Brent Marks Legal Thriller Series: Box Set Two

by Kenneth Eade

  “Of course. Just have them sent over. Can you also send me a copy by email?”

  “No problem.”

  “And, Gee-offrey?”

  “Why do you call me that? It’s Geoffrey.”

  Brent ignored the question. “You know that Bekker was murdered shortly after writing the alleged holographic codicil, don’t you?”

  That caught Gee-offrey by surprise.

  “Murdered? Says who?”

  “The estate’s independent M.E. Just thought you may want to rethink your case before it gets too far along.”

  “No thanks. I’ll need access to the body for our own autopsy.”

  Minutes later, when Brent received the email, it was no surprise that the lead plaintiff on the will contest was one Gerald Finegan. The rest of the group was, for sure, composed of the same Internet stalkers, now unmasked. Funny how the smell of money made them brave enough to shed their alter-egos.

  ***

  Jack jumped on the Finegan lead right away. Since the other anonymous players were also now known, he did a background check on all of them. Nothing unusual. They were all a bunch of over-aged bullies with nothing better to do with their time than to cruise the Internet and cause trouble. And they all apparently thought they could strike it rich on the small-cap stock market. Like Vegas gamblers, when their penny stocks went up, they celebrated. And when they went down, they cried fraud and looked for someone to blame.

  With the data from Trackit Corp. and the background checks, Jack was able to match each of the Internet bullies with an ISP and, therefore, identify them by their anonymous handles. As Brent suspected, Finegan was Defrauded. He would be the first one to be deposed. Then, Stock Sleuth, Truth Seeker, and Flusher.

  ***

  “I want to know everything there is to know about these guys,” said Brent as Jack settled into the chair across the desk in Brent’s office. “Where they live, what they do, who they talk to.”

  “I’m compiling a file on each one.”

  “Can you pull a list from Hotstocks? See who they interact with on the site.”

  “Already done.” Jack pulled a manila folder out of his briefcase and slid it across the desk to Brent.

  “Perfect,” Brent said as he opened the folder and flipped through the reports. “And I want to subpoena their emails and their bank records - everything. Let’s get another round of subpoenas out to Trackit and Hotstocks too, now that we know who they are.”

  Brent quickly dictated subpoenas for Melinda to type out, and Jack waited in Brent’s office until they were ready to be issued and served.

  “What’s this mean, Jack?” he asked, pointing at a line in the report.

  “I was looking for commonalities among all their postings, and found that they all have interacted with The Ghost. But he literally is a specter. There’s no ISP; nothing.”

  “He leaves no digital footprint at all?”

  “None.”

  “Check out this Ghost too, Jack. I want to find out who he is and how he figures into all of this.”

  “You’ve got it,” said Jack as Melinda knocked on the door.

  “Subpoenas, hot off the press.”

  She handed them to Brent, who checked them and slid them over to Jack.

  “Let’s stir up some trouble,” he said.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  The chairs in Brent’s conference room were specifically selected to be uncomfortable. That was the room where all the depositions were taken. A deposition itself was uncomfortable enough, but Brent liked to stack the deck a little bit in his favor whenever he could. Call it the “home court advantage.” Nobody could be comfortable in those chairs.

  Gee-offrey Kelley showed up on time with his client, Gerald Finegan, who had no idea what torture had been planned for him. Gee-offrey bellied up to the conference table and squeezed in to one of the wooden chairs as he set his briefcase on the conference table.

  “Why don’t we just sit on stones, Marks? It would probably be a lot softer,” he said as he attempted to scoot his chair closer to the table, a feat made more difficult by his excess tummy blubber. Finegan planted himself and sat there silently with his usual permanent frown. Brent silently promised to get a rise out of him today.

  “You don’t like my rustic chairs? They were chosen to fit the office décor,” Brent responded.

  “Of course they were.”

  “We could get some extra padding for you, but I didn’t think you would need it.”

  “Very funny, Marks. You don’t think I’m used to fat jokes by now?”

  “Gee-offrey, I’m sorry. I meant no offense.”

  Geoffrey looked around the room, judging the value of the décor like a collection agent.

  “Looks like you’ve got some nice stuff here. This was a good exercise for the debtor’s exam.”

  “Gee-offrey, are you coveting my possessions?”

  “Just looking for stuff to levy the judgment on. I saw your Jag parked outside. Nice. Judge Kronenberg will like seeing that in the contempt citation, especially because he drives a Chevy.”

  “Gee-offrey, we’re not here today on my libel case and the issue of collecting your ridiculous attorney fee. We’re here to get to the bottom of this will and trust contest.”

  The court reporter gave the oath to Finegan and readied herself to type every word that was spoken by everyone in the room, oblivious to the fact that Gee-offrey, who was seated across from her, was ogling her large breasts.

  “Mr. Kelley, are you with us?” asked Brent. Gee-offrey cleared his throat, harrumphed, and said, “Of course, on the record.”

  Brent rattled off a laundry list of instructions, advising Finegan that the penalty of perjury applied to the deposition proceeding, and various rules about speaking in turn so that the court reporter could take down everything that was said. Then he fired the first shot.

  “What do you know about the murder of Allen Bekker?”

  The question struck Finegan straight in the sternum, and seemed to knock the wind out of him.

  “Objection!” Gee-offrey fired off. “Assumes facts not in evidence, and calls for speculation.”

  “You can answer the question, Mr. Finegan. Mr. Kelley’s objection is not going to save you,” said Brent.

  “I-I don’t know anything about the murder of Mr. Bekker,” Finegan stammered.

  “You contend to be a beneficiary under Mr. Bekker’s will, isn’t that correct?”

  “Yes, I am one of his victims.”

  “Did Mr. Bekker steal from you?”

  “Yes, he did.”

  “Really? Did he rob you at gunpoint?”

  “Objection! Argumentative!”

  “No, he didn’t rob me at gunpoint. He defrauded me.”

  “Did he convince you to invest money into Tensun, Inc. stock?”

  “Yes, he did.”

  “But you never spoke with Mr. Bekker before you invested in that stock, did you?”

  “No, but I spoke with him after.”

  “After? Meaning that you demanded that he, personally, pay back your losses?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was Mr. Bekker an officer of Tensun?”

  “No.”

  “Was he a principal or owner of any type?”

  “Not that I know of. He was their stock promoter.”

  “But he never recommended the stock to you?’

  “Not personally.”

  “Who recommended the stock?”

  “It was highly rated by Investacash.com.”

  “Do you have any knowledge that Investacash was owned by Mr. Bekker?”

  “No.”

  “Do you have any knowledge that Mr. Bekker paid or arranged for Investacash to tout the stock to you?”

  “No, but that’s how they work. You pay, and they send out an email alert to their subscribers.”

  “And you are one of their subscribers?”

  “Was.”

  “And did you invest in any other stocks recomm
ended by Investacash?”

  “Yes.”

  “Deals that Mr. Bekker was not involved in?”

  “Objection: calls for speculation.”

  “Yes.”

  “So then why did you murder Mr. Bekker?”

  Finegan gasped and looked as if he would be sick. Gee-offrey bounced up from his chair and swung his arms like a cartoon character. “Objection! Argumentative! Marks, if you continue this line, we will make a motion for a protective order.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  While Brent was giving Finegan a hard time, Jack was dispensing his own version of love to the remaining cyber-stalker plaintiffs. Every one of them would have the pleasure of sitting in the uncomfortable witness chair in Brent’s conference room. Getting personally served with a subpoena is not usually a lot of fun. Jack, having been a cop and also an FBI agent, had a flare for the covert when serving them. His first stop was the 40-year-old cracker board tract house on Bessemer Street in West Hills.

  Jack knocked on Flusher’s door. After a few moments he heard “Who is it?” from inside.

  “Delivery for David Marsen,” said Jack, holding up a small wrapped box in front of the peephole.

  Marsen opened the door. He was dressed in a T-shirt that had not seen a drop of bleach since 1975, and a pair of baggy jeans, and his hair was as unkempt as his breath. “Are you David Marsen?” asked Jack.

  “Yes.”

  Jack handed him the box and the subpoena.

  “What’s this?” asked Marsen.

  “An empty box and a subpoena, Mr. Flusher,” Jack said with a smile.

  Jack next flew up to San Jose. There, in the bedroom community of Milpitas, he found Truth Seeker, alias Myron Talbot, engaged in a spirited conversation with one of his neighbors. After Jack parked and exited his car, he noticed Talbot was in his front yard, complaining to his next door neighbor about the kids’ toys being left out on the sidewalk. Jack walked up to them and said, “Myron Talbot?” Talbot looked up at Jack. “Who wants to know?”

  “I want to know.”

  “Who are you?”

  “Jack Ruder.”

  “Piss off, I don’t know you.”

  The neighbor was smiling, enjoying the spotlight being taken from Talbot. “That’s Myron Talbot, alright,” he said to Jack.

  Talbot glared back at the neighbor.

  “This is for you, Truth Seeker,” said Jack, as he stuffed an envelope in Talbot’s stubby hand.

  Jack didn’t have the pleasure of serving Jeremy Williams, aka Stock Sleuth, since he lived in Minneapolis; but he had been assured by the process server that Stock Sleuth would receive his gift today.

  ***

  Brent rose from his chair and stood eye to eye with Gee-offrey. It just seemed appropriate to face him down.

  “Are you instructing your client not to answer?”

  “Not at this time,” mumbled Gee-offrey, reluctantly.

  “Then sit down, Mr. Kelley. I will withdraw the question.”

  Finegan let out a silent sigh of relief.

  “But I will ask this, Mr. Finegan: What motivated you and your buddies to kill Mr. Bekker and make it look like a suicide?”

  “Objection! Marks, you’re trying my patience!”

  “We didn’t have anything to do with his death.”

  Brent hung on the “we” and forced Finegan to unmask all his co-conspirators, revealing their Internet handles. Then, on a hunch, he launched another probe.

  “Mr. Finegan, who is The Ghost?”

  Finegan’s face turned white, as if all the blood had suddenly drained from it. He reached for a glass of water and took a couple gulps.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Oh, I think you do,” Brent said as he threw a paper in front of Finegan.

  “This is a printout of your interaction with the Hotstocks poster called The Ghost. There’s over a dozen posted messages over a six-week period. I’m surprised you didn’t mention him along with the others.”

  Gee-offrey scanned his copy of the exhibit and squinted at it, like he couldn’t see it well. Beads of sweat had broken out on his forehead.

  “I don’t know who he is,” said Finegan.

  Then Brent took a deep step into the unknown. What the hell, he thought. It’s my deposition and there’s no judge here.

  “What was The Ghost’s involvement with the death of Allen Bekker?”

  Gee-offrey blubbered about, objecting and feigning outrage, but Brent ignored him and kept his eyes trained on Finegan. Sometimes, how a person answers a question is more important than what they actually say. Of course, Finegan claimed not to know what involvement, if any, the Ghost had to do with Bekker’s death, but his eyes disagreed with his statement. They were darting back and forth, and he was licking his lips like he had just dragged himself through the Sahara desert instead of sitting in an air conditioned office, having just gulped down half a glass of water.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  At five o’clock, Brent decided to release Finegan from the deposition. There was nothing more he could get out of him. Gee-offrey asked a few rehabilitating questions, which only exhibited his poor trial attorney skills. Brent felt better about the case than ever. After Gee-offrey and the defeated and flustered Finegan left, Brent retired to his own office to catch up on his phone messages and emails.

  At about 5:15, Melinda popped her head into the office.

  “Hey, Mims, you leaving? See you tomorrow.”

  “Yeah, boss, but I just wanted to let you know that Rebecca Bekker is waiting for you in the waiting room.”

  “Did she make an appointment?”

  “No, she just walked in.”

  “Could you show her in on your way out?”

  “Sure, boss, see you tomorrow,” Melinda said, and waved and walked away.

  Rebecca walked in, a lost child with big, sad eyes.

  “Miss Becker, please come in and have a seat,” said Brent as he stood to greet her.

  “Call me Rebecca. I’d say 'Becky', but I learned to hate “Becky Bekker” growing up.”

  “I fully understand. I know how cruel kids can be. Does your mother know that you’re here?”

  “I don’t need her here, do I? I mean, I’d prefer she wasn’t here. Daddy’s dead and I’m 21 years old.”

  “Yes, and the trust no longer requires your mother’s input. The estate simply goes to you after his death.”

  “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”

  “You know, you’re entitled to be represented by your own attorney.”

  “I know that, but I don’t think I need one. I just wanted to know what was going on with the contest.”

  “We’re in litigation. In fact, we just deposed one of the plaintiffs today.”

  “What’s your opinion of their case?”

  “There are no guarantees, you understand. But honestly, I don’t see their case has much of a chance. All the evidence points to the fact that your father was murdered. I can’t see any judge upholding that handwritten note as a will or codicil under those circumstances.”

  “I’ve tried to talk to the detectives about my father’s case. They won’t tell me anything.”

  “I’ve got the estate’s investigator on that as well. Whatever he finds will aid the investigation.”

  Rebecca looked somewhat relieved. Her heavy eyes lifted a bit. “Thank you,” she said.

  “You’re welcome.”

  “And one more thing. Can you please not tell my mother that I came to see you, or that we spoke?”

  “Sure.”

  “Thanks.”

  When Rebecca left Brent’s office, he couldn’t help but feel sad for the poor little rich girl.

  ***

  About an hour later, Brent finally made his way to his car. It had begun to rain: not the usual scattered sprinkles that he had become accustomed to in Southern California, but a genuine torrential downpour. He loved to listen to the sound of rain on the r
ooftops, especially at night, but he never enjoyed driving in it. That kind of rain was so shocking to people in Santa Barbara that they simply lost all their driving skills.