The Beach House

"I love you, Pauline," said Mack, breaking the silence.

"Love you back," said Pauline, too tired to lift her head off my chest.

I cleared my throat ostentatiously until Mack added, "Don't get maudlin, Jack. We're quite fond of you, too."

After a while Mack got up with a groan and walked over to where Tricia Powell was sitting. He reached into her tote and pulled out a chrome Nokia. She was too tired to complain. "Don't worry, Trish," said Mack, "it's local."

"Anyone have anything profound to say before the shit hits the fan?" he asked when he returned.

"Thanks," I said. "I couldn't have done it without you. Couldn't have done a thing. I love you both."

"Anyone want to add something we don't know?" replied Mack as he settled back down with us. "Okay, then."

Mack tapped the phone's tiny rubber pads with his enormous splayed fingers, then smiled with exaggerated delight when it started ringing. "Damn thing actually works."

"This is Mack Mullen," he told whoever picked up at the police station. "Me, my grandson, and his beautiful girl are sitting around with the Neubauers, the Fitzhardings, and some of our other favorite people on earth. We were wondering if you wanted to stop by. We're at the Kleinerhunt place. Oh, one other thing. No one's hurt and no one's armed. There's no need to do anything silly. We'll go peacefully."

Then he snapped the little phone shut like a clam, and hurled it off the porch into the sand. "They should ban those things."

Less than five minutes later, about a hundred cops and federal agents roared up Montauk's Main Street in their various marked and unmarked cars amid wailing sirens that sounded like the end of the world.

Because the Coast Guard helicopters got there just before them, we didn't hear a thing as they arrived to arrest us.

EPILOGUE

Chapter 111

IT WAS ALMOST FIVE MONTHS LATER. Pauline, Macklin, and I were sitting in the far corner of a bar near Foley Square. We were sipping muddy Gui

"May he rot in jail," said Macklin, dusting off his favorite toast since the start of the summer. For the record, it looked as if Barry Neubauer would. His first manslaughter trial had just begun. And there were twelve more lined up behind it like Mercedes and Audi station wagons at a Route 27 traffic light.

And here was the best part. Because of the likelihood of Neubauer's trying to flee the country, he was spending his nights and weekends on Rikers Island until the last verdict was in the books. The stock of Mayflower Enterprises had dropped to under two dollars. Barry Neubauer was ruined.

As for the three of us, that day would probably be our last day of Gui

Mack was utterly unfazed. Then again, he was eighty-seven. He said he wanted to throw a Memorial Day party of his own to replace the gaping Beach House hole in the Hamptons social calendar. "I want to throw a real party," said Macklin, wiping the foam off his lips. "Something that will make those Puff Daddy shindigs that everyone gets so bent out of shape over seem like an afternoon tea."

"I feel you, Macklin," said Pauline.

"I don't want to be a party pooper," I told the two of them, "but it's time to go. We have a date in court."

"I prefer this bar," said Mack, and gri

"Let's go face the music," I said.

Chapter 112

AS PAULINE, MACK, AND I approached the steps of the U.S. district court in Foley Square, we were met by our nervous-looking attorney, Josh Epstein, and a crush of reporters, their lights and microphones and cameras pushing against the blue-and-white police barricades.

"My clients have no comment," Josh said, waving off the press hordes and throwing a stern stare at Mack and me. Then Josh led us on a brisk ascent of the limestone steps, into the column-lined entryway, through the metal detectors, and onto the elevator.

We rode the elevator to the twenty-third floor in silence. As the doors to the elevator slid open, Mack cleared his throat. "In the words of that old Irishman Benjamin Franklin, 'We must all hang together, or most assuredly, we will hang separately.' "

The courtroom of the Honorable James L. Blake looked not the least like our "people's courtroom" on the cliffs of Montauk. With thirty-foot ceilings, chandeliers, and polished mahogany paneling and benches for the public, it could have been the Old Whalers' Church in Sag Harbor.

We took our seats at the defense table as Josh chatted in hushed tones with the assistant U.S. attorney assigned to our case. Dressed in a plain gray suit, white button-down shirt, and red and blue silk rep tie, AUSA Arthur Marshall was reasonable yet stern, determined to "exercise his prosecutorial discretion" in accordance with the Department of Justice operating manual.

Three months earlier Mack, Pauline, and I had all entered guilty pleas to a two-count indictment, charging us with conspiracy to kidnap and the actual kidnapping of Barry Neubauer, Campion Neubauer, William Montrose, Tom Fitzharding, Stella Fitzharding, Tricia Powell, and Frank Volpi. There had been no point in going through with a trial; we knew what we were doing, and why. At the time we entered our guilty pleas, we were informed by Judge Blake of the price we would have to pay for the justice that we had gotten for Peter: "At the time of sentencing, you will face a custodial sentence of not less than twenty years."

Today was that day.

"All rise!" commanded the bailiff as the Honorable James L. Blake entered the courtroom.

The crowd in the courtroom "pews" rose as the elderly judge lumbered up the steps to the bench, his black robe dragging on the floor behind him. He looked almost as old as Mack, and just as thorny. He took his seat and glared out at the courtroom.

"Be seated," he barked.

"The United States versus Jack Mullen, Macklin Reid Mullen, and Pauline Grabowski," called out the bailiff. "This case is on for sentencing."

Chapter 113

"IS THE GOVERNMENT PREPARED TO PROCEED?" asked the judge.

"The government is ready, Your Honor," replied Marshall, rising to his feet.

"The defense?"

"We are ready to proceed," said Josh, looking a bit green around the gills.

"Well, then, have a seat, gentlemen," said the judge. "We're likely to be here for some time."

With that, Josh and Arthur Marshall exchanged a quick glance and sat down.

"I have been deeply troubled by the actions of the defendants in this case, as I am in every criminal case," began Judge Blake.

"Not simply because of the nature of the crime, an abhorrent deprivation of the liberty worked upon several individuals, but because of the backgrounds of the defendants.

"The younger Mr. Mullen is a recent graduate of one of our nation's foremost schools of law, where he had the benefit of exposure to preeminent legal scholars.

"Ms. Grabowski has spent the past ten years as a private investigator, employed by one of this city's most well-established law firms. She has testified in this very courthouse i

"As for the senior Mr. Mullen, you came to this country seeking economic opportunity for yourself and your family. You spent the majority of your adulthood as a hardworking man of your community. True, you have suffered a tremendous loss with the tragic death of your grandson, but this ca