“What has been the secretary’s response?”
“A spokesperson released a statement that these accusations are categorically without merit.”
“And to be clear, these are accusations of what, exactly?”
“Violent sexual assault. Multiple women are accusing Charlie Wolfe of rape.”
*
The next day, the next shoe: “Succumbing to mounting pressure, Charlie Wolfe has resigned his position as Secretary of the Treasury, following yesterday’s announcement that the New York district attorney has opened multiple investigations into past accusations. This is a head-spinning change of fortune for a man who just days ago was widely believed to be a shoo-in confirmation to be the next vice president. And there’s an increasingly loud chorus calling for an end to punitive nondisclosure agreements in cases of sexual assault, which have long been used by wealthy men to avoid the repercussions of criminal behavior, and to ensure a lifetime of silence from their accusers.”
The share price of Charlie Wolfe’s publicly traded company plummets, and his net worth falls by a quarter of a billion dollars. His wife leaves him, taking their kids. His life falls apart with dizzying speed, the way it can happen these days—with neither arrest nor indictment nor trial, no appeals, no hope of redemption. Just instant judgment, immediate and complete cancellation.
*
Ariel parks her beat-up old truck in the lot behind all the shops, then walks around the corner to Main Street, busy on a summer evening, young couples on dates, families getting ice cream. A bachelorette party spills out of the pub, all the young women wearing matching tank tops and radiant smiles, and Ariel quickly identifies the sober one—taking a friend by the arm, looking both ways before crossing the street, turning back to make sure that the group is all together, all safe. Ariel wonders if this is just normal caution, or a more specific vigilance.
Two middle-aged couples are standing in front of the burger joint, blocking the sidewalk, sporting flip-flops and sagging faded tattoos and American flags on shirts and caps. One of the women does a double take when she notices Ariel approaching, says something to her companions.
“Sorry,” Ariel says, squeezing between these people and yet another jumbo-sized pickup. It’s like these things are driving around swallowing all the other vehicles.
The double-taker mutters something that Ariel isn’t paying attention to, and doesn’t quite hear, but she has the distinct impression that it’s directed at her. “Excuse me?”
“Fuck you,” the woman says, “lying whore.”
Ariel is stunned silent, not just by the sentiment—that’s life now, isn’t it—but by the vitriol, and this person’s sense of entitlement to spew it at a stranger. A woman, no less. Ariel walks away.
*
António Moniz sighs at the woman sitting at his desk. She is obviously a junkie, she is high right now, and has come to the police station with a cockamamie story about getting robbed, she knows exactly who committed the crime, she knows where to find the culprit right now, and yes she does agree that she could probably ID him from a mug shot, but would it not be simpler to just go arrest him? At this moment?
Moniz barely has the energy to take notes.
“And you say that you do not have any relationship with this man?” Carolina Santos asks.
The junkie shakes her head. She does not even trust herself to tell this blatant lie aloud.
There is nothing credible about her story. It is clear that she has come here to get a man arrested, pure and simple. Revenge for something or other, maybe even revenge for robbery, just as this woman is alleging. But not the robbery she is claiming. And the culprit is not a stranger.
Moniz lets his attention wander across the room, where Tomas and Erico are gaping at the television, the spectacular story about how the kidnapping and ransom led to the downfall of the immensely powerful American. And it all began just like this, with a woman marching in here, telling a story that Moniz was reluctant to believe.
“How do you know about the shotgun?” Santos asks.
“He was carrying it with him.”
“On the streets? For everyone to see?”
“Under his coat. He carried the gun under his coat.”
“Coat?” It is one of the hottest nights of the year.
No, this junkie is not just trying to get a man arrested; she is trying to get him killed. How can she not see how obvious her lies are? How stupid does she think … ?
Moniz finds himself standing, walking away—
“António?”
—across the room, to the television, the file footage of the American woman.
“António? What is it?”
Ariel Pryce was prepared to be disbelieved. Of course she was. She knew that her story would sound suspicious, but she also knew that the police would need to look into it, the embassy too, the reporter, they would all need to go through the motions, and they would all end up finding things that Pryce did not intend for them to find …
Or did she?
“António?”
He turns to Santos, who has followed him across the room, leaving the junkie to stew in her own lies.
Should Moniz explain it to Santos? Would she believe him? Would anyone believe him? Or would he sound like just another liar, reconstructing history to suit his own preferred narrative?
That is the problem these days. No one believes anyone.
*
Ariel finds Jerry on exactly the barstool where she expected to, next to the big open window.
“Who are all these people?” he asks, gesturing at the Sprit’s crowded dining room, the busy street life. People are dressed up in their summer costumes, the super-skinny man in his super-tight PROVINCETOWN T-shirt and handlebar mustache, the Connecticut housewife in horizontal-striped boatneck climbing out of the Mercedes wagon, everyone in character. And Jerry here, playing his part as alcoholic small-town lawyer. Ariel playing hers.
We all look like exactly who we are, unless we’re pretending. And it’s when we’re pretending that we can look even more convincing. If we prepare diligently, practice exhaustively, inhabit the role fully.
This is the most useful skill that Ariel preserved from her training as an actor: how to stay in character even when no one is watching. Even when you’re all alone in a hotel room, or worrying your way through a breakfast buffet, or wandering the byzantine streets of a foreign city. Every action, every interaction, every waking moment, and hopefully the sleeping ones too. Not just so you look like the real thing, but also so you’re able to tell your story later without needing to invent any lies. All you need to do is tell the truth.
“Thanks for meeting me,” Jerry says. “It must be hard right now. Is it?”
“Well, reporters are hounding me, dozens of them. Congressional staffers too. Paparazzi are getting body-slammed onto my porch by the CIA. Oh, and just a minute ago I got cursed out, here on Main Street.”
“Oof. I’m sorry,” he says. “Unintended consequences, huh?”