My brain started firing again, and I thought about the connections my father still had. “Do you know anyone who’s close with the governor of New York?”
His eyes widened. “What happened?”
“They arrested her.” The words stuck in my throat, but I forced them out. “She’s … in jail. At Rikers. The judge denied bail.”
My dad sat back and laced his fingers together on his lap.
“Is there any chance you’re going to change your mind about running for my old seat?”
I stared at him, not sure where this was going. “If you tell me that you’ll only get her out if I agree to run, then…”
He unlaced his fingers, twisted toward me, and dropped a hand on my shoulder. “No, I wouldn’t force a choice like that on you. But the fact that you think I could makes it clear you don’t think all that highly of me right now. But that’s something for another day. My point is that if there was any chance you were going to change your mind, she would make an already difficult road impassable.”
“I’m not changing my mind.”
“Okay. So tell me—what are we up against?”
His matter of fact acceptance, even after I’d insulted him, humbled me.
I explained the situation, and once I’d finished, he rubbed a hand across his bristled jaw. “Shit.”
“Yeah. I know.”
“Do you want to go to New York?”
My eyes snapped to his. “I can’t leave Mom. Not now. Not until we know…”
He nodded. “I know. Well, I can’t make any calls right now, but I’ve got some ideas of whom I can contact in the morning. We’ll see what we can do to get her out. And barring that, whatever we can do to keep her safe on the inside.”
My six-inch thick steel cell door swung open, and the guard motioned for me to exit. I’d spent three days in segregation, and I was starting to lose my shit. I knew I should be happy that I’d been unmolested, but seventy-two hours by myself gave me too damn much time to think. I mostly thought about all of the places I should have run instead of New York. I’d been so naïve to think I could just show up, wave my magic notebook, and make everything better. Pride goeth and all that.
He led me through the maze of hallways to a guard station. It took me a few minutes but I caught on to the fact that I was being processed for a transfer. Whether this was a good thing or a bad thing, I wasn’t certain. I saw the U.S. Marshals waiting for me on the other side of the door; I decided it was a bad thing.
No one bothered to correct my assumption.
We drove back to Manhattan, and my stomach knotted tighter with each mile. When they finally parked in a garage under the U.S. District Court, my dread grew. It multiplied when I was led in front of a federal magistrate judge, and he launched into his spiel.
The list of charges against me was so long, I couldn’t keep up as he rattled them off.
Mail fraud, wire fraud, securities fraud, money laundering.
The charges that registered were all too familiar; my father had been convicted of them all. My very own worst-case scenario was playing out in a federal court. Why hadn’t I just kept running? Because I’d wanted to make things right. And maybe I would. For everyone but myself.
As the magistrate judge rambled on about being appointed counsel if I couldn’t afford my own, I knew I needed Ivers. ASAP. I needed someone to explain to me, using idiot-proof words, what the fuck was going to happen to me.
As soon as Ivers’s name entered my thoughts, he was pushing through the doors of the courtroom. The judge dismissed me, and Ivers followed the Marshals as they led me out the back. We were escorted to a small room and Ivers shut the door. He pulled out his phone and started barking orders into it. When he ended his call, he sat down next to me.
My voice shook as I asked, “What the hell just happened?”
“In addition to conspiracy, you’ve been charged with several of the felonies of which your father was convicted.”
“But why? I had nothing to do with it.”
“Well, the information you turned over to the FBI seems to say differently.”
“What are you talking about? I don’t understand.” My voice rose on the last words; I was barely holding it together.
The door opened.
Shit.
Cold fear snaked down my spine.
Michael Drake, the Assistant U.S. Attorney who’d eviscerated me on cross-examination during my father’s trial, had joined the burn Charlie at the stake party.
“Well, Ms. Agoston, you’re looking a little different than the last time I saw you.” If I weren’t handcuffed, I would have been tempted to slap the smug smirk off his face.
I didn’t know how to respond to his taunting statement other than telling him to go fuck himself, so I kept my mouth shut.
“Let’s cut through the BS and get down to why you’ve bothered to drag my client through this farce when we both know she didn’t have anything to do with Agoston’s scam.”
Drake sat down across from us.
“The accounts in her name say otherwise.”
The cold fear spread from my spine to envelop my entire body like an icy straight jacket. “Wh … what are you talking about?”
Drake’s smile was triumphant. “So far, we’ve identified several accounts in your name in the Caymans and in Switzerland, courtesy of the little book you turned over to the FBI.”
“How … how is that even possible?” I stammered, between shallow, panting breaths.
“You tell me, Charlotte.”