- 1 -
The Phone Call
The roads were quiet, and white frost covered the otherwise green hills
of Virginia. No one could hear the engines of several government marked
SUVs traveling one before the other, like soldiers down Dolley
Madison Boulevard.
Like every other typical morning in our house, my father was the
first awake. He was leaning over the marble sink in the master bathroom
in his boxer shorts shaving the outer edges of his Clark Gable
mustache with an electric razor. His collection of Hermès ties hung on
a rack alongside the open closet door opposite his collection of Brooks
Brothers suits. In the background, CNN reported on the television
screen behind him: “Jury selection began Tuesday in the Martha Stewart
criminal trial, where the self-made lifestyle maven will try to defend
herself against charges of obstruction of justice, making false statements,
and securities fraud.” The NASDAQ and Dow Jones numbers crawled
along the bottom. I asked my father once what the numbers meant. He
replied, “Don’t worry about it, that’s your dad’s job.”
My mother was sitting in front of the gold-framed mirror at her
vanity table just down the corridor. Her hair pulled back with a navy
scrunchy, she was examining her wrinkles and moving her skin with
her hands to see how she would look with a face-lift.
Sometimes she forgot how beautiful she was. As a little girl,
strangers would pull me aside at the market and ask, “Hey, kid, is your
mom a movie star?”
She wrapped her silk bathrobe around her nightgown and headed
to the kitchen to put on the morning coffee.
Chloe was upstairs grabbing her gym bag and lacrosse stick. Her
boyfriend kept honking the horn of his Jeep Grand Cherokee out front.
“Coming!” she yelled as if he could hear her.
The SUVs continued on, passing an unmarked security house where,
next to it in the gravel path, a sign had been planted: George Bush Center
for Intelligence CIA Next Right. Hardly noticeable for the average
tourist passing by on the way to Dulles International Airport, intentionally
inconspicuous as all of the secret intelligence of the world lies just a
mile down what looks to be a harmless suburban road. It was the winter
of 1993 when I found out what it was, in the car with my mother on the
way to school, and a secret agent stopped us at the red light. He questioned
her. I remember asking what for, and she explained to me what
was hidden down the street. A gunman had opened fire on several cars
entering the CIA headquarters, wounding three and killing two employees.
I understood then, despite the quiet feeling in our neighborhood,
that things happened all around us every day that we weren’t privy to.
The SUVs turned onto Georgetown Pike, gaining speed, passing
the Kennedys’ Hickory Hill estate to the left down Chain Bridge Road,
and the little yellow schoolhouse on the hill to the right, a place my sisters
and I used to march to with our Fisher-Price sleds each winter. But
when the vehicles approached the corner to our street, Kedleston Court,
a quiet cul-de-sac of mansions, Chloe flew out the front door, struggling
to whip her backpack over her shoulder and lugging her lacrosse
stick and gym bag in her other hand. She hopped into the passenger’s
side of her boyfriend’s Jeep, and they took off, passing the SUVs without
a second thought. It had been three years since 9/11; since US Air
Force F-16 fighter jets flew so low to the ground they shook our beds
at night. The days of my father flying his airplane above our home were
long gone. We had become accustomed to this quiet feeling. We trusted
that we were safe.
The SUVs came to a screeching halt, blocking our driveway and
forty-foot stone walkway. The slamming of car doors and the heavy
clicking of loaded guns disturbed our quiet morning routine when a
dozen men covered in black bulletproof vests with yellow emblazoned
letters on the back fanned out across the lawn, toward the front door
of our estate, framed by Corinthian columns that beckoned the movers
and shakers of Washington, DC—the entire property engulfed by
green ivy and willow trees.
My mother was leaning against the kitchen island, sipping her coffee
as she watched the morning banter of the Today show’s Matt Lauer
and Katie Couric. If only she had turned around, had the TV not been
so loud, she would have seen through the open shutters the infamous
emblazoned letters—
“FBI!”
If she didn’t look the other way, maybe she would have known. It
was too late.
“Get on the ground! Get on the ground! Now! Now!”
She dropped her mug, shattering it to pieces at her feet, spilling coffee
all over the marble floor, running for the front door to find it wide
open. My father was being handcuffed, his face smashed against the
pink Persian rug in the foyer.
“You have the right to remain silent. Anything you do or say can be
used against you in a court of law . . .”
My mother shook, begging my father for an explanation as she
asked a series of cluttered and hysterical questions. He pleaded with her
while the FBI lifted him to his feet. He told her he was innocent. He
told her not to worry. He told her to call Bernie Carl. Had his hands
not been handcuffed behind his back, he would have been pointing his
finger at her.
My mother, watching from the foyer as my father was thrown into
the back of a black Suburban, crumbled to the floor, barely breathing,
heaving from shock.
She didn’t know.
The year was 2004, and America was unaware that it was about to fall
into its worst economic recession since the Great Depression. George
W. Bush was president, the “War on Terror” had begun, Lehman Brothers
still existed, the real estate industry was skyrocketing, and everyone
was happy stretching the limits of his or her livelihood on multiple
credit cards and second mortgages. The rich grew richer. The poor
grew poorer. And I—well, I had been lucky. Most who knew me then
would have said that I was from the 1 percent. Although I never knew
how much money my family was worth, how much liquid cash we had,
or how much was sitting in crooked stocks. I have since discovered that
one’s financial security is often an illusion, although I didn’t always feel
that way. At eighteen years old, I had never paid much attention to the
feeling of safety—of security. It was never discussed. It didn’t have to
be. I grew up a few blocks west of Ethel and Bobby Kennedy’s Hickory
Hill estate, and a few blocks south of the CIA in McLean, Virginia—the
affluent suburb of Washington, DC, filled with politicians, spies, and
newscasters. “Security” was just a privileged afterthought lingering in
my subconscious somewhere as I floated through my seemingly fairytale
life without a care in the world.
I was the girl who had everything: The mansion, the private plane,
the Range Rover, summers on Nantucket Island. I was popular, had
loving sisters who were my best friends, happily married parents, and
dreams of being a movie star. Raised among the American elite, my
father had created the epitome of an American Dream.
We looked perfect.
My father didn’t come from money. He built our life for us from
the ground up. The grandson of Greek immigrants, the eldest of seven
children, born and raised a sweet, southern boy from Richmond, Virginia,
who spent his summers watching ball games at Fenway Park in
Boston with his grandparents. “I ate all the cherries on the cherry tree
and broke windows playing baseball in the backyard. I remember seeing
the last baseball game in 1960 between the Boston Red Sox and the
New York Yankees at Fenway Park when Ted Williams and Mickey
Mantle played against each other. The Red Sox won.” He loved to tell
that story.
Being the grandson of immigrants, he was proud of the life he
worked so hard to build. He was the first of his family to graduate
from college, the College of William & Mary in the historic town of
Williamsburg, Virginia. The alma mater to the founding fathers James
Monroe and Thomas Jefferson, the blue blood that shaped the principles
on which this nation was built. Once, my father took me to a
tavern for lunch in Colonial Williamsburg where all of the employees
dressed up as pilgrims. He wanted me to engage in its history. I remember
our server reminded me of Mammy the housemaid from Gone with
the Wind, my favorite film growing up. She was a round African American
woman dressed in a white bonnet and blue smock. As she set my
plate of meat loaf and grits on the table, I looked at her, and instead of
feeling like beautiful Scarlett O’Hara, I felt racist. I swore to myself I’d
never go back there. I’d never, ever be seen with all those pilgrims wearing
buckled shoes.
But my father looked back on his college days with great nostalgia.
He was young and broke, and told us stories like the time he broke into
the school cafeteria and ate all the Jell-O because he didn’t have any
money for dinner. Or how he charmed all of the wealthy New England
girls into cooking for him. After graduation, he was drafted during the
Vietnam War and served his time dutifully in the air force, where he
learned how to fly fighter jets. He went on to attend Howard University
Law School, the prestigious all-black university in Washington,
10 C H R I S T I N A Mc DOWE L L
DC, where he wrote for the law journal and became a clerk at the White
House in the still rippling years and aftermath of Dr. Martin Luther
King Jr. and the civil rights movement. It was less expensive than a
place like Harvard. When someone would ask me, as a kid, where my
father went to law school, and I replied, “Howard,” they would respond
as if they hadn’t heard correctly. “Harvard?” “No,” I’d say, “Howard.”
Without fail, there was a moment of confusion for the other person.
With all of the wealth we accumulated, people found it hard to believe
he was a die-hard liberal. When I was older, my father would explain to
me the importance of equal rights, affirmative action, gun control, and
health care. Always rooting for the underdog in the quest to achieve the
American Dream.
It would be years before I put together the pieces, the truth about
my father, and the truth about myself. I had no idea the day the FBI
came that I was being propelled into a reality that would strip me of
everything I ever knew to be true, where all my life the lie was the truth
and the truth was the lie, how the silver spoon would be ripped from
my mouth, and how, in the end, denial would fail to save me.
I wasn’t there the day the FBI arrested my father. It was the narrative
I created and replayed over and over in my head when my mother
called me two hours later, as I had been fast asleep in my boyfriend’s
bed in sunny California.
Blake placed his hand on my bare back as I glanced up at the blurry
numbers of his alarm clock. I let out a groggy groan, still hungover from
the night before, and switched sides of my pillow to face him; his sweet
brown eyes looked at me. It was one of our last mornings to sleep in
together before I headed back across town to finish my second semester
of freshman year at Loyola Marymount University in Los Angeles. We
were nestled in the northeast corner of his father’s mansion in Hancock
Park, a high-profile neighborhood where rows of giant palm trees line
the sidewalks of English Tudors and Mediterranean mansions. Home
to consulates, studio executives, and movie stars—where old money
lives.
Blake pulled down the covers as he kissed me and then pushed my
left shoulder, turning me over on my back, exposing my naked body to
the morning air, and I shivered as he kissed farther down my torso. My
phone started ringing. It was the original Nokia ringtone, the one everyone
hated—“do-do do do, do-do do do, do-do do do do”—it wouldn’t
stop. I would have ignored it, but my heart was pounding, and I had
this feeling: someone’s died. It was too early for a phone call. I put my
fingers through Blake’s wavy hair and whispered, “Sorry,” as I scooted
up toward the headboard and grabbed my phone off the nightstand.
“Are you serious?” Blake quipped, stranded at the foot of the bed.
“Home calling.”
I answered. “Hello?”
“Honey?” It was my mother. Her voice was trembling.
“Hi, Mom,” I replied, my heart thumping out of my chest. I yanked
the comforter off the bed, wrapped it around my body, and turned away
from Blake, who made his way over to his turntables and put on his
headphones, annoyed by my rejection.
“I have some bad news,” she said, her voice moving into a higher
register, the way she sounds when she’s trying not to cry.
“What’s going on, Mom?” I just wanted her to get it out and over
with.
“The FBI came to the house this morning. They arrested your dad
on fraud charges.”
“What?” I wasn’t sure I had heard correctly. “What do you mean,
‘fraud charges’?”
“You know Martha Stewart? It’s—it’s sort of like that.”
I knew by the way she hesitated that she was unsure of how to
explain it. “You need to get a job as soon as possible,” she continued.
“There’s no money left. The bank is going to take our home.”
As my mother’s words pierced through my conscience, I began
stuttering from shock. Then I asked a series of my own hysterical ques12
C H R I S T I N A Mc DOWE L L
tions: “Is he guilty?” “Is he going to be in the news?” “Is he going to
prison?” “What do you mean, the bank is taking our home?” Each new
question charged with escalating tears, and my mother didn’t have
an answer to any of them. She claimed to know nothing but that it
would only be a matter of days before we would lose everything. She
couldn’t have known in that moment to what extent everything meant.
Her intention of the word everything was used to imply material possessions.
Houses, planes, cars, jewelry, clothing—the things that defined
us, the things that made us worthy, the things we thought we needed—
somehow, in the end, destroyed us. Neither of us knowing how lost
we’d be without them, floundering in a world where love was no longer
the answer. She couldn’t have known what would painstakingly prove
to be the greatest loss of all. All of those things we could never ever get
back: ourselves, each other. Family.
I hung up the phone and wiped my tears. Blake took off his headphones
and looked at me. “Divorce?” he said, buttoning his pants, an
unlit cigarette dangling from his lips. His tone wasn’t a question, more
like he knew why I was crying and didn’t need to ask because he’d been
entangled in his parents’ bitter divorce battle at the age of five, watching
them rip each other’s hearts to shreds; a childhood wound still raw and
untouched given the way he would, or most of the time, wouldn’t, talk
about it.
“No,” I replied, staring into a blurred distance. Blake lit his cigarette,
waiting for an answer—any answer to explain my sudden fugue
state.
“The FBI came to my house this morning. They arrested my dad
on fraud charges,” I said in a wave of eerie calm, as if the words had
come from someone else, someone I didn’t know yet.
Blake’s eyes met mine. He inhaled his cigarette and then exhaled.
He stared at me, thinking of what to say, the smoke lingering between
us. Blake shook his head with confusion. “What?”
An instant sense of urgency kicked my system into overdrive. I
leapt out of bed and kneeled down over my sprawled-out suitcase on
the floor, searching for my favorite vintage 20th Century Fox T-shirt
Blake had given me. I threw it over my head; the iconic gold block letters
were faded from years of someone else’s wear and tear. I jumped
up, putting one foot and then the other inside a new pair of Seven jeans
that Mom had allowed me to put on the credit card.
“I have to call my sister,” I blurted out, turning around in circles,
disoriented, trying to button my pants, not remembering where I put
my cell phone. I searched for it, throwing pillows across the bed, lifting
the top of my suitcase and throwing it over my pile of clothes
spewing from all sides, shoving Blake’s skateboard upside down next
to the door so it banged against the wall, and finally pulling the entire
comforter over the bed with both hands, as if I were a magician getting
ready to whip a tablecloth out from under the china. “Where is it?” I
screamed. The comforter went flailing behind me with the sound of
a pathetic thud as my cell phone hit the dresser and, at last, fell to the
ground.
“Hey, hey, hey.” Blake rushed over, restraining me as I tried to get
past him to pick up my phone. “Slow down. Breathe,” he said. I glared
at him as he held my upper arms in place just below my shoulders.
“Why don’t we go for a drive?” he suggested, knowing that nothing
he could say would fix the overwhelming confusion that overtook any
chance of my having a normal day.
“Okay,” I said, and then took a deep breath, “but don’t tell anyone
about this. Not your dad—anyone.”
“I won’t,” Blake promised.
I didn’t know whom I could trust. I had known Blake for just over
a year. We met at the Hollywood location of the New York Film Academy,
a summer program that only the offspring of the affluent can
afford, where students are given a vintage 33 millimeter film camera,
all-access passes to the Universal Studios back lot, and a suite at the
Oakwood Apartments, infamous for housing its rising Disney stars or
the next Justin Biebers of the world. Blake was unfazed by it all. He
broke all the rules, drove a fast car, smoked weed, had neon blue hair
14 C H R I S T I N A Mc DOWE L L
when I met him. He was the antithesis of Ralph Lauren, Ivy Leagues,
and loafers—the guys I was surrounded by in Virginia. I was instantly
drawn to him. He’d sneak me into forbidden places, like the haunted
house from Alfred Hitchcock’s Psycho, where we once found loose nails
from a previous film set, then climbed to the rooftop and carved our
names into the rotting wood. Blake’s carefree attitude came from being
raised in a family of Hollywood lineage tracing back to the golden age.
His father grew up next to the likes of Judy Garland and silent film stars
such as Harold Lloyd, and was friends with Hugh Hefner.
One time at a private party at the Playboy Mansion when I was
seventeen, I was pulled from the kids’ table (yes, there was a kids’ table)
by one of the Playmates, who said to me, “Oh boy, when Hugh gets his
eyes on you . . .” I remember staring down at my double-A-size breasts.
“Oh, don’t worry about that, honey; he’d take care of it,” she said, like
it was no big deal, like just another trip to the grocery store. By the end
of the night, I found myself being chased by wild peacocks in the backyard
amid naked, spray-painted Playboy bunnies while fireworks burst
through the sky.
I was on the edge of adulthood in a city where your wildest fantasies
become distorted realities; where boundaries become blurred lines. A
far cry from the rigidity of a nine-to-five in public service in our nation’s
capital for which I might have been destined otherwise. I longed to be a
part of it all: the sex, the drugs, the rock and roll. Fame. My father had
always told me I was going to be a movie star: a frail brunette beauty like
Audrey Hepburn, he said.
Blake and I climbed into my BMW—a gift my father had given me
the day before my high school graduation. Covered in a red bow, and
tucked in the windshield was a note that read “Dear Christina Bambina,
you owe me an airplane, Love Dad.” Later I found out my father
had sold his airplane to buy the car. Money had been tight, but I never
knew. My family, we never discussed that sort of thing. I never, ever
A F T E R P E R F E C T 15
had to think about money. In fact, I was told it was rude to discuss
money.
Blake drove, and I sat in the passenger seat and called Mara, who
was starting her junior year at Southern Methodist University in Dallas.
Mara and I had always been close. Even after she left for boarding
school when the the academic pressures at the National Cathedral
School for girls became too intense and my parents decided it would be
better if she finished high school in the Swiss Alps, where there were
more snow days than school days. I never understood the choice to go
from the culturally eclectic boarding school in Switzerland, with Saudi
princes and princesses, and the future successors of oil tycoons, to the
finest breeding ground for the next Mr. and Mrs. George Bush. I suppose
there wasn’t a difference. Either way, she was my cool big sister
who taught me how to freak dance and who cried when Kurt Cobain
died.
The phone rang, and I knew I would feel better once we talked.
“Hey,” she said. Her voice was raspy, as though she had been crying.
“Hey.”
“Did you talk to Mom?”
“Yeah, and I just talked to Dad.”
“You did? How?”
“Mr. Carl bailed him out. He’s going to call you when he can.”
Bernie Carl was one of my father’s wealthiest friends, a banker.
He and his wife, Joan, a Washington socialite, and their three children
were close family friends. We traveled together on each other’s private
planes, spent summers in Southampton, Nantucket, and St. Barths, and
Thanksgivings in London and Scotland.
“What else did he say?” I wanted to know everything.
“He said it’s all a misunderstanding and that the government is trying
to make an example out of him.”
I had no idea what she was talking about. “Okay,” I said. “Have you
talked to Chloe?”
“No, she’s at school. I don’t think she knows yet.”
Chloe was a freshman in high school. She had become an avid
lacrosse player with more friends than anyone could keep track of and a
bit of a wild card, as no one ever knew whether she would bring home
an A on an exam or hijack the Range Rover when our parents left town.
Once, when she was five, she decided to swing from the gold chandelier
in the family room with her best friend. Like two monkeys swinging
from tree branches. The mischief ended in a near-fatal accident when
the chandelier came crashing to the floor, shattering lightbulbs across
the room. She and her friend were lucky they ran away unscathed.
I never spoke to Chloe that day, and it would be years before she
would ever talk about what it was like for her when she found out about
our father’s arrest.
Mara was rambling on about possible job options already. “Stripping?”
she joked. Was it a joke, though? It was too overwhelming. I told
her I had to hang up. For once, I didn’t want to keep talking.
Blake pulled the car over somewhere near the top of Laurel Canyon
and Mulholland Drive. We got out, and I hurdled the metal guardrail
along the cliff and sat with my feet dangling over the edge. Blake
hopped over and took a seat next to me. He pulled out a joint from his
pocket and sparked the end.
“Here,” he said, passing it to me. I took a long drag, hoping that in
minutes I would be numb to the world.
I squinted, looking out over the hazy Los Angeles skyline. The Hollywood
sign was barely visible in the morning fog; its alluring presence
waiting for the sun to shine before it mocked the dirty streets of Hollywood.
It would be hours before the hustlers readied their star maps for
tourists, before the dancing Elvis and Marilyn Monroe impersonators
sweated beneath their costumes, proclaiming their dreams of stardom
next to a lone “Jesus Save Us! I Repent!” sign held by some angry protestor,
each praying that one day they’ll be noticed.
Had I known what was to come, I would have been on my knees in
the dirt praying for the answers, because the power of money—the loss
of money, the need for money, what we would do for more money—
would rip through my family, denying any chance of a resurrection.
With each passing day, losing who I was and not knowing who I would
become. I didn’t know how any of it would happen, how the truth
would unravel, and how it would unravel me.
I passed Blake the joint. I thought about the possibility of my father
being guilty. “But he wears Tommy Bahama T-shirts,” I declared. “My
dad. He wears Tommy Bahama T-shirts.” Blake and I bent over laughing.
Laughing so hard my stomach hurt.
Share This Book: