Elizabeth was kept in a holding cell on State Street until the police had taken their statements and reviewed the video. In the end, the fact that she was a renowned artist and Tupper a respected industrial designer helped quite a bit. The New York City Police Department wanted to appear open-minded. Elizabeth was sentenced to only five days prison time and fined thirty thousand dollars—more than twice the cost of a New York State liquor license.

Due to overcrowding at the holding prison, Elizabeth was transferred to Rikers Island for the last three days of her detainment. Tupper visited her the first morning, traveling from Cobble Hill to Pier One by Citi Bike, Pier One to Wall Street, and then on to Queens by NYC Ferry, and the rest of the way by kayak. As he paddled across the murky, swiftly moving water, barely escaping death by ferry collision, trash floe, or the charge of a barge, he saw how easily one could deposit a body, or anything else, in the cold New York–area waters. There were so many islands, so many marshes and canals and inlets. Determined to continue his and Elizabeth’s work despite this little hiccup, he’d taken a wooden arm with him in the kayak. He released it in a ferry’s wake and paddled on.

How wonderful that he knew just where to find her. She was locked in a cell, right where she’d been deposited the night before. He knew it was wrong, but he’d even been a bit coy with the lawyers, not returning their calls right away, giving them only limited information, because he’d really almost rather she stayed in jail than leave him again.

Bettina had read The Handmaid’s Tale. She knew about having babies against your will.

“I just got accosted by some kind of weather specialist,” Isabel announced. “He asked me all these really bizarre questions like, ‘Did I feel any fragmentation?’ And then he put his hand on my stomach. Scientists are so creepy.”

Much to Tupper’s disappointment, Elizabeth’s jail time was cut short. Her concerned patrons, including the CEO of Apple, the Italian politician who’d funded her last show at the Venice Biennale, some rich art collector in Iceland, and Roy Clarke himself, bailed her out early. They also wrote letters, lauding her work and clearing her of all malintent, that were published in the New York Times, Artforum, the Wall Street Journal, and Italian Vogue.

Tupper brought her home from Rikers that very day. He cooked a late lunch of fish and noodles and demonstrated his latest prototype.

“It’s the Money Pit,” he explained. “Sort of a cross between a peach pit and a sea sponge.”

Elizabeth stared at it and hugged her bowl. She forked a pile of noodles and fish into her mouth.