by Paul Levine
In my little world, I didn’t know anything about Novak or his funds. Here’s how my system worked. I maintained my trust accounts at Great Southern. The money flowed into the accounts, mostly from Castillo’s purchases and sales of Florida property. Net proceeds ultimately were wired to various Castillo accounts in several Central and South American countries.
Strictly speaking, I made no money off the trust accounts. Castillo paid fees for my staff handling the due diligence and paperwork that went into the sales and purchases. Those fees, for services rendered, went into my operating account. The trust accounts – dams holding the client’s liquid assets – must always be in balance and the funds can’t be used for the lawyer’s purposes. “Borrowing” from a trust account is akin to stealing, and under the law, it’s a disbarable offense.
“From what I can tell,” Samchick said, “you skimmed several of Castillo’s largest trust accounts.”
“The hell I did!”
“We’re talking millions.”
“You’re talking nonsense!”
“You transferred the money to Novak Global, which invested it and returned some hefty profits. You returned the principal to the trust accounts so that no one would suspect anything.”
“Barry, what the hell! You’ve known me for years. Have I ever–”
“Novak deposited your profits into some offshore accounts you created under fictitious names. I can’t trace them, but the I.R.S. just might.”
“Are you listening to me, Barry?” I motioned for a beer, but it would take more than one to calm me down.
“Well, do you have a better explanation?”
“Sure I do. Pam got my password so she could make the electronic transfers to Novak. To cover her own fraud, she made it appear I was skimming my clients’ money. Jesus, Barry, it’s simple.”
“If that’s true, you gotta fix the problem quickly. The Florida Bar is scheduled to audit your accounts in less than a month.”
“There’s a flaw in her plan,” I told Samchick. “Find those offshore accounts where she dumped her profits. Get behind the fictitious names, and you’ll find the accounts are hers.”
“Good luck with that. Secrecy laws in the Caymans prevent us from following the money out of island accounts and wherever the money is now stashed, there’s likely to be equally strong laws.”
“This is nuts. She steals from me…”
“Technically, from your client.”
“Then sends a self-serving email saying I’m the thief…”
“Quite persuasively.”
“And I’m threatening her…”
“And that night, she’s killed.”
“Framing me from beyond the grave.”
I had an eerie, disembodied feeling, as if I were looking down at a poor sap lashed across railroad tracks as a locomotive powered toward him. Then I shook my head at the sheer audacity of Pamela’s plan and the tragedy that ended it. Who killed her and why?
“I gotta get a flight to the Caymans before I get indicted.”
“Slow down, Jake. Novak’s money is in the Caymans. He’s here.”
“Miami?”
“Corporate office on Brickell, lives in a penthouse at the Gables Club.”
“Then that’s where I’m going.”
“To do what?”
“Find out what he knows.”
“More than likely, he was just a passive recipient of the money.”
“In my experience, Barry, billionaires are never passive recipients of anything.
10
The Bull Rhinos
The Gables Club consisted of twin terra cotta towers adjacent to the Coral Gables Waterway. From a high floor, you had a fine view of downtown Miami to the north, a sliver of South Beach to the northeast, the high-rises of Key Biscayne due east on the other side of the Bay, and the few remaining houses-on-pilings known as Stiltsville. You also had dozens – maybe hundreds – of vultures soaring overhead in the updrafts, shitting on the lushly landscaped terraces of Miami’s moneyed set.
Valet parkers in natty vests and bow ties scurried across the pavers, gobbling up the pricey German cars lined up at the gate. Turned out Eddie Novak was having a Sunday evening cocktail party, and though I wasn’t on the guest list, I had no doubt I could talk my way in.
The lobby of Tower One was all polished marble and fresh flowers, and a helpful attendant pointed the way to the Novak party on the expansive pool deck. The clink of glasses and chatter of people just so happy to be here with equally rich, equally tanned denizens of Gomorrah-by-the-Bay.
An inordinate amount of women were wearing sleeveless dresses, revealing deltoids that rivaled those of LeBron James. Some men wore silk guayaberras, others white linen slacks with buttery leather loafers and colorful Italian pullover shirts.
An efficient young woman with a clipboard met me at a welcoming table. Behind her were two sturdy young men with close-cropped hair and necks bulging out of their white shirts. Security to keep out the hoi-polloi such as my own trespassing self.
I approached the woman with the clipboard. All lawyers get on-the-job training reading upside down, whether in judges’ chambers or opposing counsels’ offices. They don’t teach spying or eavesdropping in law school, but both come naturally after a while.
“Good evening,” the young woman cooed, warmly. “And you are…?”
“Warm.” I pulled at my collar, giving me a chance to scan the clipboard for upside down, unchecked names. “Peter Bridgeton. Present and accounted for.” I smiled at her.
She checked off my name. “And Mrs. Bridgeton?”
Ahh. I hadn’t seen the “Mrs.” appended to his name like an ankle bracelet.
“Mrs. Bridgeton is playing bridge,” I said, realizing I sounded somewhat ridiculous.
The young woman smiled, and I added “Three no trump” for good measure.
***
The heavily landscaped pool deck was adjacent to the waterway, inky and smooth with the tide running out. I recognized a number of downtown heavy hitters. Lawyers, bankers, brokers, plus the usual society page types. Orange Bowl Committee. Vizcaya Preservation League. Save the Glades. Opera and symphony types who give big bucks for good causes, either out of the pureness of their hearts or to have excuses for the ladies to lay on the pearls and diamonds.
I asked a lawyer I know where I could find Eddie Novak. He gestured to a cluster of people near an outdoor bar. Holding court was a burly man of about fifty. Dark hair with gray wings and sideburns, he wore a pink silk guayaberra with black piping, gray dress slacks and loafers without socks. He said something that made everyone laugh. Either it was very funny or they were just sucking up to him.
I moseyed over. Novak was gesturing with a tumbler filled with ice and what appeared to be bourbon. “Sorry, but the Cayman Fund is closed,” he said to his admirers.
A middle-aged man wasn’t giving up. “What about Bermuda?”
“Over-subscribed. But the Isle of Man Fund is opening. Just get your money in fast. When it hits two hundred fifty million, I close it down.”
“You’ll have my check in the morning.”
“Mine too,” another partygoer said.
“We’ll be trading currencies, and I’m predicting a twenty-seven per cent return,” Novak said. “Not in writing, though!”
Again, more laughter from the group.
“The S.E.C. would love to shut me down.”
“Damn bureaucrats,” the first man said, and there were the murmurs of agreement.
I edged into the group and spoke up. “Just what controls do you have in place to make sure your investors are who they say they are?”
Novak’s smile melted faster than the ice in his drink. “And you are…?”
“Jake Lassiter.”
He blinked. Only once. I extended a hand. Without a choice, he shook, letting me know he had a knuckle-crushing grip. Well then, so do I, a remnant of dragging down a few quarterbacks by the collar and flinging them to the turf whil
e calling them various synonyms of “sissy.” We stayed latched onto each other for a couple seconds longer than necessary, a couple of posturing bull rhinos. Letting go, he placed his hand on my elbow and steered me toward a path along the waterway. “Why don’t you and I talk privately, Mr. Lassiter?”
When we were out of earshot of the group, he said, “I’m so sorry to hear about Pamela.”
“So you knew her?”
“Well, of course. She represented your interests with my Cayman Funds and did quite well for you.”
“For herself. I never authorized any investments.”
He made a show of putting on a puzzled face. Or maybe it was genuine. I couldn’t tell, and I pick juries for a living.
“Surely, Mr. Lassiter, you must know that monies were transferred by wire from your Great Southern accounts directly to Novak Global.”
“Pamela stole my password.”
“She also had a limited power of attorney from you. It specifically authorized the investments in your name.”
“Has to be forged. I never signed any such document.”
“Well, that is awkward.”
“And illegal.”
“Let me be blunt, Mr. Lassiter. The police have been to see me. As I understand it, these were your investments and you’re the prime suspect in Pamela’s murder.”
“The police are full of shit, and for all I know, so are you.”
He placed a hand on my forearm and squeezed. It wasn’t a tourniquet squeeze, but nonetheless one intended to deliver a message. “Mr. Lassiter, Pamela told me you were stubborn and what was the term she used? ‘Pig-headed.’ Right now, you need all the friends you can get, and yet you go out of your way to antagonize me. Right here in my home, you are bringing unwanted scrutiny on my funds, and that is very bad for my business. So, I suggest you adjust your tone with me.”
As sweetly as I could, I said, “The more I listen to you, the more sure I am that you are seriously full of shit. And take your hand off me before I break several of your bones, a couple of them weight-bearing.”
He paused a second or two, letting me know he might or might not let me go, then released his hand. “Do you know Carlos Castillo, Mr. Lassiter?”
“Of course, he’s a client. A coffee importer and a real estate investor.”
Novak chuckled. If snakes could laugh, that’s the sound they would make. “A drug dealer is more like it. The police asked me if I knew the money you invested actually belonged to Castillo. I told them ‘no,’ which was true. But you would have known the source of the money. The police think you were laundering Castillo’s money. So even on the off-chance you didn’t kill Pamela, they’ve got you on racketeering and money laundering. You’re going down, Lassiter. Hard and far. Long and deep.” He smiled at me with what seemed to be sincere satisfaction. “Now, I’m getting back to guests who were actually invited.”
11
El Jefe
On the drive home, I pondered just what I knew about Carlos Castillo. Of course, there were rumors. A wealthy Colombian. Sure, maybe he’s a coffee baron. And an importer-exporter, too. But some of those exports could very well be, well you know. Or is that just the stereotype, the prejudiced cliché?
What was it, dammit?
Had I closed my eyes to the truth because I wanted the easy money from real estate deals?
I pulled onto Kumquat Avenue, still not having reached a conclusion. That’s when I saw the three black Escalades parked in front of my house. Either President Obama was paying me a visit, or my client from Bogota was here.
Six men in dark suits lingered by the Escalades. The security seemed a tad excessive for a coffee baron, even if Starbucks wanted to ace him. I got out of my old Caddy convertible, and nobody drew their weapons. The men nodded to me as I walked toward the front door. I recognized a couple of the thugs from my first meeting with Castillo, and they must have recognized me, too.
I shouldered open the humidity-swollen front door and found my nephew Kip in the living room discussing movies with Carlos Castillo. Kip, an occasional juvenile delinquent but now an A-student, is a movie buff, and at the moment they were discussing the levels of violence in Oliver Stone’s “Savages” versus Quentin Tarantino’s “Reservoir Dogs.” Castillo preferred “Savages,” which I could not help but noting was all about the drug trade.
They ignored me a moment before Kip looked up. “Can you believe it, Uncle Jake? Mr. Castillo doesn’t like ‘Pulp Fiction,” and I disagree, like totally.”
“Those scenes with the assassins,” Castillo said. “Totally unrealistic.”
“They’re impressionistic,” my 14-year-old Truffaut said.
“Oh, I’m sorry, did I break your concentration?” Castillo said quizzically, in an impression of Samuel L. Jackson. “They lost me there.”
I smiled a hello at Castillo. “Would you like a drink, Carlos? Granny’s been stocking up on Jack Daniels ever since she stopped making her own moonshine.”
He smiled and touched a finger to his grey, bristly mustache. “No thank you, Jake. But let’s you and I have a little talk.”
It seemed to be an evening for little talks. We walked through the kitchen into the small backyard. A peacock strutted past my ancient oak tree, strutting and squealing…and after a moment, shitting.
“I am very fond of you, Jake,” Castillo said in a soft voice.
I gave him an appreciative nod of the head. Maybe I even bowed a little. He was, after all, my biggest client.
“What you did for my Miguel will never be forgotten.”
Why did I hear a “but” coming?
“But this thing you have done…” He made a tut-tut sound.
“I didn’t kill Pamela.”
“I don’t care whether you did or not.”
I gave him my big dumb guy look. It’s not much of a stretch.
“You used my trust account funds for a personal investment. You subjected me to the eyes of your law enforcement.”
“I didn’t.”
“My lawyers tell me that my accounts will be subpoenaed by a federal grand jury!” His voice rose for the first time, and his eyes were as cold as a crocodile’s.
“It was Pamela! I knew nothing about it.”
“So that’s why you killed her?”
“I didn’t kill her.”
He shook his head and seemed to listen to the sounds of the night. Crickets and a far-away horn from Metrorail. The air was warm and moist and smelled of jasmine.
“How did she get control over your accounts?”
I gave the same explanation I’d given to Novak. A stolen password, a forged power of attorney. I added one new fact. “She was also my girlfriend, so I trusted her.”
“Idiota! That is even less reason to trust her!”
“I’m sorry, Carlos. I know it looks like I was laundering your money.”
“You were laundering my money, tonto! But through legitimate real estate. That was your job. Not mixing my money up with some private fund that’s now tied to a murder. Jesus, don’t you see what you’ve done?”
“All I can say is, I’m sorry. But I didn’t do it.”
“You’re responsible for the actions of the woman. That’s the way my superiors see it.”
“Your superiors? I thought you were el jefe.”
He snorted a laugh. “There’s always a bigger boss. Someone far removed from the street. Someone you would never meet. Which is what makes it easier for him to order you killed.”
That sucked the wind out of me.
“Take a breath, Jake. I will vouch for you. For now. I’ll tell el jefe you’re a fool with women but you didn’t steal from us. But if the flame gets too hot, let me assure you of this, my friend. I will not be the one who gets burned.”
12
A Flea-Flicker Lawyer
“I’m not guilty,” I said.
“No shit,” Willow Marsh replied. “But are you innocent?”
The lady lawyer was asking whether I was techn
ically not guilty because the state couldn’t prove its case or was I factually innocent.
“My mistake,” I said. “I’m innocent. I didn’t kill Pamela but there’s a helluva lot of evidence suggesting otherwise.”
“Starting with that suck-ass email.”
Willow Marsh, my newly retained lawyer, looked like a former runway model and talked like a tough-guy trial lawyer. She’d played varsity volleyball at Stanford where she earned Phi Beta Kappa, and in her spare time, competed for Miss California, finishing first runner-up. Best I knew, that was the last time she didn’t win whatever competition came her way.
Sitting in her high-rise office on Third Avenue near the federal courthouse, she was scowling as she read and re-read Pamela’s e-mail, the one accusing me of stealing from my clients, threatening her, and causing the explosion of the Hindenburg.
“The last words ever heard from Pamela Baylins,” Willow Marsh mused. “And, the last words the jury will likely hear from the prosecutor.” She gave her voice a little sing-song quality, meant to imitate Emilia Vazquez in closing argument. “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, you can sense Pamela’s fear as she cried out for help, just moments before this man…” Willow pointed at me, lest there be a dim-witted juror who thought she meant the bailiff. “…Jake Lassiter, a former professional athlete with a history of violence, strangled the last breath out of her.”
I felt as if the breath had been knocked out of me. That was exactly what Emilia Vazquez would say, while regarding me with the look of a chef who has discovered a rat in the larder.
“Are you sure you wouldn’t rather prosecute the case?” I asked.
“Oh, I would convict your sorry ass. At the same time, there’s no one else in town better equipped to get you off…whether you’re factually innocent or merely not guilty.”