Forty-five

Although it’s barely three when I leave the gallery, the shadows are deep, and the first significant snowfall of the winter appears to be upon us. They’re forecasting up to six inches, which this early in December doesn’t bode well for the rest of the season. My ski parka is stuffed somewhere in the back of my closet, but I’ve been in denial and have refused to look for it. As tiny pieces of icy snow lacerate my cheeks, I’m thinking it might be time to face up to the reality of winter. But maybe it’ll be warmer tomorrow and I won’t have to.

Despite the weather, I pause before I turn the corner from East Berkeley to Harrison. Although it isn’t clear what spurred the activity in the sub-basement, between Alana’s gasp and the ultrasound equipment, it’s more than possible that Agent Lyons’s “official capacity” visit is in the offing. I pray to the god I know isn’t listening that it’s not, steel myself, and step onto Harrison Avenue. Lyons is nowhere to be seen, but a Boston police cruiser is parked in front of my building. Maybe god is listening. And she’s got a sense of humor.

I walk slowly down the block, my heart booming in my ears. It feels as if my stomach is literally in my throat, and I try to console myself with the fact that there aren’t any flashing blue lights, no one posted at the front door with a gun. When I’m a few steps away from the cruiser, two officers, a man and a woman, climb casually out. Again, no threatening stance, no weapons, no paramilitary garb. They just watch me impassively as I approach.

The woman steps forward. “Claire Roth?” she asks.

I find I can’t speak, so I just nod.

“I’m Detective Farrell, Boston Police Department,” she says, as if we’re meeting at a cocktail party. “And this is Officer Rodriguez.”

I look from one to the other, still unable to say anything, and now I find I can’t even nod. It’s as if my body parts aren’t connected to me anymore. I have the vague feeling I’m not breathing.

The detective reaches out and touches my arm. “Let’s keep this as simple as possible. With as little stress as possible.”

I try to stand straighter, but I’m not sure I’ve moved.

“Claire Roth,” Officer Rodriguez says, “of 173 Harrison Avenue, fourth floor, Boston, Massachusetts, we have a warrant for your arrest.” He waves a sheaf of papers at me, then pulls out a pair of handcuffs.

I begin to tremble.

Farrell shakes her head. “Not necessary, Rod. She’s not going anywhere.” She turns to me. “You’re not, right?”

“No,” I manage to whisper, the first word I’ve spoken.

POLICE HEADQUARTERS IS a few miles away in a different section of the city, but I barely remember the ride over, just that Officer Rodriguez drove, Detective Farrell sat next to him, and I sat alone in the back. There were no door handles.

The detective and I are in a small cubicle, one of many lined up along one wall of the large cinder-block room. According to the sign on the door, I’m in the Processing Room. Being processed. For committing a crime. A felony.

My body’s still shaking, but not nearly as much as before, and although I feel as if I can’t get any air into my lungs, I appear to be breathing. I’m even able to give my name and address. Then Detective Farrell reads me my rights.

“I want to call my lawyer,” I tell her immediately, having watched enough cop shows to know this is the right thing to do. “May I please call my lawyer?” I add. Being polite can only help. Of course, I’ve got no lawyer. The only criminal lawyer I know is my friend Mike Dannow from Jake’s, the lawyer/artist. I’ve no idea if he’s any good, but I’m the beggar here.

Farrell hands me a cell phone and leaves me alone in the cubicle, which is open to the room.

“Claire?” Mike demands, when his assistant gets him on the phone. “What’s going on?”

“I’ve, I’ve been arrested,” I say, keeping my voice low. “I didn’t know who else to call.”

“For what?”

“All kinds of things,” I hesitate, not wanting to put it into words. “Forgery, conspiracy to commit fraud, and transportation and sale of, of stolen goods. I think, I think maybe a few other things. Trespassing.”

“Okay,” Mike says. “You need to remain calm. Take a deep breath. It’s important not to lose it, to stay in control.”

I try to take a breath, but it gets caught on a sob.

“What station are you at?”

“Headquarters,” I manage to say. “I think they’re going to lock me up. I—”

“Listen to me, Claire,” he says, in a voice so crisp and professional I’m not sure I’m talking to the same man I drink with at Jake’s. “First thing: Say nothing. Nothing to anyone. Just your name and address. Nothing else. No matter what they tell you, they’re not being nice, they’re not trying to help you, and they aren’t your friends. You will not speak to anyone, that means anyone, without your lawyer. Say it.”

“I, ah, I won’t speak without you.”

“Now say: ‘On the advice of my attorney, I will not say anything unless he’s present.’ ”

I repeat it twice before he’s satisfied I have it down.

“I’ll be there within the hour.”

“Please come as soon as you can,” I beg. But he’s already gone.

Detective Farrell fills up the hour with processing: mug shots, fingerprints, a computer scan of my criminal record, confiscation of my backpack, and a body search, which thankfully doesn’t involve cavities. The whole time, she peppers me with questions that I refuse to answer. Her good cop façade fades a bit more each time I speak my line. Then finally, horribly, she puts me in a cell. This can’t be happening. I can’t be locked up. I have to find the painting for Aiden.

It’s a holding cell, she informs me, but all I care about are the bars, metal poles from floor to ceiling, separating me from the processing room, from freedom. A single, molded-plastic unit takes up most of the cell, forming the base of a cot along one wall before elbowing into a sink/toilet along another. No sharp edges. If I sit at the bottom of the cot and face the toilet, I can avoid seeing the bars. And avoid seeing what isn’t there: a handle to open the door.

I remind myself that there’s no crime in copying a painting, and there’s no way copying a copy can be considered forgery. There’s also no way I’m guilty of transporting or selling stolen goods. Mike will be able to get me out of here. He’ll come and straighten the whole thing out. Then I’ll go home. If it weren’t for the conspiracy to commit fraud charge, I’d almost believe myself.

IT TURNS OUT that Mike’s well known and well liked at police headquarters, an uncommon situation for a criminal defense attorney. And well connected at the courthouse. Within an hour, he convinced everyone who needed to be convinced that I should be released O.R.—on my own recognizance—because I have no criminal record, I have a job, I’ve lived in Massachusetts my whole life, and my release would pose no threat to the community.

He pulls his car out of the station’s parking lot and we head to the South End. I’m so thrilled to be free, I can hardly focus on what he’s saying. “Thanks,” I keep repeating. “Thanks for everything. You saved my life.”

“Claire, you’re not listening to me. The arraignment’s first thing in the morning, and we have to go through this.”

I’ve known Mike for years, but it’s clear I’ve never really known him. Because he’s insecure about the quality of his art and because he’s so short, I have to admit, I assumed he was unsure of himself in all aspects of his life. But now I see he’s confident, and clearly more than competent, in his lawyer role. I suppose I should have figured this out as he lives in one of the high-end buildings around the corner from me.

“—and after the arraignment there’ll be a probable cause hearing, which isn’t about whether you’re guilty or not guilty, but an assessment of whether the evidence is strong enough to take to the grand jury.” Mike shoots me a look. “Claire,” he says sharply. “I’m not going to be able to help you if you’re not a willing participant.”

“Probable cause hearing,” I say, to prove I’m participating. “Not about guilt.”

“And what’s going to happen at the arraignment?”

I shrug and smile sheepishly.

“Tomorrow,” he says, in an overly patient tone, “nine o’clock, Boston Municipal Court. The judge reads the charges, you plead not guilty, the judge confirms your O.R. and sets a date for probable cause.”

“We should be out in less than an hour.” I finally remember something he said before.

Mike laughs.

“This is bogus, right?” I ask. “It’s not a crime to copy a painting, right?”

“Copying a painting isn’t a crime, in and of itself. It’s what you do with the copy afterward that matters. Or what you and someone else plan to do with it afterward. Knowledge. Intent.”

“Aiden hired me to copy a copy. I painted it on an old canvas he gave me, based on a high-quality copy of After the Bath that belonged to a friend of his, that he also gave me. When I finished, he paid me and took both canvases away.”

Mike lifts one hand off the wheel. “That’s all I need to know for now.”

“But you’ve got to understand that—”

“I’ll decide what’s important for me to understand,” Mike interrupts.

This, too, I remember from cop shows. Lawyers like to presume their clients are innocent.

“I am innocent,” I tell him. “I didn’t have anything to do with what happened after the painting was gone. I had no idea what—”

“We’ll talk about the details after the arraignment,” Mike says, as he pulls up to my building. “I won’t be making any arguments against the charges tomorrow, so we’ll have a few days to go over everything after that. The probable cause hearing is where we can call the evidence into question, try to convince the judge that the prosecutor’s case isn’t strong enough. So that’s what we’ll gear up for.”

“You mean there’s not enough evidence?” I grasp for any good news. “That they’ll drop the charges before anything even starts?”

He throws the car into park and turns to look at me. “I didn’t say that.” His voice is stern. “What I said is that we won’t know anything until probable cause.”

“Oh,” I say, deflated.

“But you never know,” he adds. “Every case is different, and frankly, from what I’ve seen so far, their evidence is weak.” He holds up a hand as my face lights up. “But that doesn’t mean there isn’t more evidence. We just need to see how it all comes down. Give it a few days. Now go—”

“A few days?” I interrupt. “We don’t have a few days.”

“—get a good night’s sleep and try not to worry,” he continues, as if I haven’t spoken. “I’ll meet you at eight-thirty in the lobby of the courthouse. Outside the metal detectors.”

“I don’t know how to thank you.” I reach over and touch his shoulder. “You’re, you’re, well, you’re just the best.”

“Boston Municipal Court. Government Center. Twenty-four New Chardon Street.”

“Got it.” I start to climb out of the car, then turn back. “You think the media’s got wind of this already?”

“Arrests and arraignments are public information,” Mike says. “Anything involving the Gardner heist is likely to get picked up.”

WHEN I WAKE up in the morning, I don’t turn on the television or check the Internet, as I usually do. Arrests and arraignments are public information. I’m just not ready to go there. I’ve always been the type of person who needs to know all, who would want to know if I had the bad gene, even the date of my death, if it were possible. But here I sit, in a virtual news blackout of my own making, pretending that if I don’t know about it, it isn’t happening.

I pour myself a cup of coffee and check to make sure my phone is charged in case Mike needs to reach me. I’m on my second cup when it rings. At barely seven o’clock, this can’t be good. When I see it’s Kristi, I know it isn’t.

“They closed down Markel G,” she says, without preamble.

I don’t have to ask who “they” is.

“Claire? Are you there?”

“On, on,” I croak. “On what grounds?”

“The door’s padlocked. FBI. Something about misuse of funds.”

I close my eyes against the pain.

“Are you okay?” She pauses. “After what, ah, after what happened yesterday?”

So it’s out. Everyone knows. I’m not surprised, just horrified. “As good as can be expected.”

“If there’s anything I, we, can do, just let us know. Chantal and I just feel terrible. It’s, well, you know, it’s just not fair.”

“Thanks, Kristi. I appreciate that.” Tears roll down my cheeks. “I’ll be in touch.”

As soon as I put down the phone, it rings again. Mike. He’s already at his office. “Hey,” I say with all the false cheer I can muster.

“I’m coming to pick you up,” he says. “I’ll be in front of your place at eight.”

“You don’t need to do that,” I say, thinking what a nice guy he is. “Thanks, but l can take the T. It’s not a problem.”

“It’s the media. I don’t want you walking in there on your own.”

I take a moment to process this.

“Claire?”

“I’ll be on the sidewalk.”

As I dress, I remind myself that I’m not in jail, not locked up in a cell, and Aiden has at least a few more days. Mike said we should be out in an hour. I’ll still have the whole day.

When I reach the sidewalk, I blink at the brightness; about four inches of snow covers the ground. It doesn’t seem possible that my walk through the gray and stinging snow was only yesterday. Now the sky’s a fierce, clear blue, and the sun shoots sparks of light from every surface. It’s quieter, prettier, less gritty than yesterday. But it’s also terrifically cold. So short a time. Such great changes. I close my eyes against the glare and pull my collar up against the wind. I think about the joy I felt at the sight of Nighttime T in the window of Markel G. That, too, was only yesterday.

The honk of a horn breaks my reverie. It’s Mike, of course, and his face is grim.

“What do they know?” I ask, as soon as I’m inside.

He doesn’t ask why I’m not up-to-date on the events, just looks at me with an expression of knowing sympathy. “Well, obviously, about your arrest and arraignment. At about the time we were down at headquarters, the Gardner announced their After the Bath is a forgery. And later in the evening, all the major media outlets were reporting that Markel G had been closed down by the feds.”

An official forgery. More reason for the Gardner to push to find the painting. A ray of hope. But more reason for Lyons to be suspicious of me.

“Is it true?” Mike asks. “About the gallery?”

I can only nod.

“I’m sorry, Claire.” He touches my knee. “Tough break.”

I look down at my hands.

“And there’s one more thing . . .”

I close my eyes. “What?”

“It’s not major, just the judge. We got Zwerdling. In public, she’s referred to as the witch. In private, as something that rhymes with it.”

“Does that really matter? I thought you said the arraignment was pretty straightforward?”

“It is. As long as the prosecutor doesn’t ask to revisit your O.R. status.”

My stomach takes a nosedive. “They could send me back to jail?”

“Hardly ever happens,” he assures me.

I search his face. I want to believe him, desperately want to believe him, but I can’t be sure if he’s telling me the truth or telling me the truth he thinks I need to hear.

“The main issue now is getting into the courthouse,” Mike says, moving on. “It’s not going to be pretty, which is why I want to be with you. We have to walk up the main stairs, but there’ll be cops there to clear the way for us. Still, reporters are going to be yelling questions at us, thrusting microphones in our faces, taking pictures. Do you think you can handle that?”

“I’ve been through this before, remember?” I say, with much more bravado than I feel.

He takes his eyes off the road. “Not even close.”

I raise my chin. “I can handle it.”

He gives me a searching look, decides to let it go, and says, “One of my associates is meeting us there. Emma. Emma Yales. She’ll be on one side of you, I’ll be on the other. Stare straight ahead, don’t make eye contact, and keep walking. Don’t say a word to anyone. No one. No matter what they say to you. And no matter how pissed off you get. Okay?”

“Okay.” Shit.

“Emma and I will take care of anything that might come up. But it’s unlikely.”

“Why are they making this into such a big deal?” I ask, hoping he’ll tell me it’s not. “It seems like a bit of media overkill, doesn’t it?”

“December’s a slow news month” is his answer. “And fortunately or unfortunately, you’re a beautiful woman with a past.”