The Sandstone Affair

The door hisses again and I hear a shrill, strong voice over the din.

“SHARP, Julia Sharp!”

I stand and push my way to the door. The officer pulls me by the arm and waits for the buzzer to end before she speaks.

“The complaint is filed. You can make your call now.” She walks me to a room near the holding cell where there is a phone book, a desk and a highlighter with some paper. Guess they don’t want anyone jabbing them with a pen. The guard points at the push-button phone as if I’m some kind of time traveler who doesn’t understand what to do with the archaic device.

Slowly, hands shaking and heart hurting, I pick up the receiver and place my call.

One ring, two rings, three rings… and…

“Hello?”

I thank God for at least one favor today.

“Mark, it’s Julia. I need you.”

Chapter 7

Our conversation is short, terse and one sided. I tell him where I am and he says he already heard about it. I ask him to call Paul and he replies, “I’ll handle it.” Then he hangs up even before my two minutes are up.

Returning to my cell, I begin to drag my feet a bit, dreading going back in there. I pray Mark will be fast because the anger that was keeping me safe is dissipating into a numb acceptance of my reality. I can’t afford to leave myself unprotected. Just as I near the area, I hear the woman who had been talking to me speak to a guy on the other side of the bars.

“That Miss Shark, my daughter said she’s one stone cold bitch.”

Hours pass as I sit in my corner frowning, listening to the chattering of others and cries for help every time someone is ushered in or out. I move over near the door and the next time the guard brings someone down, I manage to call out with all the others asking if Paul Freis has arrived. She takes pity on me and speaks into her radio as a mix of jumbles and static pour through the speaker.

“Sharp, your bail is going through now. Your bondsman is here to get you.”

“Oh, you mean Mr. Freis, my lawyer?”

“No, I mean Mr. Clank your bondsman.”

“Mr. Clank?”

“You know—from Clank and Clack Bail Bonds—those guys with the stupid commercials where people bang on the cell bars in rhythm. Don’t pretend to be high and mighty with me, girl. You ain’t got a guy like Paul Freis in your corner. But that rich bitch thing is sure looking good on you.”

I think for a second about arguing, then retreat. She’s more right than she knows. I won’t be able to afford Paul much longer. Clank and Clack are nothing but two-bit ambulance chasers. Why on earth would Paul use them to get me?

A few minutes later a guard takes me back up to the station house where a short balding man fidgeting with his hands in his pockets awaits me. I ask why he is the one bailing me out and he motions to me to be quiet and follow him out of the station.

“I’m not going anywhere until you tell me what’s going on, Mr. Klink!”

“It’s Clank. Robert Clank, Miss Sharp. Please follow me and keep your voice down.” He takes me in an elevator to the 3rd floor of the parking garage where a black car waits. Suddenly my head fills with fear and crazy thoughts. Maybe Blake has hired the mob to make me disappear or Kenneth has paid Paul to cause me more trouble, or Valerie James is going to pop out of the back and take my picture to be her cover for Ladies World. I can see the story now: “High Strung Editor Finally Snaps!”

Just as I am about to turn and run, the door to the vehicle opens and out steps Mark.

I can’t restrain myself. I run to him and cling to him for a moment, wanting him to carry me away from this horrible place. He lets me hug him for a few seconds then pushes me off brusquely.

“Get a hold of yourself and get in the car now.”

I do as I am told, grateful that at least he’s here. Mark speaks to the diminutive, rumpled man who brought me to him.

“Thank you, Robert. I appreciate your help and your silence.”

“Not a problem, Mr. Stone,” he says as if speaking to royalty. “Good luck with her.”

Mark gets in the car and starts the engine. I don’t know whether I want to blast him for not being there when I needed him or burst out in tears over the whole sordid day. We ride in silence for a while but I can see by the prominent bone in his jaw-line from gritting his teeth that he is furious.

“Mark, I—”

“Shhh. No talking until we get to my place.”

Shuffling my shoes against the floor mat, I look down and try to imagine what exactly I am going to tell him that will make this day turn out right. When he pulls the car into the underground parking deck, I’m relieved to have a moment of darkness I can hide in while I try to collect myself and get my hair straightened out a bit. It’s ridiculous. He just bailed me out of jail, and I’m hoping he finds me attractive.

We walk quickly through the garage and into an elevator where Mark pushes the lobby button. Once there, we leave the lobby and go to a hall full of private elevators. We enter and he puts a key in the elevator making the small box move upward. Trapped in close quarters, I smell the masculine cologne he wears and feel the safe confidence he exudes. However, the small space also reminds me of how I ended up in jail in the first place.

Where has he been the past few days? Why wasn’t he there today? Why did he take so long to get me after I called? He’s Blake’s brother and his partner. Isn’t it just a little convenient he wasn’t there when it went down? Are they playing good cop, bad cop with me? What do they hope to get?

The shiny metal door opens to a panoramic view of his Upper West Side apartment. It’s beautiful, like the man himself. Done in monochromatic black and eggshell with silver highlights, everything is perfect, orderly and gleaming. A briefcase on a small stand beside a recliner in a study is the only evidence of an occupant. However, for all its linear charm, it’s not cold at all. It has the comforting warmth of embers in a fire, just enough light and heat, shining out in the darkness. A fully stocked bar with crystal carafes and sharp cut Waterford glassware.

Upper West Side, nice. I look around the spotless expansive apartment with silver Nambe sculptures and art from Paul Klee and Lyonel Feininger. I should stick with him, this life would be sweet.

I immediately chide myself. Where did that come from? I was raised to make my own way and given a liberal education that impressed on me that women weren’t required to have a man to be successful. In fact, that was one of the problems with Greg. My constant drive to succeed made him turn to some down-and-out floozy to make himself feel better. Okay, so down and out is a little strong—an opera mezzo at the start of her career. But still, he was paying her bills, and with my money.