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THE NEXT MORNING, NEWS of Audric Dufort’s death was everywhere. That was expected—the man was an icon in the city, and he deserved all of the public condolences and accolades he received.
What wasn’t unexpected was that the Post had made Alex and I part of the story.
After a fitful sleep, each of us rose at four in the morning. After all that had happened the night before—from my attack against Stephen Rowe to what had happened to Audric himself—the idea that sleep was even possible was a joke.
And so, after giving up on sleep and holding each other quietly for a few minutes, we slipped out of bed, deciding it was best to just start the day. While Alex collected the morning papers, I went into the kitchen to make coffee. My nerves alone were enough to make me feel sick to my stomach, which was nothing new these days given the pressure Alex and Wenn had been under. But my nausea only intensified when Alex returned to the kitchen, sat at the island, and tossed the Post onto the countertop.
“And so it gets worse,” he said.
I pulled two mugs out of a cabinet and turned to him. He was wearing nothing but his boxer shorts, his dark hair was tousled, and he looked furious to me.
“What’s the matter?” I asked.
He motioned toward the paper. “Have a look.”
With a sinking feeling in my gut, I went over to the counter, picked up the Post, and saw that Alex and I were on the front page, with an empty wheelchair and a smashed window just behind us. In the photo, surprise was stamped on my face and Alex looked nothing if not horrified by what had just happened. The headline was as massive as it was cutting: “WENNFAIL.”
On the paper’s lower right corner was another photo, this one fit snuggly in a circle. It was a grainy photograph of Audric Dufort’s smashed body lying on the sidewalk outside his son’s penthouse on Fifth. The cutline that ran beneath it was even more hurtful, unfair, and abusive: “Alexander Wenn fails to save Audric Dufort—and his own company.”
And that’s all it took—my stomach hitched, and I ran into the half-bathroom just off the kitchen and threw up whatever I had left in my stomach, which wasn’t much. As I launched into a series of dry heaves, Alex hurried into the room and crouched down beside me. He reached for my hair and held it away from my face while he rubbed my back.
“Jennifer,” he said, when the heaving slowed. “Please don’t be sick. They’re idiots. It’s the Post. Nobody takes them seriously.”
When I was finished, he reached for a towel off the rack beside the sink and handed it to me. I pressed it against my lips and my chin, and then went to the sink, turned on the water, and dipped my mouth toward the running stream while tears stung my eyes. I swished, spat, and took in a long pull of cold water and swallowed. When I stood up to look at myself in the mirror, I looked as if I’d aged a decade overnight. All of the color had drained from my face. Alex was just behind me, his hand resting on my shoulder. I reached for and grasped his hand as I leaned against his body.
“I’m so sorry,” I said.
“There’s no need to be sorry.”
“I’m not talking about throwing up—though I’m also sorry about that. What I’m sorry about is what people are doing to you. It makes me sick, Alex—literally. I hate it. You deserve better than this, and I should be able to protect you from it. You tried to save that man. We both did. And now look how they’ve spun it. I don’t even want to know what they’ve written about you in that fucking rag.”
He met my eyes in the mirror, and I could feel his concern for me, as well as his love and his compassion. “Then we won’t look,” he said. “We’ll just get on with the day and forget about it. As I said, it’s the Post. They’re a tabloid. They don’t matter.”
When I’d composed myself, I turned to him. “But we have to look, don’t we? We have to know what they’ve written, so we can be prepared for whatever might come our way later today. And it will come, Alex. People will react to that story. My first instinct is to protect you, and I will do anything that it takes to do so.” I lifted my eyes to the ceiling and took a deep breath. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. It’s embarrassing. I’m stronger than this.”
“You are strong,” he said. “You proved that last night with Rowe. But this is different, Jennifer. You’re upset for two valid reasons—Audric’s death and what you just saw on the cover of that paper. Don’t worry about it—I will rise above this. So will you. Right now it’s just my turn to be kicked around by the tabloids. It happened to my father. It happened to me after Diana died, when they blamed her death on our failing marriage. And now it’s happening again. I’ll come through this. We’ll come through this. But I’m worried about you.”
I shook my head at him in the mirror. “I don’t want you to be worried about me. This won’t happen again. I just feel powerless to help you,” I said. “That’s what’s making me sick. I should be able to help you, and yet I can’t. Why the hell can’t I?”
“You did last night,” he reminded me. “With Rowe.”
“And how do you think he’s going to react to that piece in the Post? With glee, that’s how.”
His face softened. “Does it really matter?”
“I don’t know yet. I don’t know if he’ll take me seriously. If he doesn’t, I swear to God that his wife will get a call from me. Or a personal visit. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you, Alex. Nothing. Not one thing.” I turned and embraced him. “I love you so much,” I said. “I don’t mean to get so emotional. But when people are out to damage you, I apparently can’t help myself. I will fight for you no matter what.”
“Just not at the cost of your own health, OK? Now,” he said in my ear, “how about a cup of coffee, and we can look over the Post if you want. That’s your call. You said that you wanted to. I don’t think that it’s a good idea, but I know better than to get in your way when you’re like this.”
I wiped my eyes and smiled at that. “You know your wife well.”
“That I do. She’s a tiger. And this man is lucky as hell to have her in his life.”
“So, let’s have at it,” I said with a kiss on his cheek. “Let me get us each a cup of coffee, and we’ll face what the papers are saying together.”
“All right.”
“But first, you should check Wenn’s stock. This is exactly the sort of thing that could knock it down in early trading.”
When Alex checked, Wenn was down another fourteen points.
* * *
LATER, BEFORE ALEX and I left for Wenn, Tank called Alex to warn us that there was a group of reporters waiting outside for us.
“How many are there?” Alex asked. “A dozen? Fine. Is a reporter from the Post there? Good. Print and television? Perfect. We’ll be down in a moment. Expect me to make a statement before you lead us to the car. Expect me to keep it brief. Yes, I’ll do it outside.”
When he clicked off his cell and put it in his pants pocket, I was emerging from our bedroom dressed for the day.
“The press are here?” I asked.
“They are.”
“What do you plan to say to them?”
He grabbed his briefcase from the kitchen counter and went over to the mirror in the entryway to straighten his tie. He didn’t answer me at once. Instead, what I saw when he gazed at his reflection was an intensity that suggested an undercurrent of raw anger. My husband wasn’t an angry man, but he had every right to be angry now, and I had to wonder what he had in mind for when we reached the lobby. I grabbed my own briefcase from the counter, and slung my handbag off a chair in the living room and over my shoulder.
“Alex?” I said.
He turned to me with a smile and kissed me on the forehead. “Are you feeling better?”
“Yes.”
“I love you,” he said.
“I love you, too.”
“Are you ready?”
I scrutinized his face and saw something dark in his eyes that concerned me. It looked as if he was about to go to war. “What am I getting ready for? What are you up to?”
He held out his hand to me, and I took it.
“Last night you asked me if I trusted you,” he said. “So now, I need to know if you trust me.”
“You know that I do.”
“Then let’s go and see what I’m up to,” he said.
* * *
IN THE LOBBY, TANK was waiting for us just outside the elevator. Usually, Alex greeted his best friend with good-natured small talk, but this morning, he only nodded at Tank as the three of us crossed the lobby toward the tall, double set of glass doors that were at the opposite end of the cavernous space. Through the wall of windows to my left, I saw the reporters at the same moment they saw us leaving the elevator and coming toward them.
And then, they swarmed.
Time seemed to slow. Cutter was outside, and he was trying to keep the crowd back when they pressed forward. Max likely was in the car, ready to drive us away whenever Alex was finished saying whatever it was that he wanted to say.
“Just stand by my side,” he said to me. “That’s all I ask you to do.”
“Anything you want,” I said.
There were times when I consulted Alex on his business, and there were times when I knew that it was best for me to just trust his instincts and hang back. Given the heat that was coming off him—and how wronged he’d been in the Post this morning—I knew this was one of those times, and I had a gut feeling about what was about to come. So, I just stroked my hand against the low of his back in a gesture of support as we followed Tank through the doors, into the warm sunshine, and onto the sidewalk.
The moment we were through the doors, mayhem ensued as a flurry of questions accosted us from every angle. Alex ignored the questions. “When you’re ready,” he said to the crowd, “I’d like to make a statement. But there will be no questions. So, you can take my statement, or we can leave. It’s your choice, but decide now.”
The crowd grew silent.
“Last night, we lost one of the great champions of this city in a freak accident many of us are still trying to understand while we grieve. I’m not sure that many of us will ever comprehend the tragedy that happened last night—or how it happened. But I do know this—Audric Dufort wasn’t just a great businessman whose efforts literally changed this city’s landscape, but, at his core, he also was a great man. To some of you, that must seem either like a cliché or hyperbole—it’s neither. Through his charitable contributions alone—most of which were never made public because Audric wasn’t interested in that kind of publicity—he helped hundreds of thousands of people, not only here in Manhattan and throughout its boroughs, but also around the world, particularly in his native country of France. Over the ensuing days and weeks, I’m certain that many will come forward with their own stories about Audric’s quiet philanthropy, and how they loved him and appreciated him because of how he helped them. I’m happy to step aside and let them have that moment because they and Audric deserve it. But here’s my story.”
When he paused, the rapid sound of cameras going off around us sounded to me like a mass clicking of light switches being turned on and off in a rush of expectation.
“Audric was a great friend of my father’s. Because of that, I knew him from the day I was born. In a way, he was like an uncle to me, especially because my father and Audric enjoyed many prosperous deals together, and they remained close until my father and mother died at my father’s hand. It was about a month after I’d taken control of Wenn that I really came to know Audric and his son Henri, because it was then that Audric sensed that I needed him most. I remember the day that he called and asked me to lunch. I was overwhelmed at the time—some of you will remember that my first wife, Diana, died in a car accident not long after I took over Wenn. What Audric revealed to me over that lunch was a kindness that I’ll never forget. He made it clear to me that he would always be available to me. That I could lean on him, shoot ideas by him, and ask him questions—which I did. Repeatedly. He made me believe that with some effort, a lot of hard work, and a bit of guidance from him when I asked for it, that I could successfully take over my father’s company despite the odds that were stacked against me. That’s the kind of person Audric Dufort was. He was wonderful, he was kind, he was my teacher, and most of all, he was my friend. What I want people to remember today and going forward, is that this city—and the world—just got a whole lot smaller with Audric Dufort’s passing. I’ve read the papers this morning, and with the exception of one particular front-page story, the outpouring of respect has been humbling. So, thank you for that. I appreciate that, and I’m sure that his son, Henri, appreciates your generosity and kindness. Audric Dufort came to this country with nothing. But even with every odd against him, he built an empire, and once he’d made it, he helped the citizens of this country who had helped him succeed. I hope that those who loved him as much as I did will come forward with all of your own stories. And in an effort to be fair and balanced, I hope that the press will run with them. But I have to address one thing before I leave here today, and that’s this morning’s grotesque, insensitive, aberrant story that ran in the Post. It crosses a line even I never thought that particular paper was capable of crossing.”
With a quick turn of his head, Alex faced the same short, middle-aged photographer I remembered from last night’s party. I recognized him on sight as the man who had taken our photographs throughout the night. When Alex locked eyes with him and with his peers turning to face him, the man took a step back and lowered his camera to his side.
Alex shoved a finger in his direction. “What you and your paper did with this morning’s edition of your bullshit rag is nothing if not a sorry bastardization of a great man. You should be ashamed of yourself. You were there last night. You not only saw what happened, but you recorded it with your own camera without once bothering to help any of us that were shouting for help. You know for a fact that Audric’s wheelchair malfunctioned—you saw it with your own eyes. And yet you dare to show yourself here this morning despite your total lack of respect for a man who tragically lost his life. So, let me tell you something, you sonofabitch. I can take whatever you want to dish out to me and my company, but how dare you and your shit paper exploit a man whose presence in this city was nothing if not positive and good? What I’m about to say to you I want on the record. Is everyone listening? Good. Please find a creative way to print or broadcast these words, because they won’t be pleasant. Go fuck yourself, you sorry little bastard. Right now, you’re surrounded by some of the best in the business, and yet you dare to stand alongside them as if you’ve walked the path they walked to become a real reporter. The rest of your colleagues know better. They’ve seen what you’ve printed now and in the past. They’ve heard me. And my guess is that they will print or broadcast an edited version of what I’ve just said to you, which is well earned. Meanwhile, in petty retaliation, your paper will likely run another cover story on me that says something like ‘WENN HAS CRACKED! INVESTORS IN DOUBT!’ We’ll see if I’m right about that—even though I already know that I am. But so be it. In the spirit of that knowledge, I’ll say it again, motherfucker. Fuck you and your paper. I hope you rot in hell for what you did to my friend.”
With that, Alex took my hand and faced the rest of the reporters. “To the rest of you, I can’t tell you how appreciative I am that you have honored Audric in the way that you have. I’m humbled by it and grateful for it, as I’m sure his son is. Please continue to remember Audric with kindness, meaning, and sensitivity. As the scope of his philanthropy becomes public, you will soon see that he deserves it. Some of you might be curious enough to dig into his life on your own, and to see exactly the kind of impact he had here in Manhattan and around the world. If you do that, I think that you’ll be stunned. That’s all for today. Thank you very much for listening.”
“Mr. Wenn,” somebody called.
But Alex was finished, so, with a slight tug on my hand, we started to move toward the car that was waiting for us at the curbside. Cutter led the way and Tank took up the rear. Usually, the press crushed us when Alex spoke publicly. Perhaps out of respect for what Alex had just said, they seemed to be hanging back, which wasn’t at all like them. Usually, they rushed forward.
But this time, they didn’t.
As we moved forward, I became aware of two things—some were taking photographs of us as we got into the limousine, but others were turning to photograph the reporter from the Post. He looked even smaller to me than he had last night, and his face had gone pale in the presence of the truth.
Cutter stayed behind for crowd control. Tank moved forward and held open our door, and eventually all of us got inside without incident. The moment Tank shut his door, everything went silent and the car sped into traffic. I moved closer to Alex and put my hand on his thigh. I gave him time to let his anger subside as we moved down Fifth toward the Wenn Enterprises Building.
“I’ve never seen you like that before,” I said.
Alex didn’t turn to me when he spoke. Instead, he just kept looking straight ahead when he answered. “That’s because you’ve never seen me deal with the death and betrayal of a loved one. But now you have. Now you know what I’m like when I’m crossed on that level.” He looked at me, and there was something in his piercing blue eyes that suggested that he’d just seen a terrible darkness before sharply pulling away from it. “It’s probably for the best that you haven’t seen me that aggressive. I’m sorry if I went too far.”
“I thought that you were magnificent.”
“It was Audric who was magnificent.”
I didn’t respond.
Ahead of us, the Wenn Enterprises Building loomed into sight.
