by Gregg Loomis
Reluctantly, Wynton returned to his desk. Richardson plopped down into one of the two visitors' chairs.
"Wynton, up till a few weeks ago, your work was exemplary. Then something happened." He put up a hand to staunch whatever Wynton was going to say. "I don't know if it's this crap about reincarnation, domestic problems, marital discord, whatever. And it's none of my business. What is my business is this firm. Your problems may well have cost us one of our largest clients. It doesn't help that the local paper runs articles about reincarnation, demonic possession, black magic or whatever. Makes us look like a bunch of loonies."
He stopped for a breath. "We, I, the management committee think it best if you take a few weeks leave of absence, come back with your problems solved and ready to concentrate on work."
Wynton's heart did a two-and-a-half gainer off the high board. In two weeks all his cases would be reassigned to others. He would be sitting in the penalty box while the ever-eager Beth Willis scored. He was sure there was a better sports analogy apropos to the moment, he just couldn't think of it.
Richardson stood, the meeting concluded and decision final. "Eloise can help with getting your cases redistributed. Don't worry about a thing except coming back rested and with a clear mind."
And starting over at the bottom of the heap he had struggled so hard to ascend, the track to senior partnership lengthened, and the strong possibility he would be told not to return at all.
CHAPTER 36
480 Lafayette Drive
Twelve Minutes Later
WYNTON WISHED HE HAD BOUGHT THE used Porsche Boxster. It would have gotten him home quicker. Instead, he had purchased the three-year-old Mercedes for about the same price, a conservative vehicle with a back seat and four doors that bespoke reliability and responsibility, as well as affluence. The sports car might imply traits that could be viewed negatively by Swisher & Peele. Individuality and independent thought, to name two. As it was, the bulky sedan's tires protested loudly at Ansley Park's turns and mothers snatched their small children back from the curb as he flashed by at racetrack speeds.
Paige bolted out of the house as he screeched into the driveway and slammed to a stop. One look at her and he felt a pang of guilt for even thinking about cars.
Her eyes were red and her face puffy, but she had regained some degree of composure. "Dr. Weiner doesn't know anything about it. She said she simply made her report. Usually, if DEFACS is going to take custody of a child based on her report, she's notified. She's calling them now."
From bitch to a source of help.
Wynton tried to digest this information as he slipped an arm around her waist. "We'll get him back."
She turned a tear-streaked face up toward his. "We have to, Wynton. Every year, children die in the custody of those, those people."
She made the characterization sound like a condemnation of the human race.
Once inside the house, he started to head for the den but stopped, standing in the foyer. "Okay, tell me exactly what happened."
Page bit her lip and brushed away a renewal of tears. "I was getting Wynn-Three ready to go to school, to St. Philip's, when the doorbell rang. Of course, I thought it was more reporters. When I didn't answer, they banged on the door, yelling they were from DEFACS. I'm sure everyone in the neighborhood could hear."
She produced a tissue and wiped her eyes. "When I opened up, there was this woman I'd never seen before. She said she was from the department . . ."
"Did she produce any ID?" Wynton asked.
Paige thought for a moment. "I, I think so, some kind of a badge. Wasn't the same person who came by here before, Attrita Byron-Smith. She demanded to see Wynn-Three who was standing right there with me. I said I needed to call you. She said I could call whoever I liked but Wynn-Three was going with her."
Wynton had been upset. Now he was beginning to feel a sinking sensation from somewhere below the belt line. "She didn't have a court order or anything?"
"I don't know; I didn't ask to see it. I was so upset. Those men just snatched Wynn-Three and carried him off to the car like, like a sack of groceries or something. He was screaming." She covered her face with her hands before burrowing into Wynton's chest and heaving with sobs. "Oh, God, I don't know what we'll do."
Wynton embraced her before holding her out at arm's length. "Was there anything on the car that identified it? Did you get a tag number?"
Paige went from grief to abject horror. "Oh, God! You don't think . . . ?"
"I don't think anything right now." Moving her gently aside, he headed for the den and a phone. "But I intend to find out a few things."
Twenty minutes later, he put the phone down. "DEFACS has no record of picking up Wynton."
Paige was slumped at a table, her head resting on her arms. "But, somebody took him. Surely . . ."
The phone rang and both jumped as though shocked by electricity.
Wynton snatched it up. "Yes?"
He listened for a moment before, "Thank you. I'd appreciate your continuing to try."
Paige looked at him expectantly.
"Dr. Weiner. She's called everybody down there she knows. None of them can find any trace, any record of picking up a child this morning."
He saw Paige's lips begin to quiver again. "You know how inefficient government bureaucracies are. Just because they don't have a record doesn't mean . . ."
She didn't believe him any more than he did. "Wynton, the man in the park, those men today . . ."
He spoke with a confidence he didn't feel. "Nonsense. How could the men who tried to kidnap Wynn-Three know DEFACS had been in touch with us?"
She shook her head wearily. "I don't know but I'm calling the police."
It took only a few fruitless minutes to ascertain the City of Atlanta Police had better uses of their time than tracking down children who were possibly in the custody of the government.
Paige put the phone down slowly. "They told me to check with the DEFACS people in a couple of days. What kind of a parent would wait two days to find out where her child is?"
The kind of parent with whom the Atlanta Police had become accustomed to dealing, evidently.
"But, I heard you tell them you weren't even sure it was DEFACS. I mean, don't they have a procedure for missing kids, an Amber Alert or something?"
Paige shook her head slowly. "I don't know where to turn next."
"I do." Wynton was turning the pages of the phone book. "Our next-door neighbor."
"What can he do?"
"I'm about to find out."
Lang Reilly dealt with the criminal justice system on a regular basis. Although Wynton prayed no crime was involved, his neighbor might well be someone who could navigate the labyrinths of red-tape government that were erected to seal itself off from the governed. At least calling was doing something, and doing something was better than nothing in times of uncertainty.
The only thing Wynton knew for sure was that his son was gone.
CHAPTER 37
Excerpt from The Scrolls of Issa
ISSA WENT DOWN TO BENARES (INDIA, ED.) and taught among the Shudras and Vaishyas (lower castes, ed.) who were allowed to listen to the reading of the Vedas only on holidays but not cast their eyes upon the reader.
And the Brahmins and Kshatriyas (upper castes) told Issa that Brahmin forbade such teaching. But Issa said to the Shudras and Vaishyas that The Supreme Spirit does not favor a man who demeans him who labors and sweats so the rich man might sit at the lavishly set board. They who deprive their brothers of the common blessing shall be as Shudras and Vaishyas themselves.
And the people asked Issa what they should do and he said, "Do not humiliate your neighbor. Help the poor. Do evil to no one. Covet not what you do not possess."
The Brahmins and Kshatriyas heard such things and said, "This is not what we have heretofore been taught" and "let us kill this man before the Shudras and Vaishyas kill us in our beds at night."
But Issa was warned and left at night
to return to Nepal and the Himalayan Mountains.
CHAPTER 38
Lang Reilly
Law Office of Langford Reilly
Peachtree Center
227 Peachtree Street
Atlanta
The Same Day
1:00 P.M.
PHILLIP HALL HAD WAVY RED HAIR and a youthful, handsome face. He also had piercing blue eyes that seemed to overflow with sincerity as they locked onto those of whomever he happened to be speaking with at the moment. In other words, he had the perfect appearance for a successful con artist, the kind who could, and had, bilked a lot of people out of a lot of money.
He sat in one of the leather wing chairs in Lang Reilly's office, bent over with his hands on his knees as those eyes reinforced the injustice to which he was being subjected. Had Lang not done a careful background check after Phillip Hall had called, Lang might have briefly believed him. But ultimately Lang knew that, after lying to the police, his clients then lied to their lawyer.
Revocation of Hall's contractor's license in Florida for fraud, probation in Carroll County, Georgia, for a real estate scam, and several similar peccadillos around the State had resulted in fines and more probation. The prison system simply didn't have room for nonviolent offenders, a fact Phillip had played to advantage.
His luck had run out this time. Felony Phil was looking at serious time at Club Fed, who always had space for those who used the U.S. mail in their nefarious schemes and, worse, chose nationally chartered banks as their victims. Fleecing widows and retirees of their life savings was bad enough, but only a state crime. Screw a bank and the waste matter hits the fan under federal law.
After all, banks had a more powerful lobby.
Phillip was accused of a dozen or more counts of mortgage fraud.
The scheme was simple enough: Phillip would solicit young, middle-income groups, promising them riches at no risk. The "investor" would then sign a contract to buy a house, while Phillip and his henchmen would invent a credit history, something lenders trusted a mortgage broker to obtain and verify. At the purchase of the property, the house would then be "flipped" at two or three times its value thanks to appraisers and mortgage brokers on Phillip's payroll. The second sale, of course, would be heavily mortgaged to a financial institution, always at a price inflated by a bogus appraisal, one large enough to pay for the first sale and enough surplus to pay the "investor" five to ten grand with the rest lining the pockets of Phillip and his crew of merry men. No payments were made, the property went into foreclosure and the nominal purchasers, the "investors," into bankruptcy after the lenders foreclosed and sought deficiency judgments.
Other than being illegal, the design had a large flaw: the number of people involved.
Once the banks went whining to the Feds, there was a flood of appraisers, brokers, and real estate closing lawyers willing to bare their souls to the United States Attorney in exchange for lesser sentences or probation instead of jail time. Always willing to swap minnows for the big fish, the Feds had their guns trained on Phillip.
". . . And I thought I was doing those young people a favor, helping them buy investment property . . ."
Lang looked up from the legal pad on which he had been writing. "How many of the houses did you succeed in renting on behalf of your investors?"
For once the candor in Phillip's eyes wavered. "Well, I didn't anticipate the downturn in the rental market . . ."
"You had a rental agent?"
Phillip was now studying the design in the carpet. "I planned to get one."
Lang sat back in his chair, flipping the pen between thumb and forefinger. "Let's look at the facts, Mr. Hall: you used the United States Mail to solicit your 'investors,' yet you've never held any investment license. You received funds from sales that involved deliberate misrepresentations to financial institutions and participated in those misrepresentations. You put together a team of mortgage brokers and appraisers whose sole function was to mislead lenders. And there are a dozen or so people willing to testify to all of the above."
"How was I to know those appraisers were dishonest?" Phillip asked sullenly.
Lang leaned forward, his elbows on his desk. "A good question. If the government didn't have their records and testimony you paid them to jack up the appraisals, we could raise it."
Phillip did a good job of feigning surprise. "You're acting as though you think I'm already guilty."
Lang put the pen down. "You are not guilty of anything until a jury says so. Your possible guilt or innocence is of no interest to me. My only concern is to make sure you get a fair trial and every right you have is scrupulously observed."
Phillip looked up. "Can we make a deal with the U.S. Attorney, maybe plead nolo for a lesser sentence?"
How many perfectly innocent people, Lang wondered, were aware of a plea of nolo contender and the fact it did not amount to an actual conviction?
"I doubt the government will accept a no contest."
"Okay, guilty then. I'd like to get it all settled before the indictment comes down."
Lang thought about it for a moment. Of course he'd like it settled before the embarrassment of a very public arrest. It was mildly surprising the man wasn't already in custody with a monumental bond to prevent him from swindling someone else. Plea bargains were almost always available, but in view of the scope of the hundred million or so this man had skinned the banks for, the government was looking to tie Hall's scalp to its belt.
"Possible."
The hint of a smile played around Phillip's lips. "Why don't you see what you can do?"
"Good idea." Lang leaned back and picked the pen up again. "First, though, you have to decide if you want me to represent you."
The hint matured into a warm smile, the one he had no doubt used to cheat widows out of their last mite. "Oh, I have no doubt. I do. You come highly recommended."
Lang thought about this man's associates and wondered if he had just been insulted. "Fine. I'll need a retainer."
Lang's newest client shifted in his chair. "I thought you worked on an hourly basis."
Like most criminal lawyers, Lang knew better. If you didn't get it up front, the type of clientele pretty well guaranteed you wouldn't get it at all. If the client was found innocent, in his mind, he hadn't really needed a lawyer at all. Guilty meant the lawyer hadn't done his job.
"'Fraid not. I'll need a hundred thousand."
Without blinking an eye, Phillip asked, "Can I pay that over time?"
This from a guy who had allegedly bilked millions of dollars without remorse?
Lang stood. "I'll be happy to refer you to other counsel, perhaps less expensive."
Phillip reached for a briefcase that had a brass designer logo on the flap. "No, no, I'll write you a check right now."
Lang sat back down. "Fine."
Phillip was pulling out a three-ring checkbook. "And you'll talk to the U.S. attorney when?"
"As soon as the check clears."
Phillip blanched, "It may take a day or two."
Lang nodded affably. "Just let me know when I can have it certified."
As he stood in the doorway of his office watching Phillip Hall's departure, his secretary, Sara, waited until the outer door closed. "Lang, that man is scum."
Lang nodded again, surprised her Christian, grandmotherly "judge-not" attitude had been suspended. "I know, Sara. What we need is a better class of criminal."
CHAPTER 39
CSX Railway Right-of-Way
Mile Marker Six
Atlanta
The Same Day
1:07 P.M.
HOMICIDE DETECTIVE FRANKLIN MORSE HAD SEEN it too many times: a young woman dead, her body dumped in the weeds somewhere and left like refuse. He tried to treat each one individually, keep them separate in his mind, but the similarities made it difficult.
This Jane Doe, though, was different.
He squatted beside her.
First, she was older, probably in her lat
e twenties. Old for the trade of most vics like these. She wore a conservative pant suit rather than the customary miniskirt, and there were no obvious needle tracks. The visibility and openness of the site suggested she had probably been killed before being brought here along the railroad tracks instead of being left in whatever abandoned house or apartment she had used to turn her last trick. Likely, she wasn't a working girl. One shoe, low heel, was still on a foot and her left ring finger bore a simple gold band. Not that he'd never seen a married hooker; they usually had already pawned wedding rings and any other jewelry. Then there was the very fact that she was here, a black woman in a very white neighborhood.
Morse stood, his hands on his hips and slowly bending backwards to ease muscles getting too old for this kind of shit. The photographer moved in, his camera's winding whine like the sound of insects.
The medical examiner's office would make the final determination, but Morse's guess was that Jane had been here less than a day. The rats, opossums, and other fauna hadn't found her yet. Judging from the bulging eyes and swollen tongue hanging from her mouth, she had been strangled, either by some sort of garrote or by hand. He'd let the M.E. look for marks of a ligature. That would likely mean a struggle, an explanation for two broken fingernails, defensive wounds. Not that the kudzu would reflect evidence of a disturbance. Anything smaller than rutting buffalo wouldn't displace the tangle, thick as a bird's nest.
He looked over to where two uniforms were interviewing the man who had found her. Morse had insisted they do so downwind. Bearded, filthy, and smelling of eau d'sewer, he was one of Atlanta's homeless. Somehow he had migrated from downtown, where his brethren were as much a part of the landscape as the skyscrapers. He had, no doubt, hoped to find donors more sympathetic to panhandlers in the shopping center across the tracks. A blindness for beggars was a prerequisite for working or inhabiting the city's center. Sightlessness and olfactory insensitivity. Before political correctness had become the mandatory credo of all city employees, the guy would have been a wino, a bum, a tramp. By whatever name, the rose would smell as sweet. Morse was surprised he hadn't relieved Jane Doe of the ring.