The Last Refuge sahm-1

by Chris Knopf

  “I didn’t know you brought co-counsel,” he said, roughing up Eddie’s head. “A mix, right? Setter-lab?”

  “Name’s Eddie. Origin’s a mystery.”

  “Who’s a good boy? Hey, there’s a good boy. How ’bout the ears, how ’bout a little scratch …”

  Eddie ate it up. Their display of mutual admiration lasted so long I started to feel forgotten. I made a little noise.

  “So, Sam, let’s go find a room. Bring your friend.”

  The office area behind reception was built out with raised paneling and thick molding, all painted a soothing off-white. The carpet was deep forest green and lint free. It was virtually silent.

  We settled in a conference room next to his office. More books and high-back chairs, tea sets and original oil paintings. Abby would know if the pieces were authentic or the overall design true to form. You could rate it by how hard she tried to hide the sneer.

  Johnson took off his jacket before he sat down, so I did the same. I put a yellow pad, a stack of loose papers from my Regina file and a plain white envelope, face down, on the table in front of me. He looked down at the envelope then back at me.

  “So, what can I help you with?”

  I liked him a lot better in person than over the phone. I think I would have even without Eddie to break the ice.

  “I’m not a lawyer, I’m an engineer. I was appointed administrator by Suffolk County, so sorry if I don’t know how this stuff works.”

  “I think I explained estate planning isn’t within our expertise.”

  “That’s right. But zoning is.”

  “You’d mentioned you had information that might be important to our firm.”

  “If you could help me with the protocol.”

  “Certainly.”

  “I told you this was sensitive. In a moment you’ll understand why.”

  I tapped the white envelope, then pulled my hand away when he caught me doing it. He still looked relaxed, but caution was forming in the air.

  “You have my attention.”

  I took a breath.

  “Okay, say I accidentally discovered there was a criminal act committed during the course of Bay Side’s development efforts, is that something I should talk to you about, or Milton Hornsby, or should I just go to the police?”

  I’d spent a lot of time with lawyers when I was running my company’s technical services division. We had a complicated array of scary legal threats, like product liability, patent infringement, unfair trade practices, environmental compliance, as well as the usual human resources and regulatory hazards that stalk every operation. I liked our lead corporate guy. Unlike his boss, Mason Thigpen, he had a degree in engineering. And a sense of humor, which meant he had a little perspective and imagination. One thing he taught me was what you say or don’t say, when and where, what you do or don’t do, how you do it and why, are all perceived in the legal world through a filter that is entirely invisible to the rest of us, and entirely outside normal intuition. What they can’t see is a straight ball right up the middle.

  “And this involves our firm?” he asked in carefully measured tones.

  “I don’t think so. But I don’t know.”

  “This is also likely beyond our purview.”

  “You’re probably right, but here’s my problem. I’ve tried to speak with Milton Hornsby about this, and he won’t do it. So I asked this lawyer friend of mine if I can make Hornsby talk to me, and my friend says no. So, I talk to Hornsby’s lawyer, Jackie Swaitkowski, and of course she’s bound by attorney-client privilege, so she can’t help me. The only guy left, who I know is connected with this thing, is you. If you can’t help me, I don’t know what’s next.”

  Johnson was studying me like a shrink. Looking for signs of underlying truth. Something to tell him to either throw me out or keep me talking.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, “but I’m having difficulty connecting our work on a straightforward zoning appeal in Southampton with some sort of criminality, which you haven’t specified or revealed in any way.”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  “And further, why, if you believe there’s been illegality, you haven’t already contacted the police.”

  “That’s the other problem. I’m not sure about that part, either.”

  Before he could say anything I said, “As you know, Bay Side Holdings is part of a trust, Bay Side Trust.”

  “We were retained by Bay Side Holdings,” said Johnson.

  “Right. But as I see it, the only people who really matter in this are the guys who actually own all that property, along with whoever’s controlling the trust. Which could be the same, for all I know. The beneficiaries, and those with fiduciary responsibility. Am I seeing this right?”

  Johnson brought Eddie into the conversation for the first time.

  “I think your master is trying to score a little free legal advice.”

  We all grinned at each other.

  “Actually, my lawyer friend’s already offered. It’s just, before I ask him, I’m seeing if you can help me out.”

  “Is that what you’re doing, Sam?”

  “Yeah, he’s a big-time guy. It’s embarrassing to ask for favors.”

  “I still don’t see what sort of favor you’re asking of me.”

  “Who are they?”

  “Who?”

  “Who runs the trust?” I asked.

  “The trustee?”

  “Yeah. And for whom?”

  Johnson readjusted himself in the big chair, which had a back that went up way past his head. Made it harder to shoot him from behind.

  “I can’t help you. I don’t know.”

  “Who besides Milton Hornsby?”

  “You still haven’t given me a sense of this alleged criminality.”

  “He’s the only one you know? Him and Jackie?”

  He lifted his hands, resigned to his state of ignorance. We sat quietly for a moment, letting a little dead air fill the room. Stalemate.

  “Who’s your friend?” Johnson asked, finally. “With the free advice?”

  “Burton Lewis. You know him?”

  Johnson actually sat up a little in the tall leather chair. It made me feel bad to use Burt’s name, but I knew he wouldn’t mind. Though my soul didn’t feel much improved for it.

  “Big-time indeed.”

  I started to gather up my stuff.

  “I appreciate your fitting me in. I’m sure you’re busy.”

  He watched me stand without getting up himself. His expression, always neutral, gave a little.

  “You realize I’m constrained by the same attorney-client privilege as Ms. Swaitkowski,” he said.

  I stopped messing with my stuff and sat back down.

  “Sure.”

  “As is Mr. Hornsby. It’s an essential ethical principle.”

  “I’m getting that.”

  “In fact, it’s about the highest level of trust imposed on all legal representatives. On par with the fiduciary duty required of a trustee, though that person needn’t be a lawyer. The law is very clear on the magnitude of that responsibility.”

  “Okay.”

  “So, if, for example, Mr. Hornsby were both an attorney and a trustee, you might say he’s in a double bind. It would explain perfectly, if that were the case, why he’d be unwilling to discuss anything related to Bay Side Holdings with you. Or anyone else. If that were the situation he faced, which I’m not suggesting it is.”

  “It’s a hypothetical.”

  “Call it a lesson in law, which my partners would feel better I dispensed gratis than actual advice.”

  “That’s really interesting. I still like learning things, even at my age.”

  “If there was any question over Mr. Hornsby’s competence to do his job, to preserve the body of the trust, there’d be grounds to take some action on the part of the beneficiaries.”

  “Whoever they are.”

  “Or, civil authorities could intervene on the beneficiaries�
� behalf, if there was clear evidence the fiduciary duty was being neglected or abused.”

  “Hypothetically.”

  “In Mr. Hornsby’s case. We’re simply discussing the issue in global terms.”

  “As part of the lesson.”

  “Exactly. Mr. Lewis would tell you the same if you asked.”

  “Got it.”

  He looked at his watch.

  “And that’s about all the legal training I can afford to put in today. Unless there was something else.”

  “That’s up to you.”

  “I think I’ve exhausted my ability to help.”

  “I appreciate it.”

  I stood up again and went through the routine of gathering my papers. As before, Johnson kept his seat.

  “As I recall,” he said, “you had something to show me.”

  He nodded at the papers I was stacking together.

  “I did?”

  “The envelope?”

  On my way out that morning I’d grabbed a handful of unopened mail off the kitchen table. I hadn’t bothered to look at the one I’d picked for a prop. I flipped it over. It was my monthly statement from Harbor Trust.

  “Oh, this.”

  I dropped it face up on the table. He reached over and picked it up.

  “Cute.”

  Not really, I was about to say, when he said, “I get the point.”

  “Not too subtle?” I asked, hoping the point would come to me as well in the next few seconds.

  He looked amused.

  “Well, I’ve never known a financing source who wasn’t a ball of nerves over a big development. Could give you some leverage with Mr. Hornsby. Not that I’m suggesting that.”

  “Another lesson?”

  “Not in ethics. Their interest is strictly money. No moral conflicts there.”

  “I guess you’d consider the Bay Side plan pretty big.”

  “For Harbor Trust. At least for the branch office in Southampton. Huge would be a better word.”

  “Impress the hell out of the home office.”

  “Oh yeah,” said Johnson, finally getting up to steer me back out of his office and, with any luck, out of his life. “Roy Battiston would sell his soul to get that thing back on track.”

  I was tempted to stop at a place I knew in Tribeca that had been there since before the revival, where I knew they’d welcome dogs who had the right introduction, but I also knew I’d get to talking and probably drink too much, and probably insist on driving home, then maybe kill us both or somebody else on the way back to the East End. It didn’t seem fair to Eddie to risk it. So instead I retrieved the Grand Prix and beat it out of there before the really big commute got underway. I followed the same route home, which was fairly unimpeded after dropping down to the Southern State and making a beeline for the Sunrise Highway.

  Night fell before we made it to the cottage. Eddie was ecstatic to be back on terra firma. While he ran reconnaissance I filled my big aluminum tumbler with Absolut and parked myself outside on one of the Adirondack chairs. It was cold, but my RISDE sweatshirt, vodka and cigarettes kept me warm.

  For some reason, I felt all jammed up around my chest and throat. I was hoping the vodka would loosen things up. It was a prodigal feeling, one I remembered from the past but hadn’t felt for years. I didn’t like it. Too close to home, too much like everything I never wanted to feel again.

  The wind off the Peconic was sharp on my face. Only eighty miles from Manhattan, but the climate was ten degrees colder and heavy with wet, salty air. The water was black slate, not a trace of color. The wind blew from the west, but the surf was moving straight into it from the east. The resulting collision clipped the tops off the little bay waves, shooting foamy white water off the crests in little bursts of spray.

  “Goddammit,” I said to the Little Peconic, who offered nothing in return.

  SEVEN

  I’D FALLEN ASLEEP in the Adirondack chair, so it took me a while to figure out where I was, much less realize there was somebody using a flashlight to poke around Regina’s house. Eddie was standing next to the chair, growling.

  I put Eddie in the house, closed the basement door and retrieved the Harmon Killebrew bat from next to the side door. Then I opened the trunk of the Grand Prix and took out my big Mag light, a club in itself. I tucked the white collar of my shirt down into the RISDE sweatshirt and strolled over toward Regina’s.

  The tumbler of Absolut was clogging my brain and weighing on my limbs. I shook my head to clear it out. I stopped for a second to make sure I had my balance. Good enough. I got a firm grip on the bat and walked as quietly as I could toward the house. The lights were out in the neighborhood, but there was plenty of moonlight. My breath formed little clouds in the damp cold. The miniature waves of the Little Peconic were the only sound. Even the insects had all gone to bed. The light inside Regina’s house flashed across a double window. The drapes were drawn, but I paused for a moment behind a big hydrangea in case I’d been seen. Nothing. I went on.

  Like most of the houses on Oak Point, Regina’s was a single-story, asbestos-shingled bungalow. There were two ways out, the side and the back. The back of the house faced the driveway, so the choice was a toss up. I looked around for a car and saw something parked between a few of Regina’s overgrown arborvitae, about five feet off the driveway. I got a little closer. Pickup truck. No black BMWs.

  I took a chance and approached the pickup. It was empty. I stuffed the bat through my belt, took out the flashlight, leaned up against the front fender of the truck and waited.

  The wee hours of an October night on eastern Long Island are dank and quiet. I wondered if standing out there alone made any sense, armed with just a three-quarter baseball bat and a Mag light. I decided it made no sense at all. I thought about calling someone to come over and stand there with me. But I didn’t know anyone well enough to bother at this time of night, except Joe Sullivan, and I didn’t want to do that. He might not mind, but then I’d have to go all the way back to the house, wake him up, listen to his bullshit and nurture his dignity. It seemed like too much work. Better to just risk my life. Simpler that way.

  I heard an occasional car out on Noyack Road. I watched a small plane flying overhead, probably headed for the airport in East Hampton. Probably some over-achiever from the city, all tired out from playing hardball with the big boys. Getting ready to curl up in his twenty-thousand-square-foot hideaway by the sea.

  A cat had a brief encounter with something in the woods a few doors down from Regina’s. The sound prickled the hairs on the back of my neck. The light inside Regina’s was in the kitchen. I saw a shadow pass in front of the window. Went nicely with the sound of the cat fight. I calmed myself and secured my footing.

  The back door opened and a man, medium height and build, stepped out on the back stoop. He wore a short coat, cap and boots and was carrying a large shopping bag. I couldn’t see much else in the low light.

  I stepped away from the truck, a few feet from the driver’s side door. I hoped I was completely hidden in shadow.

  The guy stopped at the truck door and dug his left hand in his pocket for his keys. I walked up behind him, grabbed his right hand by the wrist, yanked it up behind his back and shoved him into the truck’s left front fender. As I shoved him I twisted him around so his left hand was pinned against the truck body. His breath popped out in a surprised little whoof.

  “One wiggle, and I’ll break your arm,” I said into his ear.

  “Fuck you, you fucking ass wipe cock-sucking mother fucker,” he said, whipping his head around. A tangled bunch of red hair popped out from under his cap.

  “Jimmy Maddox, where did you get that mouth?”

  “Let go and I’ll show you.”

  I let him go and dropped back a few steps, pulling the bat out of my belt.

  “You’re a dickhead, mister. You really are. You scared the shit out of me.”

  “What’s with the sneaking around?”

  “I�
��m not sneaking.”

  “Oh, really. Flashlight in the middle of the night.”

  “I’m just here pickin’ up some stuff.” He looked over at the Harmon Killebrew bat. “Whattaya gonna do, club me?”

  “Not yet.”

  “I’m not doing anything wrong.”

  I gestured with the stick.

  “What’s in the bag?”

  He just looked at me.

  “Who the fuck are you, anyway? Who made you such a big fucking deal?”

  “Step away from the bag.”

  Even in the low light, I could see him bunch his shoulders and lean forward, ready to launch. Indecision formed around him like a cloud.

  “Don’t do anything dumb, Jimmy. I’m really not in the mood.”

  “It’s just some shit from the house. She’s not usin’ it.”

  “Why the late hour?”

  “I was at my girlfriend’s in the Village. I just stopped on the way back. I don’t have to ask your fucking permission.”

  “Well, actually, you do. I’m like the official guardian of Regina’s stuff.”

  “You’re more like an official pain in my ass.”

  I tapped him with the bat to move him out of the way. He moved a half-step, enough to let me pick up the bag. It was a doubled-up grocery store bag with handles. It was heavy.

  “What do you got in here, Regina’s barbells?”

  “Fuck you.”

  “You should work on the invective, Jimmy. It’s tiresome.”

  As I talked I went through the bag. There were two folded towels on top. Underneath was a collection of kitchen utensils—knives, ladles, big spoons—and a pair of cast iron frying pans, which explained all the weight.

  “What’s for dinner?”

  He stuck his hands in his pockets and leaned up against the truck. He’d decided he was finished talking. But I hadn’t.

  “You know, I’ll give you all this stuff, and more, if you just ask. You don’t have to sneak around.”

  “I wasn’t sneaking.”

  “What’s this? A sentimental journey?”