Whipping Boy

by Allen Kurzweil

  GX 316. Wire transfer confirmation ($27,000) from Barbara Laurence to Barclay Consulting Group. [Click!]

  GX 270. Contact report from Merrill Lynch on meeting with representatives of the Badische Trust Consortium. [Click!]

  GX 110. Handwritten $90.3 billion tally (“Assets to Finance Deals”) drafted on Clifford Chance legal stationery. [Click!]

  GX 361. Creditanstalt flowchart documenting funds transferred from a Vienna account in the name of Brian Sherry to the Barclay Consulting Group. [Click!]

  GX 415. Photograph showing the president of Malta greeting Prince Robert (with Cesar in the background). [Click!]

  GX 967. Title and dealer invoice for spindrift-white Jaguar purchased by Brian Sherry at Manhattan Jaguar. [Click!]

  Taking unauthorized pictures in a building occupied by gun-toting law enforcement officers makes me feel like a spy. More precisely, a cowardly spy. No spook worth his cyanide pill would steer clear of the restricted materials near the door.

  I finish with the public records by noon. The off-limits stuff beckons. I peer around the room. There don’t appear to be any security cameras, though who knows what’s mounted inside the AC vents. My curiosity ratchets up, and so does my anxiety. What if someone were to catch me with my hand in the cookie jar?

  For an hour at least, fear trumps temptation. Then the second-guessing begins. Why did the staffer leave me alone with material he didn’t want me to look at? Wasn’t I expected to be—what’s the word I’m looking for—nosy?

  The impulse to peek continues to grow. Actually, the staffer never said I wasn’t allowed to snoop. He only said that he didn’t have the authority to allow me to snoop. There’s a difference. Did he make the statement to establish plausible deniability? I’m pretty sure he did. Still, I’m unwilling to face the consequences of being wrong.

  Around one o’clock, my indecisiveness becomes unbearable. I slip out of the interrogation room, head down to the lobby, retrieve my cell phone and ID, leave the building, and call the magazine editor who commissioned the search for Cesar. I update her about my predicament and ask for legal guidance. She calls back a few minutes later. “Go for it,” she tells me. “Our lawyer says it’s fine.”

  The moment I receive her go-ahead, I feel like a complete doofus. Suddenly it’s so obvious. Of course I’m supposed to poke through the files.

  I race back into the building, subject myself to another round of security checks, and reach the interrogation room with barely an hour in which to review the unauthorized papers. At first I try examining the material in small batches. (Less to hide if someone enters the room.) But that proves impractical when I come upon a carton crammed with the contents of Sherry’s carry-on bag.

  I dump the stuff on the table and snap a bunch of pictures. The box includes three international cell phones, one portable printer, hundreds of business cards, and a marked-up copy of the International Herald Tribune. Some of the paper’s classifieds, taken out by “individuals seeking funds,” are circled in ballpoint, with the words sent letter and contacted scribbled next to the names of potential marks.

  The impounded bag also includes a copy of a $246 welfare check from the public assistance division of New York’s Department of Social Services. The business cards in the box make me wonder which name he used when depositing his welfare checks. Colonel Brian Sherry of the Badische Trust Consortium? Sir Brian Sherry of the House of Badische? Major Sir Sherry, Ambassador Plenipotentiary of the Knights of Malta? Colonel Brian Sherry-Berwick, Managing Trustee for Badische Anlage Treuhand? Brian D. Sherry, Doctor of Business Administration, Finance, and Management? Dr. Brian Sherry, Director of Highfit Holdings, Hong Kong? Or perhaps—this was my favorite card of the bunch—Brian Shaer, Director of B.S. Financial Services?

  I repack the carry-on items and move on.

  The next box contains Cesar’s Presentencing Report, or PSR. Prepared by the US Probation Office in April 2003, the thirteen-page document includes a personal history; a financial accounting (“Assets: $16,500. Liabilities: $84,800. Net worth: -$68,300”); and a brief psychological overview, which reveals another unsettling parallel between my nemesis and me (“Defendant suffers from General Anxiety Disorder, DSM IV, 300.02”). It also provides his employment record, a drug history (“The defendant admitted that he first used cocaine at 22 and last used it in June 2002. The defendant admitted that he used marihuana at age 18 and last used marihuana in September 2002”), and a list of prior crimes.

  It’s in this last section that I finally hit pay dirt. Quilty’s vague reference to “criminal things” is clarified with telegraphic efficiency: “Date of arrest 8/16/90 ‘Possession of 30 grams of cocaine.’ Oslo Police Dept., 2 Years custody.”

  Later, when I tell Max about the cocaine smuggling, he expresses dismay (and a knowledge of drug laws that he assures me is gleaned from The Wire): “Two years for thirty grams? Cesar caught a break. He’d be serving a dime if he’d been busted in Baltimore.”

  Sherry’s confiscated carry-on, the Trust’s mobile office, included business cards with a half dozen aliases and a marked-up Herald Tribune.

  PART IX

  ON YOUR MARK

  Revealing too much information weakens your positional power.

  Cesar Teague, “Negotiate Your Way to More Sales”

  One has to mature gradually towards one’s enemy as towards one’s best friend.

  Hans Keilson, The Death of the Adversary

  INJUNCTION LIFTED

  The drug conviction came as a relief. It was a victimless crime, which suggested that whatever danger Cesar might pose was unlikely to involve overt acts of violence. I had known for some time that if I had any hope of getting a better sense of the guy, we would have to meet. That meant convincing Françoise (and myself) that the benefits of a reunion—if one could be arranged—outweighed the potential risks.

  I waited a few weeks before making the pitch. I told Françoise pretty much what I’d told myself. Yes, Cesar was a felon twice over—convicted on multiple counts of fraud in US federal court and for bringing illicit drugs into Norway. And yes, he had ties to a thug who had been employed by the Mob. But since he himself had no known record of violence, I’d concluded that a properly planned and cautiously executed tête-à-tête posed only limited danger.

  Françoise disagreed. Vehemently. She pointed out that Cesar could retaliate nonviolently. “That’s how con men work.”

  “I’m pretty sure I can handle whatever he throws my way,” I claimed.

  “J’espère,” she said. I hope so.

  So what next? Even under the best of circumstances, there was no reason to think Cesar would be willing to talk. We weren’t exactly long-lost friends, and his recent prosecution only increased the likelihood that he’d tell me to fuck off.

  Compounding those concerns was the practical impediment of not knowing which Cesar to contact. If I got in touch with Cesar Viana, as he was called before he was released from Lompoc, he’d probably assume I knew about Badische. Web searches for that name now pulled up dozens of links to press accounts of his conviction. But if I reached out to Cesar under one of his postpenitentiary aliases, that would preclude bringing up Aiglon and thus nullify the whole point of the meeting.

  I was similarly indecisive about how to make contact. Should my opening salvo be framed as a request or an offer? What, if anything, would make Cesar want to talk to me about our shared experiences and his subsequent life? Should I introduce the possibility of financial gain?

  It was impossible to ignore the irony of the situation. The questions I was asking myself are the very questions a swindler poses before closing in on his mark. Why should that have surprised me? Spending a few years thinking about hustlers is bound to throw your moral compass out of whack. Lie down with dogs, get up with fleas.

  I wasted a few months evaluating various ornate come-ons before realizing that any attempt to con a con man would end disastrously. Best to leave such contrivances to filmmakers and professiona
l cheats. If I did get the chance to confront Cesar, I would do so without artifice: as a writer and a former roommate working through memories of childhood trauma.

  While I was dithering, Cesar kept himself busy. After Lompoc, he became, in quick succession: a producer of feature films, a “Lifestyle Entrepreneur” promoting seven-figure income opportunities in four-minute YouTube clips, the international marketing manager for an IT company based in Bangalore, a health adviser, a scriptwriter, an essayist on matters of business negotiation, a motivational speaker, a home business coach, and the regional distributor for a line of aloe vera products manufactured by an Arizona billionaire named Rex. His ceaseless self-transformation reminded me of a clever board book Max had as a kid; it lets the reader flip tabs to replace a Stetson with a tiara on the head of a cowboy and put a pair of leather chaps on a queen.

  “FIND SOMEONE IN YOUR NETWORK”

  In April 2010, I find the opening I’m looking for. Around the time Cesar is wrapping up his five years of court-mandated probation, he joins a social networking site called Plaxo under an alias. That, in itself, isn’t useful. What is useful is that he includes Aiglon College among his educational affiliations. Why the revived association? I can’t know for sure, but I have a theory: he’s trolling for new clients.

  Whatever the motive, the commingling of Cesar’s past and present identities gives me an unthreatening answer to a question he’s sure to ask when I attempt to make contact: How did you find me?

  I sign up for Plaxo and include Aiglon in my educational profile. But before I have a chance to plot my next move, something unnerving happens. Cesar deletes his boarding school affiliation while keeping the rest of his profile page intact. From one moment to the next, my unthreatening access point slams shut. Has Cesar removed his name from the alumni group because my name now appears on it? Is it possible he knows I’m pursuing him? After all, I’ve spoken to dozens of people connected to his case. One of them might have squealed.

  I fret over the digital disconnection until Max points out that it doesn’t matter. I can still get in touch. “You could have downloaded his info and waited to get back in touch. You don’t have to know he changed his profile.”

  Bolstered by my son’s logic, I fire off an innocuous email:

  Dear Cesar,

  Are you the same Cesar who went to Aiglon College with me in 1971? . . . If you are send signs of life. Tell me what you’re up to. (I write children’s books and make science kits for kids.)

  All the best,

  Allen (from Belvedere)

  Because of the time difference between Providence and San Francisco, I dispatch my seemingly innocent query in the afternoon. I want Cesar to be awake when it lands in his in-box. I’m hoping for a quick reply. Crazy, I know, given how much time has elapsed since last we spoke.

  Well, I don’t get a quick reply. In fact, I get no reply at all.

  Is he blowing me off? The prospect of never talking to him unsettles me. Man things have changed. For the longest time, I was afraid of confronting Cesar. Now I’m afraid of not confronting him.

  A few months after the failed Plaxo overture, Cesar opens a Facebook account. (Actually, he opens two—one under his original name and another under an alias.) He apparently likes jazz, hiking, martial arts, and self-help best sellers containing numbers in their titles: The Tenth Insight, The 7 Habits of Highly Effective People, 365 Days of Richer Living. More significantly, he again joins the alumni group of our alma mater.

  Renewed opportunity buoys my mood. I’m determined not to blow it. Instead of emailing Cesar directly, I decide to let Facebook make the introductions by friending a few dozen Aiglon graduates—some of whom I don’t even know—and waiting for the social network’s algorithm to play matchmaker. Sure enough, after two weeks of promiscuous outreach, I receive an auto-generated message encouraging me to friend Cesar. I wait a day before clicking the button that executes the request.

  Four hours later, Cesar clicks the thumbs-up icon. His acceptance comes as a huge relief and dispels my earlier worry that he knows what I’m up to. (The Plaxo query, I suspect, landed in a junk folder.)

  The timing couldn’t be better. My publisher is flying me to San Francisco in a couple of weeks to promote a science kit I developed with Max. That presents me with the perfect backstory, as well as a convenient reason to propose a face-to-face reunion. I send my new Facebook friend another bland email:

  Dear Cesar,

  Wow, it’s been nearly forty years since we last saw each other. You’ve gotten thinner and I’ve gotten, well, let’s just say I’ve gotten LESS thinner. I see you’re in SF. I’ll be there next week for Maker Faire (in San Mateo). It’d be a blast to catch up.

  Cheers, Allen (from Belvedere)

  Two days go by with no reply, so I resend the message, tacking on a question in the hopes of teasing out a response: “P.S. Where was that Facebook picture of you taken? I’m guessing that’s the Golden Gate Bridge in the background.”

  The postscript query does the trick. Six hours later, I receive this response:

  Hi Allen,

  Cool and I’m in town next week. . . . We can meet for lunch or happy hour!

  The photo was taken up on the other side of the Cliff House.

  Thanks and call me Monday afternoon when you’re in town and let’s chat then!

  REUNION

  I arrive in San Francisco on a Tuesday and arrange to have lunch with Cesar that Thursday. On Wednesday, I scope out the setting of our rendezvous, a Thai joint in the Panhandle called Phuket. The food is pretty good and the two uniformed cops eating curry a few tables away from me give the place a reassuring vibe. The night before our meeting, I sleep horribly. By six a.m. Thursday I’m standing over an open travel bag, worrying about what to wear. (Once more, shades of senior prom.) Tie and jacket might play to Cesar’s formal side. After all, the Badische dress code endorsed “French-cuff shirt, with tasteful cuff links” and “Conservative silk necktie with clip or tack.” But that was before Cesar changed his name, grew a goatee, and embarked on a career in film. I decide to wear what makes me comfortable. And since I’m the type who protects dress shoes with plastic bags, I opt for jeans, sneakers, and a no-iron button-down.

  I reach Phuket way too early and end up biding my time in a hardware store until an alert goes off on my phone. As I’m entering the restaurant, I find myself wondering if the cops from the previous day will be back. It couldn’t hurt to have backup. Then another thought hits: What if the cops are inside and one of them says something to me? Given Cesar’s recent legal difficulties, even a casual nod of acknowledgment from a law enforcement officer could sabotage the reunion before it begins.

  My fears turn out to be unfounded. The patrolmen aren’t on hand. In fact, their table is now occupied by a convicted felon—my convicted felon. Hunched over a menu, Cesar doesn’t see me come in. I give him the once-over before approaching. The goatee is gone, but he’s wearing the same black paisley shirt he had on four years earlier, while he was raising funds for a film. (According to the web, he’s still looking for financing.)

  He soon spots me and waves. When I reach his table, Cesar smiles, extends a hand, and says, “We’ve got to stop meeting this way.”

  HOUSE PHOTO

  “Long time no see,” I respond. “You’re looking good.”

  That’s a lie, the first of many we will exchange. Cesar is not looking good. He’s looking hungover. And the fact that he’s wearing a shirt that’s at least four years old suggests his current professional activities aren’t nearly so lucrative as the ones that landed him in Lompoc.

  “What’ve you been up to, Allen?”

  “I’m a writer. Novels, mostly. Children’s books. A little journalism. Oh, and I just released a science kit I developed with my son.” I hope I’m sounding calm. It’s hard to know. If the Badische fraud has taught me anything, it’s that deception makes me awkward and self-conscious. I provide a brief rundown of my promotional schedule, grate
ful for the cover story. “Anyhoo. What about you?”

  “I do a couple things,” Cesar says. “Mostly in sales and marketing.” He pulls two business cards from his wallet and places them on the table.

  I reach for the closer of the two. “‘Founder, NextLevel Consulting’?”

  “I manage a team of experts who offer a broad range of strategic services to small- to medium-size businesses.”

  “Impressive. What kind of services?”

  “Whatever’s needed. We target firms generating revenues of fifty million and up. Companies that have an interest in expanding to, let’s say, Europe or Australia.”

  I’m tempted to say he’s being modest since his consulting website lists Xerox, McDonald’s, Cisco, Apple, British Telecom, Hewlett-Packard, Disney, Sony, and DreamWorks among its clients. Instead, I pick up the second card, which indicates that Cesar moonlights as the regional sales manager for something called Forever Living Products. “Pretty ambitious name.”

  “We’re the world’s largest grower, distributor, and producer of aloe vera. Allen, are you familiar with the health benefits of aloe vera?”

  “It’s for sunburns, right?”

  “Not only. It can be taken internally, as well.”

  While I’m learning way, way too much about the nutraceutical benefits of a proprietary aloe vera hybrid grown, harvested, and bottled in the Dominican Republic, a waitress comes by to take our orders. I go with a Pan-Asian chicken special. Cesar opts for a spicy seafood dish. It seems he still has a thing for hot sauce.

  I use the interruption to end the medicine show and explain, in general and unmenacing terms, why I’ve asked him to lunch. “I’m planning to write about my experiences at Aiglon. . . . Trying to resurrect everything I can about our time there.”