Noah Hawley - Before the Fall

He put his half-eaten bagel down, wiped his hands on his pants, stood.

“I’m gonna take a walk on the beach, sort some things out.”

“If you wait a minute, I’ll go with you.”

He started to tell her he needed the time to think, but paused. After the fiasco with Jenny’s boyfriend, he needed to go the extra mile. So he nodded and went inside to get his shoes.

* * *

The ride to the airport was short, the car picking them up just after nine p.m. They rode in the air-conditioned rear, moving through dimming twilight, the sun low on the horizon, an orange yolk dipped slowly into a cool meringue. Ben reviewed what he wanted to say to David, how to sidle up on the thing — not There’s a crisis , but Have you heard anything coming out of the White House that might affect the market in general? Or no, that’s too inside baseball. Maybe it was as simple as We’re hearing rumblings about some new regulations. Can you confirm or deny?

He was sweating, despite the sixty-eight-degree interior. Next to Ben, Sarah was watching the sunset with a whispered smile. Ben squeezed her hand encouragingly, and she looked over and gave him a big grin— her man . Ben smiled back. He could just about slay a gin and tonic right now.

Ben was getting out of the car on the tarmac when Culpepper called. It was nine fifteen, and balmy, a heavy fog hanging on the edges of the runway.

“It’s happening,” said Culpepper as Ben took his overnight bag from the driver.

“What?”

“Indictments. A birdie just told me.”

“What? When?”

“In the morning. The feds’ll come in force, waving warrants. I had a shitstorm call with Leroy, but he’s gotta side with the president on this one. We need to send a message to Wall Street , or some such shit. I’ve got a hundred temps in there right now taking care of things.”

“Things?”

“What does the cookie monster do to cookies?”

Ben was shaking. His creative reasoning center was closed.

“Jesus, Barney. Just say it.”

“Not on the phone. Just know that what Stalin did to the USSR is happening to our data. But you don’t know anything. As far as you’re concerned it’s just another Sunday night.”

“What should I—”

“Nothing. Go home, take a Xanax, sleep. In the morning put on a comfortable suit and moisturize your wrists. They’re going to arrest you at the office. You and Hoover and Tabitha, et cetera. We have lawyers on retainer standing by to bail you out, but they’ll be dicks and hold you the maximum time allowed.”

“In jail?”

“No. At Best Buy. Yes, in jail. But don’t worry. I’ve got a good lice guy.”

He hung up. Ben stood on the tarmac, oblivious to the warm wind and Sarah’s concerned stare. Everything looked different now. The creeping fog, the shadows below the plane. Ben half expected fast lines to drop from a helicopter sky, shock troops descending.

It’s happening , he thought. The absolute worst-case scenario. I will be arrested, indicted .

“Jesus, Ben, you’re like a ghost.”

Behind them the two-man ground crew finished gassing up the plane.

“No,” he said, trying to pull himself together. “No, it’s — I’m fine. Just — some bad news from the markets. Asia.”

The two men pulled the hose back, away from the fuselage. They were wearing khaki coveralls and matching caps, their faces darkened by shadow. One of them took a few steps away from the gas line, pulled out a pack of cigarettes. He lit one, the flame illuminating his face with an orange flicker. Ben squinted at him. Is that—? he thought, but the face went dark again. His fight-or-flight instinct was so strong right now it was as if every fear he had ever had was surrounding him in the fog. His heartbeat was thunderous, and he shivered despite the heat.

After a moment he realized that Sarah was talking to him.

“What?” he said.

“I said, should I worry?”

“No,” he told her. “No. It’s just — you know, I’m really looking forward to the trip we talked about. Italy, Croatia. I think it’ll be — I don’t know — maybe we should go tonight.”

She took his arm.

“You’re so crazy,” she told him, squeezing. He nodded. The first man finished securing the fuel hose, climbed into the cab of the truck. The second man dropped his cigarette, ground it out, walked to the passenger door.

“I wouldn’t wanna be flying in this,” he said.

And there’s something about the way he said it. An implication . Ben turned.

“What?” he said. But the man was already closing his door. Then the truck pulled away. Was that a threat of some kind? A warning? Or was he being paranoid? Ben watched the truck roll back to the hangar until its taillights were just two red spots in the fog.

“Babe?” said Sarah.

Ben exhaled loudly, trying to shake it off.

“Yeah,” he said.

Too Big to Jail . That’s what Barney had said. It was just a ploy. The government was trying to make an example, but when it came down to it — the secrets he had, the implications to the financial markets — he had to believe that Barney was right. That this thing would settle quietly for a few million dollars. The truth was, he’d prepared for this day, planned for it. He’d have been an idiot not to, and if there was one thing Ben Kipling wasn’t it was an idiot. He had insulated himself financially, hiding funds — not everything, of course, but a couple of million. There was a litigator on retainer. Yes, this was the worst-case scenario, but it was a scenario they had built a fortress to handle.

Let them come , he thought, surrendering himself to fate, then he squeezed Sarah’s hand, breathing again, and walked her to the plane.

It’s never been a secret that Bill Cunningham has problems with authority. In some ways that’s his brand, the fire-breathing malcontent, and he’s translated it into a ten-million-dollar-a-year contract with ALC. But in the same way a man’s nose and ears become exaggerated as he ages, so do the psychological issues that define him. We all become caricatures of ourselves, if we live long enough. And so over the last few years, as his power grew, so too did Bill’s fuck you and the horse you rode in on attitude. Until now, he’s been like some blood-drinking Roman caesar who believes deep down he may be a god.

Ultimately, this is why he’s still on the air, after all the bullshit corporate crybabying over his alleged “phone hacking.” Though, if he’s being honest (which he isn’t), he’d have to admit that David’s death had a lot to do with it. A grief response and power vacuum in a moment of crisis that Bill was able to exploit by delivering what he calls “leadership,” but was really a kind of moral bullying.

“You’re gonna—” he said, “let me get this straight, you’re gonna can me in a moment of all-out war.”

“Bill,” said Don Liebling, “don’t you do that.”

“No, I want — you need to say it on the record — so when I sue your asses for a billion dollars I can be specific on the stand while I’m jerking off into some caviar.”

Don stares at him.

“Jesus. David’s dead. His wife is dead. His—”

He gets quiet for a moment, overcome by the immensity of it.

“His goddamn daughter. And you’re — I can’t even say it out loud.”

“Exactly,” said Bill, “you can’t. But I can. That’s what I do. I say things out loud. I ask the questions no one else is willing to — and millions of people watch this channel because of that. People who are gonna run to CNN if they turn on our coverage of the death of our own fucking boss and see some second-string automaton with Fisher-Price snap-on hair reading his opinions off a teleprompter. David and his wife and daughter — who, I held her at her fucking baptism — are lying somewhere at the bottom of the Atlantic with Ben Kipling — who I’m hearing was about to be indicted — and everybody’s using the word accident like nobody on earth had reason to want these people dead, except then why did the man travel in a bulletproof limousine and his office windows could take a hit from a goddamn bazooka?”