“These are the charges that the grand jury has issued today,” the voice on the television droned on. “Other charges may follow. An arrest warrant has been issued for Mr. Schiftmann, and my office is preparing extradition papers as we speak. I also want to say that I’m aware of the implications of bringing these serious charges against a suspect who is a high-profile celebrity, with a great many resources, including the court of public opinion. But my responsibility is to Allison and Sarah and the people of the state of Tennessee.
We have taken this course of action only after much thought, deliberation, even debate. We believe the evidence in this case will show that this was the only way we could bring justice to Allison and Sarah and closure to their families.”
Taylor looked over at Abe Steinberg, who was staring intently at the television and nodding his head imperceptibly.
“We have time for a few questions,” the voice said. Steinberg looked at his assistant and made a motion with his head. The assistant hit the power button on the remote, and the television instantly went dead.
Taylor turned to Michael, the color drained completely out of his face, as he stared at the dark television. “They’re serious,” he whispered after a few seconds.
Steinberg laughed out loud. “Oh yes, my friend, they’re serious. They’re very serious. And this guy is very good, very good indeed.”
Steinberg walked slowly back to his chair, with a slight limp to his gait, and sat down. “You notice how he managed to call the two girls by their first names not once, but twice.
He humanized them. And how he attempted to defuse the argument that they were after you for their own glory by saying that indicting you was almost a last resort.”
“He made it sound like they had no choice,” Taylor commented, almost matter-of-factly, as she crossed back over and sat down on the sofa. She reached up, touched her face, and realized she couldn’t feel it anymore.
“I’ll fight it!” Michael said, crossing around and standing in front of the two of them. “I’ll fight the extradition. I won’t even go down there!”
Steinberg waved his hand at him. “Don’t be silly. You can’t beat extradition. The only way you could get around it is if you can prove you’re not Michael Schiftmann, or at least not the Michael Schiftmann they’re looking for.”
“You mean I should just let them take me?” Michael yelled.
Steinberg looked up at him with a completely calm, blank look on his face. “My friend, you’re going to be extradited, you’re going to be arrested, you’re going to be booked, and then you’re going to be arraigned. You’re going to smile for the cameras, look professional and calm, and you’re going to behave yourself and control your temper. And you’re going to let me and Wesley Talmadge take it from there.”
“Wesley Talmadge?” Michael asked. “Who the hell is Wesley Talmadge?”
“The best criminal defense lawyer in the state of Tennessee and one of the best in the country. He was a student of mine at NYU thirty years ago. I spoke with him this morning and he’s agreed to take your case.”
“So what’s next?” Michael asked, deflated.
“You’re going to go home and pack. In addition to the usual underwear and toothbrush, you’re going to need to pack two other things.”
“What?” Michael asked.
“First, carry that fancy checkbook with you. You’re going to need it. Second, take your passport.”
“My passport? Why my passport?”
“Because,” Steinberg said, folding his hands in front of him, the fingers interlaced, “the judge is going to want you to surrender it if he grants you bail.”
Taylor looked up, and for the first time, saw real fear in Michael’s face.
“If?” he asked, his voice low.
Steinberg nodded. “If …”
CHAPTER 28
Time seemed to accelerate after the Monday morning press conference. Taylor found herself withdrawing, still numb, the touch of her fingers on the skin of her cheek foreign and strange. It seemed as if in a matter of only a few short hours, she had looked around to discover that the world had gone into a spin.
In short order, Michael had a conference call with the lawyer in Nashville and overnighted a cashier’s check to him.
Then Abe Steinberg sent him to Macguire and Madison over on Fifth Avenue, which was the top public relations firm in Manhattan, which meant it was one of the top public relations firms in the country.
Taylor went back to work and tried to focus as-within a seventy-two-hour period-the man she loved and was going to marry and to whom her whole future was attached wrote checks totaling a quarter-million dollars just to begin his defense against the insane notion that he was a murderer.
She felt as if the world were falling apart. She sat at the cluttered desk in her office staring at the manuscripts in front of her, the pink telephone message slips she couldn’t bear to read, the growing roster of unread and unanswered e-mails.
Michael, she thought, had yet to really deal with this.
He had yet to confide in her what was going on inside him, what this felt like. He was, instead, totally immersed in what became a series of tasks that lay in front of him, many of them having nothing to do with the charges against him.
While Wesley Talmadge in Nashville negotiated the terms of Michael’s surrender to the police, Michael was faxing instructions to the solicitor in London about the closing on the flat. Taylor had asked him, practically begged him, not to go ahead with the sale, but he had stubbornly told her that he wasn’t going to let a bunch of ignorant fools stop him from moving ahead with his life.
He reviewed a series of foreign-rights contracts and signed them. He met with the PR firm by himself, a meeting that went on almost all afternoon Wednesday. For the time being, he avoided interviews, but he answered correspondence and returned calls. He stayed up until all hours of the night, unable to slow down, unable to relax, as Taylor, exhausted and drained, fell asleep upstairs, alone.
They ate meals together, but were mostly silent. They had even stopped touching each other. Michael seemed distracted, his mind on other things beside sex. And Taylor found herself not wanting to be touched, by Michael or anyone else.
This felt awful, every bit of it, every moment of it. She was adrift, in ways she had never been adrift before.
“Are you going to go with me?” Michael asked, out of the blue, that Thursday night.
“Where?” she asked, looking up from her plate of untouched food.
“I was just telling you,” he said. “Weren’t you listening?”
She shook her head. “I’m sorry, dear. I was-I was someplace else, I guess.”
Michael sighed and looked away from her. “I’m going to be someplace else, too, and very soon. And my question was whether or not you were going to go with me.”
“Okay, tell me again. What did Abe say?”
“I’m supposed to book a flight into Nashville for Monday morning and be at the police station by noon. The lawyer in Nashville negotiated an arrangement where I wouldn’t have to report before then. If I’d gone tomorrow, I’d have had to spend the weekend in jail before a bond hearing. This way, I’ll go before a judge maybe even Monday afternoon.”
“And they’ll let you make bail, right?”
“Talmadge seems to think it’ll work out, that I’ll only have to spend a few hours in booking.”
“And then we can come home, right?”
Michael smiled, then leaned over and took her hand.
“We’ll be on the next plane out. Trust me. I’m not going to spend a minute longer there than we have
