State vs Lassiter

by Paul Levine

  “She’s the one who made you lose your way.” Granny tucked several strands of still-black hair under a pink fluorescent band that rode atop her head. She wore green high-top sneakers, canvas shorts and a wife-beater t-shirt from an oyster stand in Key West, with the logo, “Eat ‘Em Raw.”

  I popped into my mouth a warm biscuit, thick with melting cheddar cheese. “Didn’t know I was lost.”

  “I knew it the day you started buying hundred dollar bottles of wine.”

  “What’s that got to do with Pam?”

  “Her influence. You were a brew and burger fellow from the time you were fifteen.”

  “A man grows up.”

  “That why you went to paté and Cabernet?”

  “Don’t bust my chops, Granny.”

  “And those thousand dollar Eye-talian suits you started buying in Bal Harbour.”

  “My practice picked up. Isn’t a man supposed to enjoy the fruits of his labors?”

  “Not from Colombian drug dealers.”

  “Carlos Castillo is a coffee baron.”

  She harrumphed again and her voice hit its scolding tone. “And you been putting on weight at all them fancy restaurants. I’ll bet you’d pass out if you tried humping the causeway.”

  Meaning running across the Rickenbacker to Key Biscayne. It’s a long slog uphill, usually with an ocean breeze in your face, then a slow decline. I used to do it twice a week, though I’d sometimes stop at Jimbo’s Shrimp Shack for a beer and smoked fish dip on Virginia Key. These days, I’d never make it that far.

  “That woman brought out the lazy in you.”

  “Jeez, Granny, I been working harder than ever.”

  “At making money, maybe. Hell, anyone can do that. What have you been doing for your fellow man? How much time you been spending with Kip?”

  We’d been having this argument ever since I met Pam. I’d worked my butt off to become a decent trial lawyer. It hadn’t been easy. University of Miami Law School, Night Division. I had started my studies after a few undistinguished years with the Dolphins, sitting so far down Shula’s bench, my cleats were in Hialeah. Occasionally I played a little linebacker, but more frequently, I just sacrificed my body and sanity on the suicide squads, the kickoff and kick return teams.

  I learned the courtroom trade in the Public Defenders’ office and continued trying cases in private practice. The problem with criminal defense work is the unassailable fact that nearly every client is guilty. Most cases you plead out and get the best deal possible. Most of the ones you try, you will lose. And some of the cases you win, the client is factually guilty, but the state couldn’t prove it. It’s a disheartening way to make a living.

  Then I went into private practice. First, a big firm where I didn’t fit in, then I flew solo. Lone gunslingers have an expression about our work: We only eat what we kill. So sometimes, you take cases just for the dough. Your case might be infected with legal leprosy and your client might have the personality of a rattlesnake. But you need to pay the rent so you sometimes are stuck petting a reptile or two. In criminal law, if you only accepted cases where your clients were factually innocent, you’d starve. Even worse, your lawyer pals would laugh at you.

  ***

  About 18 months ago, I wandered into a more profitable specialty. Lucked into it, really. My nephew Kip gets the credit for being the rainmaker, the guy who brought in the client. I always taught the kid to do the right thing, even when it’s the harder course, and karma will reward you. Not that I necessarily believe it, or that I follow my own advice. It just seems like the right thing to say to a 13-year-old boy who’s all hormones and impulses.

  Kip was a seventh grader then at Biscayne-Tuttle, the ritzy private school on the bay in Coconut Grove. A wiry ball of motion who didn’t fit in easily with any of the cliques. Not a star athlete or an honor student. Not a rap artist in the school’s talent show, and though he has the skinny physique, he doesn’t have the attention span to be the coxswain on the seven-man rowing team.

  Then, Kip’s classmate, Miguel Castillo, was charged with an honor code violation. Cheating by hacking into the Biscayne-Tuttle mainframe and stealing exams in half-a-dozen classes. But Miguel was innocent. Kip told me he’d overheard a couple kids bragging about stealing the tests by first hacking Miguel’s computer and using it to access the mainframe. Miguel was the fall guy.

  “What should I do, Uncle Jake?”

  “Tell the truth. Stand up for your friend.”

  “I barely know Miguel. And those two guys are on the lacrosse team. They’ll beat the crud out of me.”

  I told Kip to bring Miguel to the house for some of Granny’s deep-fried chicken, collard greens, and sweet potato pie. The kid was one of the boarding students at Biscayne-Tuttle, so he was happy to join us for home cooking. Sitting on the back porch sipping lemonade – mine spiked with Jack Daniels – we talked it over. Miguel was afraid to tell his father about his upcoming disciplinary hearing. No problem. He was allowed to have an adult representative present, and I volunteered. Kip would be the star witness, and I’d cross-examine the lying lacrosse louches. If we won, no need to tell Miguel’s old man, who was a Colombian billionaire with interests in coffee, cell-phone companies, and airlines.

  For once, everything went according to plan. In the middle of the hearing, the preppy athletes confessed and apologized to Miguel. We celebrated with churrasco and sweet plantains at a Nicaraguan steak house, and I thought that was the end of the matter. Two weeks later, three black Escalades with tinted windows pulled onto Kumquat from Douglas Road. The first one stopped under the Chinaberry tree in front of my house. It was a Saturday morning, I was sweeping up the red berries. Birds eat them, then fly drunkenly in circles, splatting against my windows.

  The driver, a small, wiry man in a dark suit and tie, asked if I was Jake Lassiter. I didn’t deny the charge. He signaled to the second Escalade, and a small handsome man in a beige suit and Panama hat stepped out and walked toward me. He bowed formally and introduced himself as Carlos Castillo.

  “Mr. Lassiter, you never told me about the favor you did for my son.”

  “I’d promised to keep it between the two of us.”

  “Then how would you be paid?”

  “Justice was done. Your boy and my nephew became friends. No need to be paid for that.”

  “What kind of a lawyer are you?” Puzzled, he looked toward my old coral rock house with the metal roof. The place screamed “Florida Cracker,” and must have answered his question. “You’ll be hearing from the C.F.O. of my real estate ventures. I have some work for you.”

  “I’m a trial lawyer, Mr. Castillo.”

  “So?”

  “I appreciate the gesture, but I don’t know anything about real estate.”

  He gave me a smile that wrinkled his trim little mustache. “Then learn, Mr. Lassiter. How difficult could it be?”

  He was right. Especially when you hire drone lawyers and experienced paralegals to do all the work. Castillo was flush with cash from his South American operations. Florida real estate was in the toilet. He pumped millions into Miami-Dade and Broward counties, buying up distressed condo developments, working out deals with lenders to take over troubled shopping centers and office buildings.

  Soon, I had a nine-person staff closing condo sales and leasing commercial space, and the cash flow was, well…a raging torrent. Historically, in my trial practice, I’m always scrambling for the next retainer, so this was fresh and exciting as hell. A cash cow with udders the size of Lake Okeechobee. The legal work was mundane and repetitious, but so what? I didn’t have to do it.

  From the beginning, Granny didn’t like my new client. To her, the word “Colombian” was synonymous with “drug dealer.”

  “You’re washing his laundry,” she told me.

  “What?”

  “Money laundering. Can’t you see it?”

  “There’s no evidence of that.” Sounding very much like a lawyer.

  Castill
o’s accounts were in constant flux. Money flowed in to buy failing properties. Money flowed out to fix up and maintain. Money came back in when sales were completed and leases signed. Hundreds of thousands or more each month, back-and-forth to banks in Central and South America. My bookkeeper wasn’t up to the job, so Pamela suggested that, for a fee, Great Southern would handle the work, which she would oversee.

  Why not?

  One less headache for me.

  Pam had organizational skills I lacked. We had grown close. I was sleeping with her, spending all my spare time with her. And trusting her. Looking back, it would appear I’d been what Granny would call a dang fool.

  ***

  After breakfast, I headed into the nook I call my home office. It has a small window looking over the backyard, where a couple young mangoes on a gnarly tree were just starting to ripen and attract flies. I turned on the computer, intending to type up a timeline. Everything I could remember of last night from the time we got back to the hotel until I was nearly washed out to sea by the incoming tide.

  Settling into the chair, I loosened my pants. Granny was right. I’d put on weight. Too many midnight dinners with Pam, too little exercise. I’d played football at 235, then trimmed down after I’d retired, a euphemism for being placed on waivers and not one team expressing interest in me, unless you count the Saskatchewan Rough Riders of the C.F.L. The money was short, the winters were long, so I stayed in Miami, attended night law school, and passed the Florida Bar exam on the fourth try. If you don’t believe me, my certificate hangs on the wall over the toilet. An ex-girlfriend once asked if I intended some symbolism with that bit of interior decorating. Nope, I intended to cover a crack in the plaster.

  I attacked the computer keyboard. Trying to remember the details of last night through a tequila mist. Not much in my brain pan but burned out cells. Damn, I was used to having unreliable clients, but I never thought I’d be one.

  George Barrios and Emilia Vazquez probably already knew more about my activities last night than I did.

  After several fruitless moments, I checked my e-mail. The usual. My appointment schedule for the next week, compiled by my dyslexic assistant Cindy, with more than the usual typos. A reminder from The Florida Bar that I was a couple hundred hours behind in Continuing Legal Education Credits and had better sign up for some classes. And a generous offer from a wealthy Nigerian widow to share her inheritance with me. And then a final one in bold face with an exclamation point, indicating a message of great importance.

  From Pamela Baylins.

  8

  My Pecuniary Purposes

  From: pbaylins@great-southern.com

  Sent: Sunday, 2:39 a.m., June 9, 2013

  To: psmathers@great-southern.com, rmahon@great-southern.com

  Cc: jake.lassiter.esq@lassiter-law.com

  Subject: Lassiter Law Firm Accounts

  This message was sent with high importance!

  Phil and Robert:

  Within the past few hours, I have learned of discrepancies in various client trust accounts maintained at Great Southern by Jake Lassiter’s law office. I strongly suggest that full audits be started Monday morning. In the event that improprieties are determined to have occurred, I will take responsibility for communicating our findings to banking authorities and The Florida Bar. It would appear that I have placed too great a trust in our client and I apologize in advance for any embarrassment that may accrue to the bank. I have made no secret of my personal relationship with Mr. Lassiter, and I regret to say that he has preyed on my emotions for his own pecuniary purposes. I have confronted him with his improprieties, and he has responded with veiled physical threats. Robert, as I fear for my safety, I am asking the general counsel’s office to seek a restraining order against Mr. Lassiter on my behalf, as soon as practicable.

  Pamela A. Baylins

  Vice President, Corporate Banking

  9

  Suitable for Framing

  “…He has preyed on me for his own pecuniary purposes.”

  What a load of crap! And poorly written crap at that.

  But that wasn’t what bothered me.

  “…He has responded with veiled physical threats.”

  A lie. A damn lie!

  I’ve never physically abused a woman or threatened to. And the times I found it necessary to threaten a man, there was nothing veiled about it.

  Already, my lawyer’s brain was calculating the damage that e-mail could do. It would convince Detective Barrios – if he needed any convincing – that I was the prime suspect. I pictured Barrios huddling with Emilia Vazquez, filling in the blanks of their homicide checklist.

  Opportunity. Lassiter was alone with the decedent. Check!

  Means. Lassiter’s belt was the murder weapon. Check!

  Motive. The decedent promised to expose Lassiter for stealing, and in response, he threatened to harm her. Checkmate!

  I could hear the clang of the jail door locking into place. Even without the e-mail, Emilia, a savvy prosecutor if ever there was one, did not seem reluctant to believe that good ole Jake Lassiter – her ex-lover – could be a murderer. And now the e-mail was damning. How difficult would it be for her to believe that my descent was complete? Confronted with evidence of a financial crime, I resorted to violence to prevent disclosure. A good lawyer gone bad, and then worse. That would be the theme of her case. I fought off the sickening feeling that it was a very good case, indeed.

  ***

  An hour after suffering indigestion from the mixture of Granny’s victuals and Pam’s vitriol, I was driving across the Rickenbacker Causeway toward Key Biscayne and a meeting with Barry Samchick, my accountant. I had ditched my Bentley, not because of the multiple dents and shattered taillight, but because I felt I had to shed that skin. I peeled the tarp from my old Caddy and enjoyed the throaty, off-key roar as I flew over the rise toward the Key.

  I passed the old Seaquarium where I’ve taken Kip to swim with the dolphins, and we were both splashed by the Killer Whale. I turned left toward Virginia Key Beach, a sandy spit of undeveloped land with a checkered past. Years ago, I learned to windsurf there. Clean, unobstructed winds blew directly onto the beach from the Atlantic, and a coral reef a mile offshore kept the water calm for fast running. Long before then, when Miami was a segregated jerkwater town, Virginia Key was a “Colored Only” beach. Now, it’s one of the prettiest natural beaches in the county, even if it is across the street from a sewage plant.

  I found Samchick at a ramshackle joint called Jimbo’s. The place looked like it was constructed of driftwood, then blown down by a hurricane and put back together by a platoon of blindfolded and drunken Seabees. Two fishermen – old salts tanned the color of rich tea – were buying bait, and the air was filled with the tang of fish being smoked in 55-gallon drums. An abandoned school bus, painted a rainbow of colors, was sinking into the sand. It looked to be someone’s home. Three teenage girls in string bikinis that should get them grounded by their parents were trying to play bocce on the clay court, but mostly giggling and dropping the balls on each other’s feet.

  The day was hot and humid as a dishrag, the June sun peeking in and out of clouds the color of dirty nickels. I found Samchick at an outside table, drinking Dos Equis from the bottle and fiddling with an order of fish croquettes. He was a stocky man with pale arms sticking out of a Hawaiian shirt. I liked him because his numbers always added up and he charged me below-market fees, befitting our long relationship. A manila folder lay on the table next to his beer.

  “Jesus, Jake, I’m sorry about Pam,” he greeted me.

  I nodded my thanks and gestured toward the folder. “What did you find, Barry?”

  “You didn’t kill her, did you, Jake?”

  Jeez, if my friends weren’t sure about me, what were the grand jurors going to believe?

  “Aw c’mon. You know better than to ask a damn fool question like that.”

  He lifted his hands in apology. “Okay, okay. But have you lawyered
up?”

  “My next stop. Tell me about my trust accounts.”

  He spent a few moments telling me what I already knew. Every week, hundreds of thousands of dollars flowed through my accounts – in and out – as a result of Carlos Castillo buying and selling properties in South Florida. Blocks of condos, restaurant leases, commercial properties. The man was a money machine, thanks to the coffee industry, or whatever he did in native Colombia.

  Okay, I’m not gonna get cute here. I did my due diligence when Castillo – thankful I’d done a solid for his kid – came to me with an open wallet. The man really was the largest grower of coffee outside the big, international conglomerates. His name also popped up occasionally in news accounts as a “suspected” drug trafficker and money launderer. But no charges, much less convictions. In these parts, that’s enough to get you the key to the city.

  “So what was Pam doing with my accounts?” I asked Samchick.

  “Whatever you asked her to do.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “You told her to open an account, she opened it. You told her to close an account and disburse funds, she did that. What you did was transfer trust account funds – clients’ money – from your accounts at Great Southern to accounts of Novak Global Growth Ltd. in the Caymans.”

  “Novak Schmo-vak! I got no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “I’m talking millions, Jake. In and out of Novak Global, with money from trust accounts you hold for Carlos Castillo.”

  “For the love of God, what’s Novak Global?”

  Samchick hoisted a beer in his plastic cup. “Ah, therein lies a tale.”

  ***

  Samchick told me that Eddie Novak was the hottest investment guru in town, returning profits of 20 to 30 per cent, regardless of how the stock market was doing. A solid education. Harvard, then Wharton School. An investment banker for one of the big firms in New York before moving to Miami and opening his own shop. Now, he was a billionaire who lived high and made millions for some heavy hitters in town. He traded currencies, precious metals, futures, foreign bonds, and other mysterious instruments including derivatives and as far as anyone can tell, magic wands.