Judy, thank you for doing this. I hated to ask, but it is very important.
Well, I hope you know, if I got caught it would have cost me my job. But, I guess you realise it hangs by a thin thread already. I hope this is worth it for you.
Judy, unwilling to hold my gaze, pushed through the front door of the sandwich shop and into the shade of the veranda outside. I stood mute by the table gazing down at the envelope. She was genuinely upset, and with every right to be. It was foolhardy asking her to photocopy patient records, but it was the only way I could think of to see if my theory held water.
I snatched up the envelope and joined her outside.
Again, I’m sorry. I wouldn’t have asked you…
Forced, Craig. You forced me to do it.
Okay… Forced. I wouldn’t have if I didn’t think it mattered. I just hope these records will prove me wrong. Then I can destroy them and forget the whole bloody thing.
And just so as you know, this is the last favour, consider us even.
I understand.
Do you? Sometimes I wonder. I don’t know what this is all about, and I don’t want to know, but I do know you’re incredibly naïve in many ways, Craig. And I don’t want to see you get hurt.
We left the shade of the awning and walked west towards the Victoria Gardens shopping centre. Crossing the bridge over the Yarra River, I stopped and turned to face Judy. Below, the water bucked and swirled. The run-off from the heavy storms earlier in the week rousing the river from its end of summer torpor.
Judy. I’ll be fine. Just doing a little digging, that’s all.
Judy’s face was an impassive mask. I reached for her left hand and interlocked her fingers in mine. Her cold, lifeless response told me my cruel and careless treatment of her feelings were still far from forgiven.
And I wish I could take back the way I approached you for this favour.
After a moment, I felt her gently squeeze my hand in return. A brief smile followed. As we continued on our way, I wasn’t completely sure if the smile was in acknowledgement of my feelings for her, or with pity for the fool’s errand I was undertaking.
***
I guessed Eric would be leaving early in the afternoon to get a head start on the long weekend. However, three o’clock came and went with Eric still ensconced in his office. I felt his eyes boring holes in my back. And I felt the presence of the envelope, locked in my desk draw, beckoning to be set free.
A further 30 minutes passed before I heard the words I longed for.
Well, I’m off. Have a good weekend. Don’t screw anything up while I’m gone.
Finally!
Okay, Eric. Have a good weekend.
I watched his retreating figure for a moment before scanning the rest of the floor. With the other bankers long gone, only Doug amongst the assistants remained.
The envelope contained nine pages but listed all patients admitted to the Sisters of Mercy Hospice over the past three years. Judy discovered records going back 15 years, but I thought three years enough to either prove or disprove my theory. And less of a threat of her being caught.
At a glance, it appeared as many as 30 patient’s names were listed on each page, roughly 270 in total. With the hospice only having 28 beds, the amount of turnover was a sobering reminder of the reality facing my mother. I pushed the dark thoughts aside and began my search.
Evelyn Adkins DOB: 13/01/1924 DOD: 01/08/2014.
The page contained additional information on Evelyn, as it did with all the patients, but these three pieces were all I needed. I entered the name into the bank’s client search screen and cross-checked with her date of birth.
A match. My pulse quickened. Of course, all of the bank’s customers would remain in the database for an unlimited amount of time even if they were deceased, so I tried to restrain my mounting sense of unease. I clicked on the name for a deeper dive into account history and found the following:
Evelyn Adkins – ICA $126,234.12 Open & Active
ICA signified the bank’s investment current account. The remainder was self-explanatory. Evelyn Adkins, who died in 2014, held an active account. Furthermore, it listed the client manager – SBTT307 – Eric’s employee code, and a POA (power of attorney) for the account: Garth O’Neal.
I clicked on the account to check for recent activity, still hoping to find this all a misunderstanding, a clerical error, or perhaps… I was running out of excuses. Checking for account activity was my last hope to prove myself wrong.
Still here, Craig? Trying to earn brownie points with the boss? What are you lookin’ at?
Doug’s head poked around the end of the partition separating our cubicles.
I quickly clicked on another open tab and hoped it wasn’t too apparent my heart was trying its best to squeeze through my throat and out my mouth.
Just some training. You ready to get out of here?
Yeah, think so. Want to grab a beer?
Nah, think I’ll pass this time.
Argh, come on. It’s the long weekend. Pack up your shit; we’ll have just the one.
No, I really need to finish this. I’ll meet you there if you like.
Sure, the Temperance on Chapel Street. And if not, I’ll see ya Monday.
A slightly miffed Doug retreated back around the cubicle wall to shut down his computer, tidy up and grab his satchel.
Monday? It took me a moment to recall why we’d be seeing each other, then with a sense of dread, I remembered. The annual Labour Day barbeque at the home of Thom Lewis.
A minute later Doug bounded towards the front door.
Later, mate.
Yeah, see you later.
I positioned the mouse back over the account holder tab and clicked. The screen filled with three months of transaction history for the long since dead Evelyn Adkins.
Six deposits, one every two weeks. Each one for the same amount, $656.32, from the Department of Human Services. Evelyn’s pension payment, regular as clockwork.
The account history also showed three or four additions and subtractions to the total each month for securities bought and sold. Eric still actively trading from the account.
Over the course of the next 30 minutes, I checked another 35 to 40 former patients. I found 10 accounts closed, presumably to maintain some semblance of integrity, but the remainder mirrored Evelyn’s. Regular pension payments to the deceased and evidence in each of trading activity. The only other exception, the occasional outbound wire transfer to accounts held at a branch of Scotiabank in the Cayman Islands.
I signed off from the bank’s operating system and ran a quick calculation in my head. Two hundred and seventy patients over the past three years, perhaps half now closed, an average balance of around $125,000, each with monthly deposits of, on average, $1,000. Plus, gains from the trading of securities.
The scope of the scam Eric and Garth were running hit me as I walked down the front steps leading to Wallace Avenue. The numbers still rattling around in my brain as I unlocked the driver’s side door of the Beast. Total deposits on hand of around $16–17 million with ongoing monthly deposits and annual gains through trading and interest of at least $200,000. All under the umbrella of Eric’s portfolio and controlled by Garth O’Neal.
If the scam weren’t so detestable, you’d think it brilliant. Millions of dollars at Eric’s discretion to buy and sell stock as he pleased. No customer to contact for trading approvals. No angry calls if a trade didn’t pan out as planned. And no next of kin to raise the alarm. Plus, the commission fees Eric generated from each buy and sell order produced another nice side benefit. And all accounts in the control of a solicitor complicit with the plan.
And the periodic wire transfers I’d discovered, always for amounts under the reporting threshold, another deft touch. The proceeds, I assumed, landing in offshore accounts controlled by Eric and Garth, and far removed from the prying eyes of the federal tax authorities. I also assumed they orchestrated a systematic amount of account closures
to maintain appearances. A doctored death certificate the only item needed to wrap everything up in a nice neat package. Who was to know, or care, if the unfortunate patient checked out months or years earlier than their death certificate stated?
***
Crossing the Yarra, continuing north, Chapel Street becomes Church Street and the cocoon of wealth enveloping the suburbs of Toorak and South Yarra quickly begins to unravel. Chic boutiques make way for rug emporiums. Fashionable cafés and trattorias replaced by lower-key pubs and down-at-the-heel sandwich shops.
Stuck in traffic behind a tram unloading passengers across from the Prince Alfred Hotel, I watched a group of four blokes my age, laughing and slapping backs, walk into the bar. Celebratory drinks to usher in the Labour Day weekend about to commence.
I texted Dayne immediately after leaving the bank letting him know I needed to talk to him urgently. Beers with Doug could wait for another day.
Dayne’s reply was brief.
Meet me @ The Yarra
It took a further 30 minutes of fighting the #78 tram, and the late-afternoon Friday traffic, before I pulled into a parking spot around the corner from the Yarra Hotel.
I shrugged off my suit jacket and tie and tossed them onto the back seat, a crumpled ensemble the least of my concerns. A freshening breeze cooled the sweat on my back and tempered the late afternoon sun.
Why all the aggro, mate? Urgent? What happened? They switch out the chocolate croissants for doughnuts in the lunchroom?
Dayne, smiling, elbows resting on the bar, turned from me and continued his slow progress through a glass of Boag’s Lager. Friday evening with the clock nudging 5:30, and the bar at the Yarra Hotel continued to fill. A mismatch of hipster-type city workers and local down-and-outs lined the bar. Some drinking to kick off their weekend, some to forget their work week and others to forget the past 20 years. I slid out the stool he’d saved me, sat down, and ordered a Carlton Draught from the passing bartender.
True enough, I was a little off-kilter when I sent him the text. The truth was, I wasn’t sure what I’d stumbled onto, or perhaps my initial understanding of the matter was way off base. Or more likely, I knew precisely what I’d discovered and now wanted to run and hide from the whole sordid mess. Could it be nothing more than sloppy record keeping? Or was it, as I imagined, an elaborate fraud scheme. The more I tried to piece it together the more my mind became a jumbled mess of conflicting opinions.
I finished my Carlton and held it aloft to the bartender. He nodded and began pouring another.
You THINK, there might be something fishy goin’ on? Jesus, mate! You did go to uni, right? Didn’t happen to sneak in a deductive reasoning class, did you?
For the past 30 minutes over another beer and a shared bowl of chips, I’d laid out to Dayne what I’d discovered.
Craiggo, you’ve walked into a very elaborate fraud scheme, and there’s no telling who else is involved in this.
You think? So, I shouldn’t go to Mr Lewis?
Fuck no! For all you know he’s involved too. And for the amounts you’re talking about; they won’t just pat you on the head as they push you out the door and give you a nice letter of recommendation for your CV.
How about the police?
Dayne scratched his chin and pondered my question. He drained the last of his Boag’s before answering.
Possibly. Let’s do some diggin’ first. You ready to get out of here?
Riflebirds were setting up on the cramped stage; I’d have to catch them another time. We paid our tab and headed out the door.
***
At Dayne’s I dragged the stool from the front room and parked it behind his office chair in what was once his bedroom. A small foldaway bed occupied one corner, but Dayne’s elaborate workstation area all but shunted it out into the hallway.
As his hands flitted from one keyboard to another, his fingers a blur of activity, Dayne explained his little side-line operation.
Without any trace of ego, he talked of how in the world of hacking, he’d become a master of the art. His extracurricular activities after work hours started out as a lark, but quickly drew the attention of other professionals in cyber-space who then actively recruited his services.
The income he derived from random corporate espionage assignments far out-stripped what he made at Harvey Norman; however, with the work not being exactly legal, he thought it prudent to keep up the façade of the day job.
Judging by the sparse and dilapidated furniture in the house, I gathered the extra income went towards computer equipment and musical instruments.
What we’re going to do here is an attempt to hack into O’Neal’s law office. I want to see if we can determine how involved the firm is, or, if this is just a lone-wolf operation.
And this helps us how?
Well, for one. If the entire law practice is involved, we aren’t talking a few million any longer. And, if so, the stakes go way higher.
And if they’re not involved?
Then I’d say it’s more than likely just a two-man operation, though your employer should’ve had a fair idea of what’s going on. Right?
He was spot-on. The banking term used to describe their lack of attentiveness sprang to mind.
Willful blindness.
What’s that?
The term came up at some point in my training; I believe when we covered money laundering. And now it clawed its way back from my subconscious.
Willful blindness is the term used to describe events when a bank employee deliberately avoids knowledge of the facts. For example, choosing not to ask where large deposits come from, or how the client earns his living.
It means to turn a blind eye to what’s happening.
Dayne stopped typing and listened intently to my description of the term. He nodded solemnly before smiling and replying.
“I know nuffink,” the good old Sgt Schultz defence. Yeah, I think you nailed it there.
I couldn’t help laughing thinking about the old television series, Hogan’s Heroes. Come to think of it; Garth O’Neal was shaped a little like the old prison camp sergeant.
And I believe we may have to go to plan B.
How so?
Dayne stared pensively at a screen filled with incomprehensible lines of computer code.
Well, with most companies the level of site encryption is at a very basic level. I can usually find a way in through a back door in no time at all. These bastards have set up a system which blocks me at every turn.
If they’re blocking you, can they trace the hack back to you?
My vast knowledge of hacking could be written on the back of a matchbook – with room to spare. Dayne chose to ignore the naïveté of my question.
No. Before I even get to their servers, I re-route my signal through multiple IP addresses all over the world. They’d be bouncing around the world playing “where’s Wally?” for days before they ever got close to a sniff of me.
I wasn’t too sure what all that meant, but I trusted Dayne to know what he was doing.
So, what’s plan B?
In the simplest terms possible he explained what he was going to do, and how I could help him.
And if plan B doesn’t work?
Don’t worry, Craiggo. I’ve got more plans than you’ve had hot dinners.
Dayne shot me a hard to read smile. Part sly like a fox, part crazy as a loon. In the greenish glow of the screens illuminating the side of his face, I wasn’t sure which description was more apt.
When’s the next time you’ll see old Garth O’Neal?
***
Nine o’clock Monday morning and Dayne and I were sitting in the Beast watching and waiting. I’d parked across the road, four houses down, from the home of Thom Lewis.
You sure he’ll be here?
Dayne casually peeled off small pieces of plastic from the Beast’s door panel. His feet rested on her dash and his backside – he’d slunk down so low – almost slid off the front of the passenger seat.
I sat nervously behind the wheel watching luxury cars, one after another, pull into the Lewis’s circular drive.
I’m sure.
I’d heard through the grapevine it was corporate suicide to no-show an affair at the Lewis’s. One day, Eric recounted the story of when an IT consultant missed a cocktail party. Never mind it was a very minor assignment. Lewis cancelled the contract the next day; the news broken to the consultant nursing a broken leg in hospital from a car accident.
Absolutely no excuses.
Thom kept Williams & Teacher on retainer to handle all of the bank’s legal work. Garth O’Neal wouldn’t dare miss today’s soirée.
Two talking heads on a local sports talk station shouted back and forth over the chances of another Hawthorn premiership. The first round of the season was still two weeks away, and yet they had all the answers. Their inane chatter I usually let slide as mere background noise, today it was like they’d taken a cheese grater to my brain. As I reached forward to change the station a silver Range Rover glided past and pulled to the kerb in front of Lewis’s home.
That’s him.
I watched Garth O’Neal, a heavy-set man of medium height, lever himself from the driver’s seat. He wore a dark blue short-sleeved shirt and a pair of oversized white tennis shorts hanging down to his knees. The skinny white legs dangling from the leg openings looked like two ice-cream sticks trying valiantly to prop up a circus tent.
Turn A Blind Eye Page 16