Noah Hawley - Before the Fall

Looking up, she saw Maggie Bateman in the middle distance. The moment was this: A young couple with a baby stroller passed through her center of vision and in their passing, Maggie was revealed in profile, caught in mid-sentence, and then — as the couple with the stroller cleared completely — the man she was speaking to was, himself, revealed. He was a handsome man in his forties, dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, both paint-stained, the T-shirt covered by an old blue cardigan. The man had longish hair, swept back carelessly but creeping forward, and as Sarah watched he reached up and swept it back again, the way a horse swats flies with its tail, distracted.

The first thought that hit Sarah was simply recognition. She knew that person (Maggie). The second thought was context (that’s Maggie Bateman, married to David, mother of two). The third thought was that the man she was talking to was standing a little too close, that he was leaning in and smiling. And that the look on Maggie’s face was similar. That there was an intimacy between them that felt more than casual. And then Maggie turned and saw Sarah. She raised a hand and shielded her eyes from the sun, like a sailor searching the horizon.

“Hey there,” she said, and there was something about the openness of the greeting, the fact that Maggie didn’t act like a woman who’d just been caught flirting with a man who was not her husband, that made Sarah rethink her first assumption.

“I thought you might be here,” Maggie said. Then, “Oh, this is Scott.”

The man showed Sarah his palm.

“Hi,” said Sarah, then to Maggie, “Yeah, you know me. If the market’s up I’ll be here squeezing avocados, rain or shine.”

“Are you going back today?”

“The three o’clock ferry, I think.”

“Oh no. Don’t — we’ve got the plane. Come with us.”

“Really?”

“Of course. That’s what it’s — I was just telling Scott. He’s got to go into the city tonight too.”

“I was thinking of walking,” said Scott.

Sarah frowned.

“We’re on an island.”

Maggie smiled.

“Sarah. He’s kidding.”

Sarah felt herself flush.

“Of course.”

She forced a laugh.

“I’m such a ditz sometimes.”

“So that’s it,” said Maggie. “You have to come. Both of you. And Ben. It’ll be fun. We can have a drink and, I don’t know, talk about art.”

To Sarah she said, “Scott’s a painter.”

“Failed,” he clarified.

“No. Now that’s — didn’t you just tell me you have gallery meetings next week?”

“Which are bound to go badly.”

“What do you paint?” Sarah asked.

“Catastrophe,” he said.

Sarah must have looked puzzled, because Maggie said, “Scott paints disaster scenes from the news — train wrecks, building collapses, and things like monsoons — they really are genius.”

“Well,” said Scott, “they’re morbid.”

“I’d like to see them sometime,” said Sarah politely, though morbid is exactly how it sounded to her.

“See?” said Maggie.

“She’s being polite,” said Scott perceptively. “But I appreciate it. I live pretty simply out here.”

It’s clear he would say more if asked, but Sarah changed subjects. “What time are you guys going back?” she asked.

“I’ll text you,” said Maggie, “but I think around eight. We fly to Teterboro and then into the city from there. We’re usually home and in bed by ten thirty.”

“Wow,” said Sarah, “that would be amazing. Just the thought of Sunday-afternoon gridlock— eek —I mean it’s worth it, but that would be — Ben is going to be thrilled.”

“Good,” said Maggie. “I’m glad. That’s what it’s there for, right? If you’ve got a plane—”

“I wouldn’t know,” said Scott.

“Don’t be snarky,” said Maggie, turning to him. “You’re coming too.”

She was grinning, teasing him, and Sarah decided that this was just how Maggie was, a good sport, a people person. Scott certainly wasn’t giving off a vibe that the two of them were anything other than farmers market friends.

“I’ll think about it,” he said. “Thanks.”

He gave them both a smile and walked off. For a moment it felt that all three of them would go their separate ways, but Maggie lingered a bit and Sarah felt the obligation to keep talking if she wanted to, so the two of them leaned away and then back.

“How do you know him?” Sarah asked.

“Scott? Just — from around. Or — he’s always at Gabe’s, you know, having coffee, and I used to bring the kids down all the time, just a place to go to get out of the house. Rachel liked their muffins. And we just got chatty.”

“Is he married?”

“No,” said Maggie. “I think he was engaged once. Anyway, the kids and I went out to his place once, saw his work. It really is terrific. I keep trying to get David to buy something, but he said he’s in the disaster business, so he doesn’t really want to come home and look at that. And to be fair, they are pretty graphic.”

“I bet.”

“Yeah.”

They stood there for a moment, out of words, like two rocks in a stream, the movement of the crowd a constant around them.

“Things are good?” said Sarah.

“Good, yes. You?”

Sarah thought about the way Ben kissed her this morning. She smiled.

“They are.”

“Great. Well, let’s catch up on the plane, huh?”

“Amazing. Thanks again.”

“Okay. See you tonight.”

Maggie gave her a quick air kiss and then she was gone. Sarah watched her go, then went to find some more strawberries.

* * *

At the same time, Ben sat on the deck — reclaimed wood, ivied trellis — and watched the waves. Laid out on the kitchen counter were a dozen bagels with lox, heirloom tomatoes, capers, and a local artisanal cream cheese. Ben sat on a wicker chair with the Sunday Times and a cappuccino, a light wind in his face off the ocean. He had traded texts with Culpepper all weekend, using an app called Redact that blacked out messages as you read them, then erased them for good.

Out on the ocean, sailboats inch across the wave caps. Culpepper wrote cryptically that he had been digging into the government’s case through back channels. He used emoticons instead of key words, assuming it would make the texts harder to use as evidence, were the government to somehow crack the app.

Looks like they have a key:-(feeding them dirt.

Ben wiped tomato runoff from his chin, finished his first bagel half. A whistleblower? Is that what Culpepper was saying? Ben remembered the man with the turtleneck outside Bali, his nose broken in a Russian prison. Did that really happen?

Sarah came out onto the porch with half a grapefruit. Where he’d just gotten up, she’d already been to a Spin class in town.

“Ferry leaves at three thirty,” Ben told her. “So we should be there at two forty-five.”

Sarah handed him a napkin, sat.

“I ran into Maggie at the farmers market.”

“Bateman?”

“Yes. She was with some painter. I mean, not with , but they were talking.”

“Uh-huh,” he said, preparing to tune out the rest of the conversation.

“She said there’s room on their plane tonight.”

This got his attention.

“She offered?”

“Unless you want to take the ferry. But, you know, the traffic Sunday night.”

“No, that sounds — did you say yes?”

“I said I’d talk to you, but assume we’re in.”

Ben sat back. He’d text his assistant to have a car sent to Teterboro. He was taking out his phone to do it when he had another thought.

David. He could talk to David. Not in detail, of course, but to the extent that he was having some troubles — one mogul to another. Was there a strategy David recommended? Should they hire a crisis manager preemptively? Start looking for a scapegoat? David also had close ties to the executive branch. If there really were new marching orders to the Justice Department, maybe David could get them some advance word.