The alleged abuse of the late Brooke Astor by her son has kept New York high society - and the tabloids - riveted for months. As the trial approaches, Marion McKeonetells a murky tale of greed and misery
"Bad heir day" the front page of New York declared alongside a picture of 83-year-old Anthony Marshall, who, hair askew and eyebrows growing at fantastic angles, wears the slightly baffled expression you might expect of an old aristocrat who finds himself inside a criminal courtroom, charged with plundering $132 million from his mother's estate.
After a year-long investigation triggered by allegations that he had abused his mother, the legendary Brooke Astor, Marshall and Astor's lawyer, Francis Xavier Morrissey, have been charged with defrauding Astor, forging amendments to her will and emptying her coffers. Marshall stood in court weeping as he listened to the litany of criminal charges read out against him. Both men will be arraigned on January 30th and if convicted, Marshall and Morrissey could spend the rest of their lives behind bars.
It's not just a bewildering turn of events for Marshall, a former ambassador and Tony Award-winning Broadway producer. The bitter legal feud that ripped the Astor family in two, forced those at the upper echelons of New York society to take sides, and kept the Astor name on the front pages of every New York magazine and newspaper for 18 months, has riveted and appalled the city.
New Yorkers were horrified to learn that before her death last August aged 105, Brooke Astor, the beloved philanthropist who ruled Manhattan society with a velvet and diamond clad fist, was living out her final days in misery and squalor. But they were even more aghast to discover that her son and heir could have been systematically plundering her estate and spending her millions on expensive new toys for himself and his wife. Friends of Anthony Marshall say the claims are outrageous, a slew of trumped-up charges by a self-aggrandising district attorney with a fondness for the media spotlight.
But legal sources say the evidence is there, stacks of it. They point out that unless you have your ducks lined up, prosecuting the son of New York's grande dame is not something you take a flier on. Anthony Marshall is a powerful man with powerful friends. An acquittal would prove deeply embarrassing for district attorney Robert Morgenthau. But the tenacity of the DA's Elder Abuse Unit has prompted some questions. Why the multi-million dollar investigation, why all the fuss? After all, Anthony Marshall was going to inherit most of it anyway.
And there's the rub, the thing that perplexes Manhattan dwellers most.
Anthony Marshall didn't want for anything. He had lived his entire life in luxury, at the epicentre of New York society, courtesy of a mother who had used her wealth and contacts to ensure that whatever path her son chose would be buffeted and bump-free. So why did a man who had it so well and truly made, remain so assiduously on the make? Barbara Thompson, spokeswoman at the New York district attorney's office, has a simple answer. "Greed," she says. The yachts, the Park Avenue duplex, the holiday homes, the estates, the paintings and the millions of dollars Astor had lavished on her only child weren't enough.
Marshall wanted more; he wanted the entire Astor fortune. And he was aided and abetted, Thompson says, by Morrissey, an Irish-American with a history of befriending rich elderly people and ensuring their wills were changed in his favour before their deaths.
Morrissey, who has a Park Avenue office and a home in upmarket Sutton Place, learnt the importance of social connections at a young age. His father, Francis X Morrissey, was a Boston lawyer and, it was said, bag man for the Kennedys. When President Johnson nominated Morrissey as a US district judge for Massachusetts in 1965, with Teddy Kennedy as his Congressional sponsor, the appointment sparked a furore. Massachusetts chief federal district court judge Charles Wyzanski said the "obvious fact" was that "the only discernible ground for the nomination of Judge Morrissey is his service to the Kennedy family." Morrissey followed in his father's legal footsteps and became a society lawyer, a friend and confidante to the rich and elderly. He was suspended from the New York Bar for his unauthorised removal of almost $1 million from a client account.
THE CASE caught the attention of New York's criminal investigators when in July 2006, Anthony Marshall's son, Philip, filed an affidavit claiming his grandmother was being abused by his father and stepmother. Philip Marshall claimed he found her confined to one unheated room of her 14-room Park Avenue apartment. Her staff had been fired and she was lying on a filthy, urine-soaked sofa, shivering and unkempt, living on a diet on pureed peas and porridge. Her prescriptions had not been refilled when they expired. The fresh flowers she had insisted on had disappeared and her beloved daschunds were locked in a pantry.
Her grandson's testimony about Astor's wretched existence sparked a heated debate about the treatment of elderly people. Elder abuse became the topic du jour among the chattering classes.
Marshall, who had been his mother's business manager, executor and legal guardian, was stripped of all rights relating to her care. Annette de la Renta, the wife of fashion designer Oscar de la Renta, became Astor's legal guardian, and JP Morgan Chase took over the financial management of an estate that was worth close to $200 million.
Anthony Marshall makes for an unlikely defendant. Tall, thin and aristocratic in his demeanour, he is a decorated war hero and career diplomat. He was one of the few survivors of the battle of Iwo Jima, where, as a teenage marine, he fought and was seriously wounded. He has had an impressive career in the diplomatic service, even if ambassadorial postings were to second-tier states. And he is a successful Broadway producer with several Tony awards on the marble overmantle of his Upper East Side apartment.
Those familiar with the case - and with the Astor saga - say the real culprit is his 61-year-old wife, Charlene, the former wife of a preacher, who is portrayed in court papers as a greedy, grasping woman.
Tragically, there is nothing new about elder abuse. Such cases are so commonplace that Morgenthau has set up a special branch within his office - the Elder Abuse Unit - staffed by specially trained investigators and prosecutors. Talking to The Irish Times, Elizabeth Loewy, head of the unit, said they receive thousands of complaints every year featuring the same sickening litany: helpless and terrified old people are starved, battered, isolated and forced to sign over their possessions, estates and savings to their tormentors.
Loewy likens elder abuse to child abuse; most often it is carried out by immediate family members. And just as often, the victim is too terrified, traumatised or emotionally attached to his tormentor to go to the police.
For all its prevalence, elder abuse is a crime that rarely makes the headlines. And unlike countless old people for whom the terrors and deprivations of dependence on others are alleviated only by death, Brooke Astor, even at 105, had had some very powerful friends.
In August this year, Astor died at her Westchester estate with de la Renta at her side. The staff her son had fired had been reinstated, there were lavish flower arrangements in every room and her trademark lipstick, rouge and blue eyeshadow had been applied by a nurse.
Still it was an ignominious end for the vivacious society doyenne. The funeral she had planned for more than a decade as her glittering swansong turned into a bitter affair that was boycotted by her friends after Marshall shut de la Renta out of the funeral arrangements. The epitaph she had instructed be etched on her gravestone - "I had a wonderful life" - seemed to ring hollow in the face of so much acrimony and division.
Following her death, the investigation into Marshall's handling of her affairs accelerated as the battle to divide up the spoils of her estate began in earnest. Marshall claimed that a final amendment to her will, made when Astor was 103, effectively nullified her multi-million dollar bequests to the New York Public Library and the Metropolitan Museum of Art. He claimed the $198 million fortune she had meticulously planned to donate to various charities and foundations was his.
Prosecutors say Astor's signature was forged on at least one of the codicils purporting to leave everything to her son. Astor's friends supported this claim, saying Astor had made it clear that her fortune was to go to causes that benefited the people of New York, who have already received some $220 million of her money.
BROOKE ASTOR is a bona fide living legend, a New York icon and doyenne who presided as a benign and occasionally ruthless dictator of the city's complex social and philanthropic world. Long before Anna Wintour set foot in Manhattan, Astor was the arbiter of style. She inspired writers and artists, and was a favourite of society photographers such as Cecil Beaton. When Truman Capote published Breakfast at Tiffany's, it was widely speculated that the amoral but charming heroine immortalised by Audrey Hepburn had much in common with Brooke Astor. But Astor was no great beauty; she reached the pinnacle of New York society through a combination of wit, style and ruthless determination.
For more than 40 years - between the time she was widowed by her third millionaire husband in 1959 and celebrating her 100th birthday in 2002 - no New York society "do" was complete without Astor as its hostess or guest of honour. No philanthropic cause flourished without her imprimatur. She was the conduit through which the most gleefully salacious gossip flowed, yet neither she nor her affairs ever appeared in gossip columns.
She wielded enormous power, whether lunching with the men who ruled New York at the Knickerbocker Club or at 21 (Astor cheerfully admitted to preferring the company of men) or presiding over the Metropolitan Museum of Art's annual Costume Institute Ball. A quiet word from Brooke Astor could mean the difference between inclusion on the most exclusive invitation lists and social ostracisation.
Even as she got older, she remained a formidable force who showed no signs of relinquishing her role. Unlike many ladies who lunch, Astor was a ferociously hard worker, a tireless champion of many causes. She, unlike many of New York's noted philanthropists, liked to spread her wealth beyond the city's splendid buildings and museums. She once famously said: "Money is like manure - it should be spread around."
At the upper echelons of New York's philanthropic hierarchy, decisions about where the millions go are based on ruthless dictates of social marketing. Society names are surprisingly hard-nosed about extracting maximum prestige from their philanthropic buck. A bequest that ensures one's name is etched in marble in the lobby of one of Manhattan's iconic buildings or cultural institutions is considered a far better return on one's investment than having it painted over a homeless shelter in Harlem.
To her credit, Astor didn't limit her philanthropy to conservation or the arts. She gave to hundreds of charities that took care of New York's poor and dispossessed, underwrote projects and visited their beneficiaries. While even her closest friends wouldn't deny she was vain, narcissistic and ruthless, she could be truly gracious. She was witty and used humour to make people feel at ease.
"The most remarkable thing about her was she devoted so much of her life to helping New Yorkers from every walk of life," observes her longtime friend, David Rockefeller. "Most important, she treated everyone with respect, as if she was meeting with Queen Elizabeth - whom she knew quite well."
There were few people of consequence that Astor didn't know. She was related by marriage to the British and Russian aristocracy. And while the hue of one's blood was an important factor in gaining admission to her table, it wasn't the only factor.
Her closest friends included the Rockefellers, the Carnegies and the Guggenheims, but her inner circle admitted men and women from humble backgrounds who had proven their intellectual or cultural mettle. Henry Kissinger, Ronald Reagan, Ed Koch and Barbara Walters were among them.
So too was Brendan Gill, the Irish-American writer, raconteur and bon viveur who shared her love of late nights and mischief. She took Sean Driscoll, another young Irish-American, under her wing. His company, Glorious Foods, quickly became the caterers to every New York society bash, including a seven-course banquet for Astor's 100th birthday. Astor, dressed in her favourite emeralds and a dress designed by de la Renta, was flanked by Kofi Annan and David Rockefeller, with whom she drank champagne and danced until 1am. That it should all end so ignominiously in the criminal and civil courts and the tabloids she abhorred is as much a modern-day morality tale as a tragicomedy of manners.
"For this to end up in court, for these accounts to be made public like this . . . we're not talking about the Hiltons here. These people are phobic about this kind of publicity," an associate of the de la Rentas said.
Women of Astor's era are no fans of the media, believing that real power doesn't require the endorsement of celebrity mags and gossip columns. To break ranks by spilling tittle-tattle to the media, as Truman Capote discovered after the publication of Answered Prayers, means immediate and total ostracisation.
WHILE THE alleged abuse largely stemmed from neglect, two people who know Tony Marshall and are familiar with Astor, suggest it may not have been deliberate. "There's no polite way of saying this but Tony is famously cheap," said one Manhattan lawyer who is familiar with the case and is a long-time acquaintance of Marshall's. "He would regard buying flowers and keeping a staff for a senile old lady as a waste of money. There isn't necessarily any intention to deprive her or treat her badly." Another acquaintance, who knows Marshall and his wife through a set of friends that includes housekeeping maven Martha Stewart, says that Tony, never having known concern or affection from his mother, simply doesn't know how to love or care for anyone.
"He is dominated by Charlene, just as he was dominated by his mother," she says. "But love? That's not something he has much experience of." Friends of both Brooke Astor and Tony and Charlene Marshall agree on one thing. Mother and son always had a difficult and distant relationship. Brooke Astor, the glittering socialite, whose fizzy sense of fun infused every gathering, was a remote figure in her only child's life. Like many young women of her era, she saw marriage as the rung that would help her climb to the social heights of which she dreamed.
She married her first millionaire, Drysden Kusner, when she was barely 17. She divorced him in 1929 and showing her first flash of steel, persuaded her mother-in-law to make her a generous settlement. It was unheard of for a woman in her 20s to divorce a society husband, much less haggle with the in-laws for a chunk of his fortune. But Brooke was all about breaking moulds and soon afterwards, with her young son in tow, she set her cap at Charles "Buddie" Marshall, a wealthy stockbroker from a distinguished family, who was a dozen years her senior.
He adopted Tony, whose own father had shown little interest in maintaining contact with the child after the divorce, and it is clear that her only son was far from the centre of Brooke Astor's world. She was, she would confess to close friends, a lousy mother. Having grown up in boarding school, Marshall joined the marines when he was barely 17. At 20, he survived the battle of Iwo Jima. He received a Purple Heart and multiple commendations for bravery. If the deaths of many of his friends and the horrors he witnessed affected him, few knew.
Meanwhile, Astor's second husband died suddenly and within a year she was married to her third millionaire, the irascible Vincent Astor. She was hand-picked by Astor's second wife, who, wanting to divorce her ill-tempered husband, felt obliged to find a replacement.
She assured Brooke the marriage would not last beyond a few years. Vincent Astor suffered from heart disease. In fact he died almost six years later, leaving Brooke Astor a personal fortune of $60 million and giving her total control over the administration of the Vincent Astor Trust, which was worth $67 million.
Like so many Brahmin women, it was not until she became a widow for the last time that Astor truly came into her own. With a considerable fortune and a large trust fund to administer, she became synonymous with prestige causes such as the preservation of New York's magnificent Public Library, Grand Central Station and St Bartholomew's Church. She exerted enormous control on the board of the Metropolitan Museum of Art and on the boards of a number of smaller cultural bodies, including the New York City Ballet and the Metropolitan Opera. She partied and drank and took many lovers. Asked once how many, she replied that trying to count them was how she put herself to sleep at night.
Meanwhile, Tony graduated from Brown College after the war and married a girl he met in college of whom his mother disapproved. They had twin boys, Philip and Alexander, but the marriage was unhappy and they divorced when the twins were seven years old. For decades they barely saw their father, who subsequently married and divorced his secretary.
Tony retired from the diplomatic service in 1977 and started to work for his mother. Friends and acquaintances say they were never close; he was intimidated by her and resentful of the long shadow she cast. She was often vexed and impatient with him.
It was an eternal filial tale of unrealistic expectations, disappointment and recrimination. By most standards, Tony Marshall was hardly an underachiever. He was a war hero and accomplished diplomat but he was both cursed and blessed by his heritage. His blue blood and connections ensured he moved swiftly up the ranks of the diplomatic service but his achievements were largely credited to his mother's contacts. Henry Kissinger, one of her closest friends, Tony's contemporary, had little time for him and was dismissive of his career.
Equally, she had little time for her grandchildren Philip and Alex, until late in life. Alex was a photographer and Philip a professor at Rutgers University. But as she aged she began to see more of Philip, who shared her interests in the arts. She had often told friends, however, that she didn't intend to make her heirs rich. At one point, her will stipulated that her grandsons should receive $10,000 each, less than many of her staff, and that the trust she set up for her son should ensure he lived comfortably but that the bulk of her fortune should go to causes to benefit the people of New York.
In one of the greatest ironies of this story of generations of ambition and betrayal, the final betrayal was also an act of loyalty. In protecting his grandmother, Philip Marshall set in motion a series of events that could see his elderly father spend the remainder of his days isolated and impoverished, in the squalor of a prison cell. In his affidavit Tony Marshall reflects that the wounds he received as a soldier in Iwo Jima are as nothing compared to the betrayal by his son. It is a pain he says he will carry with him to his grave.