Once A Liar

“No,” I manage to growl.

Harrison sways and bobs and I reach a hand to his elbow to stabilize him. A man of his size should learn to handle his liquor.

“Charlotte.” Harrison shakes a perceptive finger at me. “I know you have a thing for her.” He pulls his arm away from me and stares me squarely in the face. “Come to the DA’s office, and I’ll give you Charlotte. What more could you possibly want?”

Both bemused and taken aback, I let a smile stretch across my face. His expression remains cold. “You’ll give me your daughter? How could you possibly do that?” I laugh incredulously and walk down the wide steps in front of me.

“I’ll give you my blessing, to—you know—sleep with my daughter.” Harrison stays two steps above me, leaning against the banister, certain this offer will be what turns me.

“I didn’t need your blessing, Harrison,” I sneer through gritted teeth.

Harrison’s face registers shock before sliding into understanding. Of course I’d already slept with his daughter.

With a laugh, I saunter down the steps. Still grinning when I reach the landing, I look back up to Harrison. He’s walking back toward the bar, unruffled, appearing completely sober.

THEN

Marcus and I had rented office space for Rhodes & Caine, LLP, in downtown Manhattan on Church Street, just north of Leonard. I walked to work from my loft in Tribeca, and as I strolled to the office one morning when the trial preparations for the Bogovian case were just beginning, I thought back to home for the first time in a long time.

I had lied to Juliette about where and how I grew up, and although I didn’t quite regret it, it was becoming clear to me that she was more than just a girlfriend and maybe she should know the truth. I had buried my past behind a curtain of carefully designed lies, and I never pulled back that curtain.

Juliette believed I spent my childhood moving from one European city to the next, but in reality, I grew up in Vermont. Not the only child of an art dealer father and sophisticated mother, as I told Juliette, I was raised by my uncle Tommy and his wife, Lee, amid the chaos of their already overstuffed home and family. Lee was pregnant with her fourth child when they reluctantly took custody of me. I was only eight months old. As my uncle frequently reminded me growing up, they took me in because he loved his sister, not because he loved or wanted me. My mother was deemed unfit by the courts to care for me, and she was never married to my biological father, who disappeared after I was born anyway. So, Tommy was my only option.

I have memories of my mother coming around the house sporadically, always looking for a handout, some compensation for what she considered to have been a raw deal in life. She would complain that the state had taken her only child, but as far as I could see, she never made an effort to clean herself up enough to win me back. The visits always ended in Lee demanding my mother take me back or help to support me, which would send her into a tailspin of self-pitying and hysterics.

While Tommy kept me fed and clothed, and implored his children to include me and treat me as a member of the family, they all saw me as an intruder. In their eyes, I was a thief stealing food from their mouths, taking up time and space that would have otherwise been theirs.

Tommy was never really a father to me and certainly not a role model. He was a man who just wanted to get by, to fly under the radar; living a simple life, hopefully ending in a simple death, leaving a simple body to become a simple ghost.

The apathy was thick, and I felt suffocated. My whole childhood, I felt I was living in a house with strangers I didn’t know and who didn’t know me. I didn’t fit in with these people. They didn’t have friends, they didn’t have opinions and they didn’t have ambitions. I, on the other hand, longed for success. I wanted greatness. To be noticed, to be known, to be respected. I was steeped in so much nothing in that house, that I yearned for anything to fill the void. No one asked anything of me, so I asked everything of myself.

To me, the point of life was to be the best. Not second best, not in the top ten: the best. I wanted to have the best house, the best life and be the best at my job. Nothing less would ever be enough for me. I wanted to be respected by everyone. This became the only thing that mattered to me. This was how I protected myself. Be the best at everything I do and be in control of everything else. Everyone would respect me and adore me if I were the best.

And Marcus was just the man to lead me to the promised land I was looking for.

Marcus was savage in his ruthlessness. His pursuit of excellence seemed impossible to contain, and he stopped at nothing to become the best. Not only was he the top defense attorney in New York, he also led a personal life that I idolized. He managed to keep himself head and shoulders above the reputation garnered by most lawyers in criminal defense and was counted among the high-society sect. He attended exclusive New York City social events and was a sought-after guest at major benefits and galas. He led a full and ambitious life and earned his prestigious standing. He was exactly the person I wanted to emulate.

I saw my reflection in the glass windows as I arrived at my office building, and I could see that I was poised to take my place at the top. If I could follow in Marcus’s footsteps, I could be the son he never had, and he could be the father I always wanted. I would finally find the place where I fit, and I could leave my humiliating past behind me forever.

Once I arrived at work, Marcus invited me into his office to discuss the details of the Bogovian case. We had already had two meetings with Stu Bogovian to hear his side of the story and start working out what kind of tactics we would use.

“I’m glad you’re going to be at the helm of this one,” Marcus said to me. “It’s the perfect high-profile case to get your name in the papers.”

“I’m ready for him, but he’s a scumbag, Marcus. Going to be hard to make him look good.” I arranged my notes in front of me, ensuring everything was well organized.

“No one’s arguing that he isn’t a piece of shit, and neither will you. In fact, you’re better off acknowledging that he’s a piece of shit. All you need to do is show that the girl is lying. Out for a payday.”

“But all the physical evidence clearly corroborates her story,” I began, hesitant to go to trial for what seemed to be an unwinnable case. The intern had run directly to a precinct and told the cops what had happened. Bruises, bite marks, ligature marks on her wrists; it all fit with her story.

“It also fits a story about two people having some good old-fashioned kinky sex, Peter.” Marcus looked at me with disappointment that I wasn’t immediately willing to challenge the girl’s story.

“You want me to say she’s lying?”

“Of course you say she’s lying.” He leaned over the table and growled at me.

“But he’s guilty. We should be working on damage control, a settlement, something out of criminal court.”

“We don’t settle, Peter. And if you tell me your conscience is getting the better of you, then I was wrong about you from the beginning. These aren’t people, Peter. They’re cases. Cases to be won, not to be settled out of court. How’re you going to make a name for yourself if you let your conscience dictate?”

The last thing I wanted was for Marcus to have second thoughts about our partnership. I shook the notions of settlement and loss out of my head. I wanted to assure him that he had made the right decision by bringing me on as his partner, and my conscience was not going to be a problem. My professional standing was far from established, and now that I had had a taste of the life I wanted, I was willing to do almost anything to stay firmly on the right path. I had been dealt a disastrous hand with the Bogovian case, but I needed to impress Marcus and he wouldn’t accept anything less than a win.

At first, I struggled with demolishing the accuser’s credibility. She may have been a perfectly good girl, and a terrible thing happened to her. But Marcus reminded me again and again that our job was not to care about the alleged victims—that was for the psychiatrists. Our job was to know every minute detail of the law, inside and out. Ethics and personal principles didn’t have anything to do with criminal defense. I had to suppress my better judgment. I had to develop a thicker skin. This was when my morals had to get flexible, when my natural charm took on a whole new application. Peter Caine wasn’t really born until the Stu Bogovian case began.

It’s not that I changed when I went to work with Marcus; it’s more that I was shown that some of my natural proclivities would be more useful than others; inclinations toward behaving callously, with sarcasm and disregard for emotions. Kindness and sympathy had no place in the legal world we operated in, and Marcus helped me to squelch those tendencies before they interfered with my career.

This is why he invited me to open a partnership while I was so young and still impressionable. This is why he pulled me aside that night at the Columbia Law mixer. This is how he knew that I would be his prey.

NOW

After Claire had returned from work, she spent the evening running up and down the townhouse preparing for Jamie’s arrival. She had gone to sleep past midnight, her hair wrapped in a polka-dot handkerchief like the ghost of Rosie the Riveter. I went to the office before she woke up but left her a note on a piece of Rhodes & Caine letterhead, something that I thought she might find special: Now you get to be a mother. I signed the bottom of the page with my favorite Montblanc pen. I knew using the word mother would have a deep effect on her.

Claire had always wanted to have children of her own. She looked after her three little sisters as if she were their mother when their own mother was no longer able to care for them. She used to put her sisters to bed, and then listen at the top of the stairs while her parents fought. She heard her father gaslighting her mother—convincing her that she was losing her mind, imagining the things she clearly saw. He destroyed her with his cheating and lies. When her father got angry, especially when he was caught in a lie or left evidence of another woman, he would turn completely cold. He wouldn’t speak to Claire’s mother, not even a word, for days at a time.

Claire invented stories for her sisters to help get through it—her only outlet to deal with what she was witnessing—and she would call the stories the Princess and the Ice Man. In the stories, the Princess always managed to escape the clutches of the Ice Man and lived happily ever after with her three little fairies.

In reality, Claire’s mother found a different kind of escape; she jumped in front of a northbound R train.

Claire had begged me for years to have children, but I was finished. Jamie would be my only child, and I made it clear to Claire that if she wanted children of her own, it wouldn’t be with me. In our arguments about having children, she told me she dreamed of having the chance to do it better. To be the kind of mother she never had. The kind who stands up to a philandering husband. The kind who won’t allow herself to be destroyed.

Now that Juliette is gone and Jamie needs a mother, he is her opportunity to be the parent she always wanted to be. It’s almost too perfect—Claire gets to be a mother, and I don’t have to deal with a teenager I hardly know.

I can’t be bothered to pick Jamie up and bring him to my house, so instead I send an embarrassingly large limousine. Katherine’s staff will be sure to help him load his belongings into the limo. Of course, I’m hoping to not be home when he pulls up in front of the house on Twenty-First Street. I called home earlier and instructed the housekeeper to welcome Jamie and apologize that I won’t be there. I told her to make up whatever story she wanted about my absence, forgetting that Claire would be home from client meetings by the time Jamie arrived. Claire could have managed a suitable lie with no problem.

As it turns out, I mistime my return home, and I see from the corner of Twenty-First Street that his limo is just pulling up as I’m making my way toward the townhouse. I duck behind a boxwood topiary in front of an apartment building and watch Jamie exit the car. The driver pulls his suitcases one by one from the trunk, arranges them on the curb and carries them up the steps with Jamie lumbering behind.

Claire answers the door almost immediately and embraces him as he stands at the top of the stoop, pinning his arms at his sides. They walk inside, and I decide to head to a bar I go to when I’m not ready to play house.

I never wanted to have children so playing the dad role is always a burden. Juliette had wanted to be a mother, as I find most women do, and she and her father pressured me into it.

It seemed my family-man role mediated my professional reputation; clients often told us that they admired my ability to create a work-life balance. Little did they know I balanced nothing. After Marcus died and Juliette and I got divorced, no one was around to insist I play daddy, and it’s not like I couldn’t afford the child support payments. Jamie existed, and so did I, and until today, I hardly had to know about him.

I check my watch—6:43 p.m. I throw a fifty on the bar and trudge east toward my house. On my way up to my bedroom, I find Jamie and Claire sitting in the living room together, a room I hardly ever go into. They both startle and jump to attention when they notice me in the doorway.

“Don’t leap, I’m not a monster,” I say, attempting to soothe their fright with a joke.

“Hi, honey,” Claire squeals as she walks over to me. Jamie nervously tugs at the hem of his shirt, looking down at his sneakers, shifting his weight from foot to foot. Claire wraps her arm around my shoulders and kisses my cheek. This isn’t normally how she greets me, and although I’m not sure why she’s chosen to put on a show for Jamie, I’m all the more relieved that she’d rather fake it than face the awkwardness of the situation.

“Did you have a good ride over here?” I ask Jamie, not knowing what to say to him.

“Uh, yeah, thanks for sending the limo.” Jamie peers up at me to respond, and then quickly returns his gaze to the floor.

“Sit down, Jamie. You can relax in my house. I mean, in your house.”

“Our home,” Claire corrects. “You should feel comfortable in our home.” She returns to her seat and makes a display of taking off her shoes and kicking her feet up onto the couch. They both have twitchy, uneasy eyes. They’re looking at me like children with their hands in the cookie jar, and I can’t see any reason for either of them to behave like this.

“Is anything wrong?” I ask, although I couldn’t care less about their responses.

“I thought you’d be home earlier,” Claire softly confesses.

“Yes, so did I, but I got stuck at work. Had to go over a million depositions for this trial I have coming up,” I lie.

Neither of them responds. As I stare hard at Jamie, I see his eyes dart up at me and a flush coming over his cheeks. He knows I’m lying. I look into his face, trying to feel something. Trying to see if the presence of my son in my home will stir up any emotions.

I once again can’t reach down far enough inside myself to pull up anything more than insensitivity. Jamie knows I’m lying, and I just don’t care.

THEN

Still early in our relationship, I met Juliette at the carousel in Central Park for an afternoon date. She said it reminded her of her childhood, and she would often come to listen to the music and watch the children playing. We sat together on a bench, just close enough to hear the carousel and bursts of laughter.

“How is everything going with the congressman’s case?” Juliette asked, her voice tenuous.

“It’s going well,” I lied, still fearful that we were making the wrong decision going to trial. “Your father seems very confident that we will come out on top.”

Juliette sighed heavily and intertwined her fingers in mine. “What do you think is going to happen? Are you confident you’ll come out on top?” She squeezed my hand and looked at me with a genuine concern that I had never experienced before.

“Honestly? No. I can’t get into details with you, confidentiality issues, but I’m not really convinced that we’re making the right decision. But Marcus has been in the business far longer than I have. I trust him, and I know he wouldn’t lead me astray.”

“Peter.” She pulled her hand away gently. “How well do you know my father, really?”

“He’s my business partner. I think I know him quite well, why?”

“He’s a very calculating man.” She stalled and stopped herself before saying any more. “Just be careful, please.”

“What do you mean?” I was immediately intrigued. Somehow, I had managed to go on four dates with Juliette before we realized that I was building a partnership with her father, and now she was making dodgy implications that I was in danger. “What do I need to be careful of?”

“I wasn’t totally honest with you when I said I didn’t know you were opening Rhodes & Caine,” she confessed with an apologetic look.

“I figured as much. How could you not have known?”

“No, I didn’t know, my father never told me anything. He really does keep me in the dark with his business dealings. I mean that I had suspected you were talking about my father when we were having dinner after the Eileen Cutler lecture.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

“You seemed so taken with him, so hell-bent on becoming like him—I didn’t want to ruin your perceptions with the truth.”

“Juliette, what are you saying? What’s the truth?” I wanted to listen to her concerns, but I couldn’t imagine that associating with Marcus could be anything less than advantageous for me.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything. I know you’re busy preparing for this case, and there’s no reason for me to throw a wrench in it. I don’t want to compromise what we have going on.” She smiled warmly, clearly trying to shift her demeanor. “I’m really enjoying spending time with you.” She grabbed my hand again, this time with both of hers.

“Tell me,” I said. “Whatever goes on between me and your father has nothing to do with what goes on between you and me. They are very separate relationships, and it’s important you know that.” I kissed her knuckles. “I’m enjoying spending time with you, too.”

She expelled an exaggerated sigh and flopped back against the park bench. “Please be careful with him. I know how charming he is. I know how successful he is. But he’s a dangerous man, and he’s capable of...” Again, she stopped midsentence and began wringing her hands, leaning forward toward the children at the carousel. “Our relationship... It’s not good. We were close when I was a child and he was just getting a foothold in the legal world. But he changed. He became so...cold and—and I wouldn’t want that kind of thing to happen to you.”

“What makes you think it’ll happen to me?” Her sentiment was kind, but I worried she was telling me this only to keep me away from the grueling hours of work, and maybe taking out some of her issues with her father on me.

“You remind me so much of him. The way he used to be. He was so attentive and charming, like you. And this job was what changed him. It’s like he lost his humanity, lost all sympathy and compassion.” Genuine concern warped her beautiful face—she wanted to be heard.

“Don’t worry about me.” I patted her thigh, almost dismissively. “I understand that defense attorneys don’t have the best reputations, but we’re not all bad. I know exactly what I’m doing.”

We stood and began meandering slowly through the park together. I looked at her warnings as a sign of her affections for me, and I swelled with pride and excitement that this woman who I found so desirable was showing such an interest in me. I didn’t heed her advice against Marcus. I wasn’t worried about him.

* * *

One evening early on in the Bogovian trial preparations, Marcus took me out to the Penthouse Executive Club. I felt completely out of place—I never liked strip clubs much—but I didn’t want to disappoint him. He knew the doorman and we were escorted to an elevated VIP room, with an unobstructed view of the stage, two couches and our own small bar and bartender. Two beautiful women were waiting at the steps to usher us up.

“You ever been here before?” Marcus asked me as we sat together on one of the couches.

“Not to this one, but I’ve been to strip clubs before.”

“You like strippers, don’t you?” He held an emaciated blonde with enormous implants on his lap and pushed her face away from his.

I was never particularly interested in oiled-up women being paid to dance for me; I felt sorry for them. But I nodded anyhow.

“Of course you do. Who doesn’t?”

I looked around the club—dark, smoky, everything lit in purple and blue—and began to feel a sickness crawling up my stomach. Women all around me writhed and bounced and although they were putting on a great show, I couldn’t begin to believe that they felt anything more than degraded in there. I looked at their faces, wondering what they really dreamed of doing. Wondering what could have come of them if they didn’t find themselves in this place.

“You want a dance, Peter?” Marcus asked me, roughly swaying the stripper on his lap back and forth.

“I think I’d prefer just to have some drinks and watch the show, thanks.” I held up my cocktail and tried to focus on the stage.

“Suit yourself,” he said, and I heard a squeak of pain come from the dancer. He wrapped his fingers around the back of her neck and pulled her down to the ground. She stumbled but complied, and her head flopped against the floor with her lower half still partially sitting on Marcus’s lap. When he stepped on her cheek with his shiny black Oxfords, I jumped from my seat and reached out to help her.

“Marcus—Jesus Christ!” I blurted. He stared into my eyes with a stony cold look.

“You want me to stop?” he asked, with mock surprise in his voice.

“Yes, Marcus, please let her up.” I extended my hand to help her to her feet, but Marcus held back my arm. I had never seen him like this. He was my hero, my mentor, he didn’t behave like this; he was supposed to be a gentleman, noble, a man of the law. I shoved Marcus’s arm away and took the hand of the stripper, getting down on my knee to help her up. I was ashamed. I didn’t want to be associated with him in that moment.

“Let go, Peter,” he snapped at me. Conflicted, aware that my career and future sat squarely in Marcus’s hands, I let go of her arm.

“Marcus, this poor woman,” I began, not yet stifling my instinct to protect her.

“This isn’t a woman, Peter.” He pulled her back up, and I could see her wince. “This isn’t a person—that’s what I’m trying to explain to you. This is an object. A thing. The sooner you can see that, the sooner you’ll be a real criminal defense attorney. Until then, you’re just another hotshot upstart. Her pain and humiliation mean nothing to me, and they should mean nothing to you.” He roughly released her, and she scuttled quickly down the steps. My breath caught in my throat. I was disgusted.

Marcus wiped his hands on a napkin and gazed at the dancers onstage as if nothing had happened. I looked at my mentor, this legendary defense attorney, and finally saw exactly where his success came from.

Juliette was right, and I should have listened to her warning. It wasn’t his gentlemanly behavior and legal wizardry that made him the most successful criminal defense attorney in New York. It was his inhumanity that allowed him to reach the top.

And just as Juliette warned, it was the same inhumanity I was expected to achieve if I wanted to reach Marcus’s level.