Nicole Richie - Priceless

From thinking of her mother, her mind turned naturally to Miss Millie, who had stepped in shortly after her mother died. Dark-skinned, fine-featured, sharp-tongued, Millie Pearl had been an incredibly important part of Charlotte’s life. Whenever she stopped short of doing the truly stupid thing, when she refused that hard drug, when she didn’t get into the car full of drunken frat boys—that was Millie’s influence. She’d taught the young woman to value what was inside, to think for herself, to judge people by what they did, not what they wore. And she’d loved the girl deeply, hugging her frequently, brushing her long hair every night, and singing to her, making her feel special and safe and surrounded by a warm structure that supported her growth like a trellis in a garden. Charlotte had missed her very much when she left and had been desolate and depressed for several weeks. Then she’d sadly reached the conclusion that people you love were prone to suddenly leaving, and she’d polished herself a hard, shiny shell and kept it on from that time forward.

She was about halfway through the park, past the reservoir, when a young man approached her. He had something in his hand, and she instinctively took a step back in case it was a weapon. It wasn’t. It was a pad and pen.

“I’m sorry, aren’t you Charlotte Williams?”

She nodded, slowed a little. Maybe she knew him?

“I’m Dan Robinson from the New York Sentinel. I was wondering if you had a statement to make?”

She was confused and immediately on her guard. There were a lot of crazy people in the city, and then there were reporters. One had to be careful. Her dad didn’t trust the press, and neither did she.

“A statement about what?” She started walking again, quicker this time.

“About your father’s arrest.” The reporter’s eyes were bright, and he could tell he had surprised her. Her step faltered.

“I think you must be confusing me with someone else. My father is at work.”

“He was at work. Now he is under arrest for embezzlement.”

Charlotte felt and heard her phone ringing in her bag. She pulled it out. It was home. Then another call came in, from Emily. She answered the first one.

Greta’s voice sounded shaken. “Charlotte, where are you?”

“I’m on my way to Janet’s. Greta, there’s a reporter here who says Daddy has been arrested. What’s going on?”

“Come home, Charlotte. Or go to Janet’s if you’re closer. Davis will come and pick you up.”

Charlotte looked up at the skyline. She could see the Dakota.

“I’m closer to Janet’s. Tell Davis I’ll be there in ten minutes. Is it true?”

Greta sounded like she was in tears. “Yes, Charlotte, but we don’t know anything yet.” There was a pause. “Please hurry, Charlotte.”

She hung up. Emily had long ago gone to voice mail, and as she looked, she saw text after text coming in, voice mails piling up, phone calls on top of phone calls. She looked up. The reporter was still there, a tape recorder in his hand now, stretched out to catch her comments, her first thoughts on whatever it was that was happening. She drew a breath.

“Miss Williams? Do you have a comment? Your father is accused of perpetrating a massive fraud, embezzling millions, possibly billions, of dollars. The SEC claims to have been following him for years. What do you have to say?”

Charlotte narrowed her eyes at him and stood tall. “I have absolutely no doubt that my father is completely innocent and that his name will soon be cleared.”

“It’s your name, too, Charlotte.” The reporter was very still, hoping she would say something that would make his editor proud.

But instead, she said something that would have made Miss Millie proud. “A name is just a label, Mr. Robinson. It doesn’t tell you anything about someone’s character.”

And then she turned on her heel and walked away.

Janet opened the door, smiling, her arms open wide. She had her hair piled on top of her head, antique chopsticks holding it up, rhinestone cat-eye spectacles glinting. She really was one of a kind.

“It is so wonderful to see you, Charlotte. Give me a hug, for goodness sake. I want to hear all about Paris.” Then the elderly woman paused, looking at her young friend more carefully. “What has happened? Are you all right?”

Charlotte pushed gently past her and went into the kitchen, where she knew there was a TV. “Can I put on the TV, Jan? Something bad has happened to Dad.”

Janet gasped and rushed after her, finding the remote underneath a fluffy gray cat and switching on the TV. The cat was annoyed and stalked off, tail twitching.

“Calm down, Brutus, you weren’t watching anyway.”

Janet McTavish was, as her name suggested, originally from Scotland, but four decades in the United States had softened her accent considerably. She and her favorite pupil stood and waited for CNN to tell them what they needed to know. And then, suddenly, there was a photo of Jacob Williams, and the announcer was talking.

“Today, Wall Street was thrown into disarray when one of its giants, Jacob Williams, was arrested for securities fraud. Spokesmen for the SEC and the FBI issued the following statement.”

The video cut to a press conference, where a man who didn’t look very threatening was talking about Charlotte’s father as if he were a criminal.

“For more than five years, the SEC and the FBI, working together, have been building a case against Mr. Williams, who has held the confidence of some of our country’s leaders, many of our major banks, and thousands of individual investors. At times, we didn’t think we would ever gather the evidence we needed, so complicated was his web of transactions and funds, but now we are confident that we have a watertight case against him. He is being held without bail in Manhattan, and a preliminary arraignment is scheduled for the morning.”

Janet took Charlotte’s arm and guided her to a chair, displacing poor Brutus again, who simply left the room in disgust.

“Goodness, child, you’re as white as a sheet. Let’s get you some whiskey.”

Charlotte silently shook her head.

“A cup of tea, then?”

Another shake.

Janet snapped her fingers in Charlotte’s face. “Charlotte, wake up.” Charlotte jumped. “Your father is innocent, and there has been some mistake. You need to pull yourself together so you can help him.”

There was a knock at the door, and suddenly, Davis was there. “Miss Charlotte? Are you ready to come home?” He coughed, which was about as distressed as Davis ever got. “I’m afraid there are journalists and photographers at the building. We will be unable to avoid them.”

Charlotte shook herself. She was young, but she was tough. She turned to Janet. “I will take that whiskey, thanks. Davis?”

“I’m driving, Miss.”

“Of course.” She thought for a moment. “Did you already contact Mr. Bedford?” Mr. Bedford was her father’s lawyer.

“He was the one who alerted us first, Miss. He is with your father downtown.”

“What about Marshall?” Michael Marshall was her father’s partner. He’d been with Jacob a while, although he played a less public role than her father did.

Davis looked pained. “I haven’t been able to reach Mr. Marshall.”

“Maybe he’s also been arrested?”

Davis shrugged, something she’d never seen him do before. For some reason, that small gesture of hopelessness on his part worried her deeply.

Charlotte looked around Janet’s kitchen, cluttered and small yet as beloved to her as the stately kitchen in her own apartment. She’d had many of her happiest times in this place, singing with Janet, learning what her voice could do. She guessed those times were over for a while. If not forever.