"This is all a lie," Neubauer continued to scream at me. He was shaking uncontrollably in his chair. "Make him stop telling these lies about me, Bill!"
I slowly walked toward Barry Neubauer. He'd always been so smug and controlled. He didn't believe anybody could touch him. He was smart, he was rich, he was the CEO of a major corporation, he owned people. Only now, his dark eyes looked as doomed as Peter's had on the beach.
"In New York State, knowingly exposing someone to HIV is first-degree assault. It's punishable by up to twelve years in prison. That's on each count. Twelve times twelve works out to a hundred forty-four years in prison. I could live with that."
I bent down close to the bastard's face. "My brother was flawed; who isn't? But he was basically a good person, a good brother. Peter never hurt anybody. You killed him. I can't prove it, but I got you anyway, you bastard. How about that?"
I straightened up and addressed Molly's lens for the last time. "The People v. Barry Neubauer," I said, "rest their case. We're out of here."
Chapter 110
IT WAS ALMOST FIVE IN THE AFTERNOON when Fenton and Hank led our guests out the front door and released them. "Go forth and multiply," Fenton said.
For a while we all stood blinking in the golden East End light, not knowing quite what to do next.
The Fitzhardings, Campion, and Tricia Powell drifted off to one end of the porch. They sat quietly together, their feet dangling over the side, their eyes staring vacantly at the unsodded lot. Frank Volpi found his own spot nearby. "Jeez," Pauline said, "they look like day laborers waiting for a lift home. Maybe clothes do make the man, and woman. I need to rethink everything."
Bill Montrose sat alone on the stoop about ten feet away from the others. Still tethered to the old beach chair, Barry Neubauer sat where Fenton and Hank had planted him after carrying him out of the house. His eyes barely moved. No one came over to talk to him, not even his lawyer.
"That's a nice image," Pauline said. "Barry Neubauer alone and broken. I'm going to hang on to it for a rainy day."
We outfitted Marci, Fenton, and Hank with bathing suits, beach towels, and flip-flops. Then we sent them wandering off in separate directions like three more sun-addled vacationers. Since they had never appeared on camera, there was no one to verify their involvement, except for the hostages. We hoped they'd be too distracted with their own problems to worry about the three of them.
Molly dragged her tripod to the driveway and looked for the best vantage point to shoot the big final scene. Pauline, Mack, and I sat down at the end of the porch away from our guests. We were blown away and as exhausted as they were.
We leaned against one another more than against the wall of the house. We soaked up some sun. Late-afternoon rays always seem the most precious, even at the beginning of the summer, but these were even more so. They felt like, I don't know, affection.
"I love you, Pauline," said Mack, breaking the silence.
"Love you back," said Pauline, too tired to lift her head off my chest.
I cleared my throat ostentatiously until Mack added, "Don't get maudlin, Jack. We're quite fond of you, too."
After a while Mack got up with a groan and walked over to where Tricia Powell was sitting. He reached into her tote and pulled out a chrome Nokia. She was too tired to complain. "Don't worry, Trish," said Mack, "it's local."
"Anyone have anything profound to say before the shit hits the fan?" he asked when he returned.
"Thanks," I said. "I couldn't have done it without you. Couldn't have done a thing. I love you both."
"Anyone want to add something we don't know?" replied Mack as he settled back down with us. "Okay, then."
Mack tapped the phone's tiny rubber pads with his enormous splayed fingers, then smiled with exaggerated delight when it started ringing. "Damn thing actually works."
"This is Mack Mullen," he told whoever picked up at the police station. "Me, my grandson, and his beautiful girl are sitting around with the Neubauers, the Fitzhardings, and some of our other favorite people on earth. We were wondering if you wanted to stop by. We're at the Kleinerhunt place. Oh, one other thing. No one's hurt and no one's armed. There's no need to do anything silly. We'll go peacefully."
Then he snapped the little phone shut like a clam, and hurled it off the porch into the sand. "They should ban those things."
Less than five minutes later, about a hundred cops and federal agents roared up Montauk's Main Street in their various marked and unmarked cars amid wailing sirens that sounded like the end of the world.
Because the Coast Guard helicopters got there just before them, we didn't hear a thing as they arrived to arrest us.
EPILOGUE
Chapter 111
IT WAS ALMOST FIVE MONTHS LATER. Pauline, Macklin, and I were sitting in the far corner of a bar near Foley Square. We were sipping muddy Guinnesses. Except for the bartender and a white cat, the place was empty. Most bars are at eleven in the morning, even in boomtown New York.
"May he rot in jail," said Macklin, dusting off his favorite toast since the start of the summer. For the record, it looked as if Barry Neubauer would. His first manslaughter trial had just begun. And there were twelve more lined up behind it like Mercedes and Audi station wagons at a Route 27 traffic light.
And here was the best part. Because of the likelihood of Neubauer's trying to flee the country, he was spending his nights and weekends on Rikers Island until the last verdict was in the books. The stock of Mayflower Enterprises had dropped to under two dollars. Barry Neubauer was ruined.
As for the three of us, that day would probably be our last day of Guinness-sipping freedom for some time. Our lawyer, Joshua Epstein, the same guy representing Molly and Channel 70, refused to have a drink with us before we headed over to court in another few minutes. He'd already prepared us, though – he didn't think our chances were good.
Mack was utterly unfazed. Then again, he was eighty-seven. He said he wanted to throw a Memorial Day party of his own to replace the gaping Beach House hole in the Hamptons social calendar. "I want to throw a real party," said Macklin, wiping the foam off his lips. "Something that will make those Puff Daddy shindigs that everyone gets so bent out of shape over seem like an afternoon tea."
"I feel you, Macklin," said Pauline.
"I don't want to be a party pooper," I told the two of them, "but it's time to go. We have a date in court."
"I prefer this bar," said Mack, and grinned like the madman he is.
"Let's go face the music," I said.
Chapter 112
AS PAULINE, MACK, AND I approached the steps of the U.S. district court in Foley Square, we were met by our nervous-looking attorney, Josh Epstein, and a crush of reporters, their lights and microphones and cameras pushing against the blue-and-white police barricades.
"My clients have no comment," Josh said, waving off the press hordes and throwing a stern stare at Mack and me. Then Josh led us on a brisk ascent of the limestone steps, into the column-lined entryway, through the metal detectors, and onto the elevator.
We rode the elevator to the twenty-third floor in silence. As the doors to the elevator slid open, Mack cleared his throat. "In the words of that old Irishman Benjamin Franklin, 'We must all hang together, or most assuredly, we will hang separately.' "