As expected, Carter was easy to deceive. We talked about whatever Disney movie he was currently obsessed with and then exchanged “I love yous.” Our conversations lasted no more than a minute, at which point he returned to the blissful ignorance of childhood.
Chandler, however, was a different story. Our average conversation would be more than fifteen minutes, and if she was especially talkative it would last for close to an hour. Just what we could talk about for so long I'm still not sure, although as the weeks dragged on I noticed her becoming more and more obsessed with Passepartout. In essence, she was using the movie to keep track of my progress, the way an adult crosses off days on a calendar.
She kept saying things like, “Passepartout did this, Daddy, and Passepartout did that, Daddy,” as if I could somehow learnfrom Passepartout's mistakes and accelerate my voyage around the world. With the help of Gwynne, she had pegged January 10 as my arrival date back in the United States from Yokohama—just like Passepartout. However, if she could help me figure out a way to travel faster or simply avoid having an accident, then perhaps I could be home for Christmas.
So when I told her I was in Paris, she said, “Be careful when you take off in your hot-air balloon, Daddy! Passepartout had to climb on top of hisballoon, and he almost fell off!” I promised that I would.
And when I told her I was heading to India, she said, “Be careful when you're riding on your elephant, Daddy, because Passepartout got captured by headhunters! He had to be rescued.” And from there the subject would turn to something completely innocuous—her new friends in school, something she'd watched on TV, the toys she wanted for Christmas. Never once did she bring up John Macaluso or, for that matter, her mother. Whether this was by accident or design I wasn't quite sure, but I could sense that she was trying to protect my feelings.
By mid-November, Alonso had finally agreed to take another shot in front of Gleeson. The only problem was that he needed to get clearance from the new chief of the criminal division, a man named Ken Breen (Ron White had switched sides too, becoming a defense lawyer). Breen was currently in trial and couldn't be disturbed.
That made no sense to me; after all, it couldn't take Magnum more than fifteen minutes to make a presentation to Ken Breen. Bo had secured all the necessary affidavits, and it was crystal clear that the only thing I had been guilty of was stupidity. I said to Magnum, “I don't care how busy someone is—they always have fifteen minutes to spare for something important.” Magnum explained that it was a matter of protocol. When an AUSA goes to trial, it's like a prizefighter stepping into the ring, and between rounds he doesn't talk to his best friend. All he cares about is knocking out the other prizefighter.
And just like that, the possibility of being home for Thanksgiving vanished like a fart in the wind. Fortunately, I hadn't really expected it, so I wasn't overly disappointed. Yes, it would have been nice, of course, but it had been such a long shot that I hadn't been foolish enough to get my hopes up.
As I quickly found out, expectations could be either your best friend or worst nightmare when you're behind bars. A man facing twenty years hangs on to the hope of winning an appeal; when he loseshis appeal he hangs on to the hope of parole; and when he gives up on that—and his life seems totally worthless and no longer worth living—he finds Jesus.
I fell into a unique category of ultrashort-timers, a detainee whose downside was measured by a matter of months. Worse came to worst, Magnum assured me, Gleeson would let me out by spring, simply out of mercy. However, if we were to file our motion just before Christmas, he couldn't imagine John denying it. He was a sympathetic man, Magnum promised, and he would be willing to give me a second chance.
Fair enough, I thought. I would have to spend Thanksgiving in jail. I dialed Old Brookville on Tuesday morning of Thanksgiving week. The date was November 23. As always, I dialed with a smile on my face, anxious beyond words to hear the voices of my children. Alas, on the second ring, I heard: “I'm sorry, the number you have called has been disconnected. If you have reached this recording in error, please hang up and try your call again. No further information is available.”
At first I didn't hang up the phone. I kept it pressed to my ear. I was simply too astonished to move. And while my brain desperately searched for answers, my gut didn't have to: My children had moved to California.
Two days later, it came as no surprise when the Duchess called my parents and left her new contact information on their answering machine, and both the area code and the zip code belonged to Beverly Hills.
Without losing my temper, I wrote them down. Then I hung up the phone and headed for the back of the line. There were seven people ahead of me, so I had a few minutes to think, to figure out the precise string of curses to utter, the appropriate threats to make, and anything else a man in my position—meaning a man who had no power whatsoever over anyone or anything, including himself—could say.
I would call her a bitch and a gold digger and a… who was I kidding?If I called her any of those things, she would press seven-seven and cut off all phone communication! Not to mention the fact that she could pluck my letters out of the mailbox and cut off all written communication as well. My complete lack of power was utterly enraging! Yet what enraged me most was that, deep down, I knew she was right.
I mean, what was she to do? I was in jail and the money was running out. She had bills to pay, kids to support, and the roof over her head was on the cusp of forfeiture. And then there was John Macaluso waiting in the wings, like a knight in shining armor. He had money, a mansion, and, by sheer coincidence, he happened to be a nice guy to boot. He would support her and take care of her, and he would love her.
And he would take care of the kids.
And what about the kids? What was best for them? Should they grow up on Long Island in the dark shadow of my legacy? Or would it be better for them to make a fresh start in California? Of course, my kids belonged with me, or at least nearme. Of that much I was certain. But where did Ibelong? What was best for me?
Having little choice, I did what I had no doubt many men who'd been unfortunate enough to be a prisoner in Pod 7N had done before me: I went back to my bunk and pulled the covers over my head.
Then I cried.
CHAPTER 26
A NEW MISSION
March 2000
Fresh air! Freeair! The blue dome of the sky! The orange ball of the sun! The glorious phases of the moon! The sweet smell of fresh flowers! The even sweeter smell of fresh Soviet pussy! And to think I had taken all these things for granted! How foolish of me!Life's simple pleasures were all that mattered, weren't they? I had been to hell and back and had survived.
So it was that I emerged from the Metropolitan Detention Center on a chilly Monday morning, with a smile on my face and a bounce in my step—and with every aspect of my life in a complete fucking shambles.
Much could change in four months, and, in my case, much had: My kids were living in California; Meadow Lane was in the hands of the government; my furniture was in storage, my money was running out, and, to add insult to injury, I was wearing an ankle bracelet with restrictions soDraconian that I couldn't even leave my house, except to see the doctor.