Crime of Privilege: A Novel Read Free Page A

from Florida. I had even looked it up. “Illicit sexual intercourse without the consent
     of the woman and effected by force, duress, intimidation, or deception as to the nature
     of the act.” Webster’s
Third New International Dictionary
. I had carried that definition around with me for a few days, telling myself it did
     not apply to what Peter and Jamie had done. There had been no force, duress, intimidation,
     deception.
    “I don’t exactly remember it that way,” I said.
    “Which part don’t you remember, son?”
    I wondered if I could say I didn’t remember any of it. But Kendrick had told him I
     had been there. She had told him, told someone, enough to track me down. Had I given
     her my last name? I must have told her where I went to school. She said Bryn Mawr,
     I said Penn. Just a few miles apart. See how much we have in common?
    Had she been sober enough to remember any of it? She had been sober enough to drive.
     She had had a little sports car. A red one. An Alfa Romeo drop-top. With a stick shift.
     And I had let her get in it, get behind the steering wheel, go off down the gravel
     driveway and out the gate to Ocean Boulevard. But so had the valet. A smiling young
     black man, to whom I had given five bucks.
    He should have said something.
    “I was just there in the room when she was fooling around with those guys.”
    The man’s breathing became more shallow, as if somehow I had just insulted him, the
     man who had brought me coffee, the man who had called me “son.” “Fooling around?”
     he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “Is that what you call it?”
    I didn’t answer. There was nothing I could say that was going to bring this conversation
     to a pleasant end.
    “Do you know who Mr. Powell is, George?”
    “No.”
    “You ever hear of CPA Properties?”
    “No.”
    “CPA stands for Coltrane Powell Associates, out of Delaware. It’s the largest developer
     of commercial properties in the Mid-Atlantic region.”
    I didn’t know CPA. I didn’t know the first thing about developers.
    “Delaware, Maryland, eastern Pennsylvania, southern New Jersey.” He delivered the
     names of each place directly into my ear, as if he fully intended the accumulation
     to cause me to break down, beg for mercy, promise a lifetime of cooperation if only
     he would stop hitting me with geographic areas.
    I said nothing, tasted my coffee, which tasted like nothing. My bare feet began to
     rattle on the stairs. I told myself it was just because I was cold and tried to hold
     them steady, press them down into the old wooden planks.
    “Mr. Coltrane is dead.”
    Mr. Coltrane. Who was Mr. Coltrane, and why was that of any interest to me?
    “Which makes Mr. Powell virtually the sole owner of CPA and a very wealthy man. A
     very. Wealthy. Man.”
    Did he just jab my knee with his finger? Was that what that sudden weight was? Was
     that why my leg went numb? I tried to kick it out. It wouldn’t move.
    “More wealthy, I would venture to say, than even your friends the Gregorys. The difference
     is …”
    I waited for him to tell me, waited for the numbness in my leg to clear. Both happened
     at the same time.
    “… his money was earned during his lifetime.”
    Yes, of course. The Gregorys had to go back two generations for theirs. Back to Peter’s
     and Jamie’s grandfather. I wondered what he had done to get my leg to spasm like that.
    “Not so many people know about Mr. Powell’s money, which makes it a little easier
     for him to operate. Doesn’t get in all the right clubs as easily as the Gregorys,
     but he’s under a lot less scrutiny, if you know what I mean.”
    Did I? A lot less scrutiny for what?
    “Mr. Powell wants something done, he’s in a position to get people to do it.”
    “People like you, you mean?”
    It was a childish swipe and Mr. Andrews easily deflected it. “Know what I did before
     I went to work for Mr. Powell?” He did not expect me to answer. He paused just