by Joseph Badal
* * *
Folsom called Donald Matson’s office from his car only to hear Matson’s assistant tell him her boss had taken the afternoon off. He asked her to transfer him to Matson’s cell phone.
“You playing golf?” Folsom asked when Matson answered his phone.
“When have you known me to play golf during the week? I’ve been closing out all my safety deposit boxes.”
“All of them?”
“Emptied them all. Closed the last one this afternoon.”
“Good boy, Donald. One less thing for us to worry about. Hope you don’t have the cash in your car. ” Folsom laughed.
Matson’s silence told Folsom the cash was in fact in his car. “Really?”
“I don’t know where else to put it.” He sounded at the end of his rope.
“It’s four o’clock. Can you come by my place?”
“Sure. Why?”
“I’m going to do you a favor. Bring the cash to my house. I’ll put it in my vault. Then I’ll start converting the cash to gold coins and jewels. They’ll be less bulky, easier to hide but it’ll probably take me a month to invest all of it for you. You should get a safe at your home to hold the gold and jewels.”
Matson exhaled a huge sigh. “That’d be great. I’ll be there in an hour. You’re a life saver.”
“We’ve been friends for a long time, Donald. Where are you?”
“Willow Grove.”
“What are you doing there?”
“Just driving around, trying to figure out what to do with the money.”
“Well, we’ve got that solved. See you in a little while.”
After hanging up, Folsom drove to a full service gas station. While the attendant filled his gas tank, Folsom asked if he could use the station’s telephone. “Forgot to charge my damn cell phone,” he lied.
“Sure, go ahead,” the attendant said. “It’s a local call, right?”
“Absolutely.”
He called Toothpick Jefferson. “The target is on his way to my place,” he told him. “He should arrive in about forty-five minutes and shouldn’t be here more than fifteen minutes, so he’ll be on the road to his home about an hour from now.”
“Perfect. I’ve already got my best man on the job.”
“Well, tell your best man that part of what I owe you will be in a paper bag in the guy’s car.”
“I love a client who pays on time.”
“I’ll get information to you about the other person in the next day or two.”
* * *
Matson arrived at Folsom’s home at 4:40. He was about to push the buzzer on the intercom box by the front gate when he had a thought. He walked to the back of his car and opened the trunk. He opened his briefcase, taking out two new 3” x 5” cards and writing on each one: 7/21/10. Placed the following amount of cash in this valise for safe keeping with Gerald Folsom. He then entered a dollar amount on each card: $1 million on one and $1,065,000 on the other. He thought about having Folsom sign a receipt for the money, but figured that would piss off Folsom. The cards would at least substantiate how much he had left with Folsom, in case there was a disagreement in the future. He popped the trunk lid, got out of the car, opened the valises, and dropped the cards into the appropriate ones. After closing the valises and the car trunk, he pressed the intercom buzzer and got into his car. The gate opened and he drove through to the house.
* * *
Folsom helped Matson unload the two valises and carry them upstairs to the third level to Folsom’s home office and walk-in vault. The vault held a rack of rifles and shotguns, drawers with trays holding his collections of gold and silver coins, gem stones, and several unlabeled boxes. When Matson entered the vault, he whistled.
“Keep this to yourself,” Folsom said. “I don’t need word on the street about all of this. How much cash in the valises?”
“Two million, sixty-five thousand dollars.”
Folsom opened one of the valises and counted out five packs of one hundred dollar bills. Each pack was wrapped in a band that read $2,000. He put the currency in a paper bag and handed the bag to Matson. “You might need some spending money.”
Matson shook Folsom’s hand. “Thanks, Jerry.”
“You’d better get on your way home,” Folsom said. “And don’t get stopped for speeding. You don’t want a cop wondering what’s in the bag.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Toothpick Jefferson’s man, Michael Toney, sat in his black 2009 Audi A-8 and watched for a silver 2011 Lincoln MKZ sedan. He’d surveilled the streets around Matson’s home and knew exactly where he would make the hit: The three-block stretch of heavily-wooded park bracketing the street leading to Matson’s driveway. The driveway was little better than a one-lane, dirt track extending two hundred serpentined yards through dense woods and dead-ending at the Matson property.
He straightened his tie and smoothed down his dress shirt, flicking away a stray piece of lint on a pant leg. Toney always dressed for work as though he was an executive, with tailored Hickey Freeman suits, custom-made white dress shirts, silk, hand-made ties, ColeHaan shoes. A cop was less likely to stop a black man dressed like a banker than one dressed like a rap star. Especially one driving a $100,000 Audi.
Toney had parked off to the side of the top of the driveway, hidden from sight of any of the neighborhood houses, and opened the hood. On the lookout for joggers or dog-walkers, he waited for Matson to arrive. He checked his watch: 6 p.m. Dinner time. Less chance there would be anyone around. When he spotted Matson’s Lincoln turn onto the street and head toward the driveway, Toney bent over his left front fender and pretended to look under the hood.
As Toney had anticipated, Matson stopped. He lowered the passenger side window of the Lincoln and called out, “Everything all right?”
Toney turned to face Matson. “Damned imported cars. You need a PhD to figure out what’s wrong.”
“You call for help?”
“I was just about to.” Toney said as he half-squatted and rested his forearms on the Lincoln’s passenger side door. He reached down with his right hand and pulled a .22 Magnum revolver from an ankle rig. He poked the weapon through the open window and pulled the trigger. The bullet pierced Matson’s right eye, throwing his head back against the driver side window. Toney liked the little .22. The light weight round was ideal for taking out a target from close range. The bullet would fragment and rattle around inside the target’s head, tearing up the brain, leaving little chance of survival, and very little mess. He reached through the window, across the front seat and put a second round in Matson’s temple for good measure.
The job done, Toney looked at the passenger seat at the paper bag resting on a suit jacket. The man’s wallet stuck out an inch from the inside jacket pocket. A bonus, Toney thought. He grabbed the wallet and the paper bag, closed the hood on his car, got behind the wheel, and drove away. By the time he’d reached the end of the street, he’d opened the paper bag and found stacks of cash. He searched in the wallet and extracted five one hundred dollar bills. Pulling over to the curb, he wiped off the wallet with his handkerchief, quickly exited the car, tossed the wallet away in a trash can, and just as quickly returned to his car. Cranking up the stereo, he listened to a rhythm and blues station play Wes Montgomery’s California Dreamin’.
THURSDAY
JULY 21, 2011
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
First thing Thursday morning, Paul Sanders telephoned his contact, Gail Moskowitz, at the D.C. offices of the Federal Deposit Insurance Corporation to enlist her support with his client’s problems with Broad Street National Bank. She sympathized with Paul, agreeing that the bank’s treatment of his client was unfair, but she told him what the bank was doing wasn’t illegal. It sounded to her as though the bank was merely trying to live up to the letter of the guidance the FDIC was giving all banks: Reduce
your exposure to commercial real estate loans.
“Come on, Gail. If every bank in the country reacted to the agency’s guidance in this way, the economy wouldn’t just be in recession; it would be in free fall.”
“I’m sorry, Paul, but there’s nothing I can do.”
“Can you at least call the FDIC supervisor in Philadelphia and ask him or her to look into this? Maybe the supervisor can suggest the bank ameliorate its position.”
Gail didn’t respond right off. But, after a few seconds hesitation, she said, “All right, Paul. That’s a fair request. I’ll call the area supervisor.”
Paul gave Moskowitz his cell phone number and asked her to call him as soon as she heard something. After hanging up, he drove to Katherine’s house to meet Sylvia Young, Wendy Folsom’s criminal attorney, there at 10 a.m.
Paul was last to arrive. Katherine served him a cup of coffee as he sat down with the others at the dining room table.
Sylvia handed Paul a folder. “The documents I prepared are in there,” she said. “The restraining order, a divorce petition, and a criminal complaint against Gerald Folsom for assault and battery and attempted murder. I called Anthony Castiglia, the head of Violent Crimes at the Philadelphia P.D. He’s an old friend of mine and he’s expecting us downtown at 3 this afternoon. Once he sees the photographs in the file, I am confident he’ll get the D.A. to issue an arrest warrant for Folsom.
“Unfortunately, I have to tell you I’ve handled a lot of cases like this. A man that abuses his wife as badly as Folsom has abused Wendy cannot be trusted. I would bet all my savings he’ll blow like Vesuvius when the charges are filed against him. Wendy needs to be somewhere safe until we’re sure her husband is locked up.”
“She can stay with me,” Katherine said immediately.
Sylvia smiled at Katherine. “That’s very kind of you, but that might jeopardize your safety as well as Wendy’s. No, we need to find a better place.”
“How about the convent at St. Francis College?” Katherine asked. “We’ve made large contributions to the school over the last few years. I’m sure they’d be willing to grant me a favor.”
“Sounds perfect,” Sylvia said, looking at Wendy. “But you’ve got to promise you will not leave the convent except for court appearances and the like. I’ll have a guard pick you up and take you back as necessary.”
“Aren’t you being overly protective?” Wendy asked. “I mean, I know Gerald is a monster, but he wouldn’t dare come after me once charges are filed. The police would suspect him first if anything happened to me.”
“Suspecting him is not the same as proving he harmed you. I’m not being overly protective; I’m being overly cautious.”
When she saw Wendy had nothing else to add, Sylvia suggested, “Paul, let’s go over the documents. I know criminal law isn’t your expertise, but I always like to have a second set of eyes look over anything I file with the court or the police.”
“I’ll call the college while you work on the documents,” Katherine said and walked toward the kitchen.
Sylvia passed a set of documents to Wendy. “You should review these with Paul and me,” Sylvia said.
* * *
Two hours passed before they finished. Sylvia edited the documents as necessary on her laptop and emailed the revised documents to her office. “We’ll pick up the final documents on the way downtown,” she advised. “I suggest we go out and get some lunch, then work our way downtown via my office.”
“Any luck with the college?” Paul asked Katherine.
“The Mother Superior is going to call me back this afternoon. But I think I’ll drive out there and talk to her. It’s always harder to turn someone down when you have to look them in the eye.”
“You’re not going downtown with me?” Wendy asked, a tremble sounding in her voice.
Katherine walked behind Wendy seated at the dining table. She rested her hands on her shoulders and said, “This is the time for lawyers. I would just be in the way. But I’ll see you tonight.”
Wendy placed a hand on one of Katherine’s hands.
Paul, Sylvia, and Wendy walked outside to Paul’s Cadillac. Paul’s cell phone rang as he opened the driver’s door. The women got into the car.
“Hello?” Paul said.
“Paul, it’s Gail Moskowitz. I’ve got bad news.”
“I didn’t expect the area supervisor to cooperate, but thanks for the effort.”
“No, you don’t understand. The area supervisor’s name was Donald Matson. He was murdered last night, almost right in front of his home. Two shots to the head at close range. At first the police thought it might be a robbery because his wallet was missing. They found it in a nearby trash can. But what’s strange is that Matson still had on a very expensive watch and ring. At this point the police aren’t certain about motive.”
“Holy . . . . What the hell!”
“Everyone’s kind of shell-shocked around here.”
“I can imagine,” Paul said. “I’m sorry. Thanks for calling.”
“Good luck, Paul. I hope things work out for your client.”
Paul got into his car. He needed to call Edward and tell him what had happened as soon as possible, so that he wouldn’t harbor unrealistic hopes for a solution from that quarter. But he didn’t want to have that conversation while Wendy was in the car. Hearing about a murder, even if it had nothing to do with her, might unnerve her. He waited until they arrived at the police headquarters. It was 2:45 p.m.
“I need to place a call,” Paul told Sylvia. “I’ll be right up.”
Paul dialed Edward’s office number and the receptionist transferred the call to Edward’s cell. “Can you talk?” Paul asked.
“I’m at the Journal. I’ve got an appointment with the business editor in five minutes. Why?”
“I got a call from my contact at the FDIC; I asked her to check with the Philadelphia area supervisor about interceding at Broad Street National Bank about your loan. But she never had the chance to talk to him. He was shot and killed last night in front of his home. Fellow named Donald Matson.”
“My God! Do they know who did it?”
“No, not yet. They thought it might be a robbery gone wrong, but now they’re not so sure.”
“Strange.”
“It’s a big city, Eddie. Murders happen every day. Sorry to bring you bad news. I really hoped the local FDIC supervisor would get involved.”
“About par for the course lately.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Edward sat down with Kelly Loughridge at The Philadelphia Journal newspaper offices. Loughridge, a heavy-set woman with long, thick auburn hair and glasses, wore khaki slacks, a peasant blouse, and Birkenstocks. Her only accessories were a turquoise and silver etched Zuni bracelet and a pencil stuck behind an ear. It was obvious from the woman’s body language and skeptical expression she wasn’t happy about spending time with Edward. He thought she probably agreed to see him only because of the business Winter Enterprises had done with the paper.
“Thanks for your time, Ms. Loughridge,” he said. “I’ll make this quick.”
Edward handed her a summary of what was happening to his company at the hands of Broad Street National Bank and what bankers had told him about the demands of the regulators.
“If you’ll read this over, you should wonder what the heck is going on. Think about what they’re doing to us and imagine the impact of this sort of behavior on the overall community.”
Loughridge tapped her computer keyboard and then swiveled the screen so Edward could see it. “You know we’ve done a series of articles on the regulators taking over area banks?”
“Yes, I’ve read them. But all those articles approached the situation from the bankers’ viewpoint. You interviewed the former owners of banks taken over by the government and the new owners the regulators broug
ht in. But you’ve never done any stories from the perspective of bank customers, business owners.”
She considered Edward’s comment. “Interesting. That might have some appeal to our readers.”
She fiddled with her keyboard again and pulled up a story headlined: FEDS TAKE OVER BROAD STREET NATIONAL.
Edward remembered the article from last Sunday’s edition. “Not a happy day for me.”
“Any suggestions of who we should talk with?” Loughridge asked.
“I included a list of names on the last page of the write-up I gave you.”
“Thanks. We’ll consider doing something.”
Edward stood and shook her hand. He started turning to leave when he glanced at Loughridge’s computer screen. Something caught his attention. He leaned in closer. In the first paragraph of the story, the writer had quoted Donald Matson.
“I just heard that Matson, the FDIC guy, was shot and killed last night.”
Loughridge looked at the screen. “I heard someone got shot out off Ridge Pike yesterday, but I didn’t make the connection. Interesting.”
“Anyway, let me know if I can be of assistance,” Edward said and walked out.
Kelly Loughridge had been a newspaper woman for twenty years. Naturally curious and suspicious, she didn’t believe in innocent coincidences. She plugged Donald Matson’s name into the newspaper’s database, skimming the string of references his name popped up on her screen. After discarding the citations that were obviously not the FDIC’s Matson, she collected the balance of fifteen and sent them to the printer. An instinct told her there might be something to Winter’s story, but there might be more to the Matson story. She’d wasted a lot of time over her career chasing wild geese, but a few of those geese had yielded great stories. She stacked the printed articles and shoved them into her briefcase. “A loaf of bread, a glass of wine and thou,” she muttered, although “thou” was more often home work rather than human companionship.