to hear the lawyers and judge talking around and above her.
“Does the defense call any further witnesses as to character?”
“No, your honor. At this time, we’d like to allow Ms. Farwell to give her statement.”
At the witness stand, Becky faced the courtroom audience for the first time all day. She brushed at her blouse, smoothing and tucking it, with fingers that felt thick and clumsy. In a surreal haze she saw suddenly that what she’d taken for an abstract print on the cheap fabric was actually tiny repeated ducks. Or loons, maybe. Hundreds of little black water birds cascading down her chest and stomach.
She realized she was delaying the inevitable: looking up at the people assembled to watch her be sent to prison. When she did, and felt the blunt force of their collective hatred, her will curdled.
“You may speak now, Ms. Farwell,” Judge Merida told her.
“Yes. Thank you.” She lightly touched the microphone to judge the right distance, a gesture she’d performed a hundred times before. For so many weeks and months, she had dreamed of this moment. Imagined giving a fully prepared performance: penitent, but eager to explain. She would weave in stories about all the times she had brought Pierson back from the brink—not just with money, but with her ideas, her efforts, her devotion. She wouldn’t get into the weeds of art collecting, but would describe her perspective on everything they had heard up to now. She’d won Pierson over to her way of thinking so many times before, why couldn’t she do it one last time? Make them see.
What a fool, she thought now. To think she still held that power. All her prepared rhetorical flourishes emptied out. She could no longer delude herself about the pain she had caused.
“Ms. Farwell. Do you have anything you wish to say to the court at this time?”
“No. I mean, yes.” Her throat tight, her hands heavy weights. “I would just like to say that I’m sorry. I apologize to those I’ve hurt.” She said it quickly and sat back.
Judge Merida denied the motion for self-surrender, denied the defense’s motion for clemency based on cooperation with authorities, and explained why the upward variance in his sentencing was more than warranted by the scope of the fraud. She would serve twenty years. Bond was revoked and the defendant was to be placed in custody immediately.
Stifled gasps ran through the courtroom, a smatter of applause. Becky held on to the table’s edge, shaking. From here to prison. One of her lawyers put a hand on her arm.
Judge Merida pushed his glasses up into his hair again, rested his forearms on the bench. He spoke to Becky and his tone changed, as if they were the only two people in the room. “The Bureau of Prisons will provide you with church, with classes if you desire. You’ll get the chance to think about what you’ve done to this place. To your people. You will be incarcerated for most of the rest of your life, but—” Here the judge swept his gaze fiercely around the courtroom before coming back to Becky. “Your lifelong sense of civic responsibility and the efforts you made for Pierson—when you did make them—do not go unnoticed by this court. Good luck to you, Ms. Farwell.” He banged his gavel. “Adjourned.”