Counterfeit

by Scott L. Miller

  He’s right. Keep your emotions in check. I took a breath and said, “You mean the other prisoners or the guards?”

  Donnell whispered, “Both. Now shut the fuck up, Doc. You’ve gone too far.”

  “Is he abiding by the rules? Is he getting into fights?”

  Sergeant Collins looked uncomfortable again as he glanced back into the empty room. He’d found his voice again and spoke with more force. “I can’t share that information with you, Doc. The prisoner will tell you that, if he wishes.”

  Why is this guy nervous and acting defensive?

  “We’re both straight shooters. What’s the harm in telling me about his time in here? He’s lost weight, he’s depressed, and scared shitless, Donnell. He's my client and I think someone is systematically breaking him and will ultimately kill him.”

  He opened his mouth to answer and abruptly stopped. He said, “He’s doing his part and we’re doing ours. This job is hard. The men in here are hard. Enough said. As for the rest, I can't say. Good luck, Doc.”

  I think he’d come to like or at least respect Lonnie, on some level.

  What was Collins trying to say without saying it?

  $ $ $

  There was no time to waste. I found Dennis Hanover, Lonnie’s court-appointed attorney. Thin and nearly devoid of shoulders, he was dressed in an oversized three-piece brown suit designed for winter not summer, a thin black tie, and black penny loafers. He sported a bowl-cut hairdo with a patchy light brown mustache and long matching sideburns. He looked like a teenager but had to be at least in his mid-twenties to get through law school. I wouldn’t be surprised if he still lived with his parents and rode the bus to work. He lugged a ratty maroon accordion file folder, and his movements were awkward and uncertain.

  I introduced myself and shook his hand. His handshake was wet and limp. He said to call him Denny. I told him that Lonnie was just rushed to the infirmary. “He’s being beaten. What are you going to do about it?”

  He pushed out his next words with short, crisp, quick bursts. “I asked that he be isolated for his own protection. Kendall denied it. My hands are tied.”

  “He’s a punching bag in there, Denny. Prisoners are beating the shit out of him. They’re going to kill him if you don’t do something.”

  Fumbling for words, he said, “You can’t talk to me that way. It is a prison you know,” he sniffed, “and he’s a felony counterfeiter.”

  “Man up, Denny. You’re obligated to provide him with the best legal representation you can. You’re his attorney, and you’ve already tried and convicted him?”

  He shrugged and sniffed again. “They caught him red-handed, for Christ’s sake.”

  “How many prisoners are on your caseload, Denny?”

  He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “Over a hundred, give or take a dozen at any time.”

  “He’s suicidal, Denny. That gets him out of general population and back into special security.”

  “It could, but I never heard him talk about killing himself.”

  “You’re not trained to recognize the signs and symptoms, Denny. Call whoever you need to. Get him back there. Do it now.”

  He scowled like I’d just ruined his day. “I’ll need a notarized report attesting he’s a danger to himself. I’ll give it to the super and he’ll decide.”

  “You’ll have it on your desk in twenty minutes. Give me your fax.”

  We exchanged business cards and I told him to call me as soon as he made it happen. I dictated a psychological assessment into my cell phone, called my trusty service, and told them I needed a stat note transcribed and sent to Denny’s fax. At the front desk, I also completed an affidavit, which was then notarized, attesting that Lonnie Washington verbalized a plan to kill himself in our session. My efficient service had my report on Denny’s desk in fifteen minutes. At best my assessment was a stretch and at worst a bald lie that theoretically could cost me my license.

  chapter fourteen

  the buck stops here

  That afternoon I slipped quietly into the shadowy back corner of a Channel Four studio to watch the filming of Debbie’s counterfeiting series. The busy crew recognized me and likely assumed Deb had invited me.

  The segment began with a close-up of dapper Debbie sitting erect in a chair. She wore a gray jacket, matching skirt, and white puffy blouse, but still looked too skinny to throw a shadow. Her hair was pulled back from her cheeks and, once the make-up artist had completed her last-second touch-ups, she donned her serious investigative news reporter face.

  “Good evening. We begin part one of Channel Four’s special on the world of counterfeiting with agent Stan Winston, a veteran anti-counterfeiting expert with the St. Louis branch of the Secret Service, who has closely examined many of the hundred-dollar bills Lonnie Washington allegedly mass-produced earlier this year. Thanks for being here with us tonight, Stan.”

  In his early forties, Stan Winston was fit and lean, with the wiry look of a runner or tennis player. He had short curly black hair and bushy eyebrows, and was dressed in a conservative dark suit and red tie. He was tan, and he fiddled with his wire-framed glasses before he spoke. “I’m happy to be here, Miss Macklin,” he said, though his body language indicated otherwise.

  “What insights can you share with us about the quality of these counterfeit bills?”

  Agent Wilson nodded and cleared his throat. “The counterfeiters we’re dealing with here attempted the impossible, to replicate the exact process and standards used daily by our Treasury Department to mass produce hundred-dollar bills. They engraved two knock-off master metal plates, stole a large amount of authentic government paper and ink, and used a large printing press. However, they made mistakes with ink distribution in the production process. Considerable talent is needed to blend the exact amounts of ink, water, and pressure to duplicate the look of real money. That requires months of practice. They likely didn’t want to waste precious paper on trial runs and their greed led to their capture. Their bills are detectable by anyone accustomed to handling money.” He held up a large cardboard display from a desk on the set that contained enlargements of two separate one-hundred dollar bills, but the board slipped from his hands and fell to the studio floor.

  “That’s okay, Stan,” the director said. “Just reposition the board and we’ll edit.”

  “Sorry,” Stan said.

  When the scene was reset, the red light reappeared.

  “If your camera will zoom in, I will point out the most glaring differences.”

  He used a laser pointer to start with the bill on the left. “This is an enhancement of the front of a current legal tender US one-hundred-dollar bill.” He focused on the portrait and continued, “As you can see, the detail that goes into the hundred-dollar bill is a true work of art. The crown of Benjamin Franklin’s head is comprised of numerous fine lines running parallel across the forehead and angling down both sides, just below a receding hairline with the hair combed straight back. Note the clear, sharp boundaries that separate the head from the background. Note the serene and somewhat bemused look on Franklin’s face. Up close, the lines in his coat are like curved roads of plowed fields on hillsides and his hair gives the appearance of rolling waves. The manner in which the portrait was etched into the master plate also lends the appearance that a light is shining on parts of the forehead, cheek, and chin, as they are significantly lighter. This chiaroscuro effect is intentional, to make the job of the counterfeiter as difficult as possible.”

  Next he aimed his laser at the portrait of the bill on the right. “This is a blowup of a bill seized in the recent St. Louis police raid. The differences are noticeable to the naked eye—the details lack sharpness and clarity, they merge into one another, there are blurry areas with no shades of light and dark in the forehead, cheek, or chin regions and no sense that a light is shining on Benjamin Franklin’s portrait. These bills are noticeably darker than authentic currency because the counterfeiters burned the plates
too long. The arc light burner uses high-intensity light to burn the negatives onto the metal plate. The light burns away a thin layer of the plate beneath and is supposed to leave only the lines of the negative intact and raised. It is, essentially, a stamp in metal carved by light and then cleaned in chemical washes. They burned away too much of the master plate, forcing too much ink onto the bills, and that is why these fakes are too dark. Similar flaws exist on the backs of the bills, also related to the plate-burning process. They lacked the necessary skills and patience to make their counterfeits passable.”

  Debbie said, “These bills are greatly enlarged for our viewers, Stan. Are these differences readily detectable at regular size?”

  “I'll let you be the judge, Miss Macklin.”

  He held up two life-sized hundred-dollar bills for Debbie’s inspection as the camera zoomed in on the money and her manicured nails.

  After a brief moment Debbie picked one and said, “This one is much darker and must be the counterfeit.”

  Stan smiled. “That’s right, but there’s better news. We now have an easier, faster, and foolproof way to detect and weed out the remainder of the fake bills from circulation.”

  “What’s that, Stan?”

  “When held under a black light, the embedded security strip in a legal tender US hundred-dollar bill glows faint red or pink. These counterfeits glow a bright blue.”

  Debbie looked confused. “If the counterfeiters stole real government paper, why are their strips blue?”

  “All denominations greater than two dollars have security strips embedded in them. The counterfeiters unknowingly stole a large lot of five-dollar rag paper and printed hundred-dollar bills on five-dollar paper sheets.

  “Fascinating,” Debbie said, looking impressed and pensive for the camera.

  “The starch pens used by businesses to detect counterfeits are useless against these bills because they are printed on authentic paper, which has high starch content, and the pens contain starch. This black light test is one hundred percent accurate and I recommend all businesses obtain a black light to test every hundred-dollar bill received.”

  She nodded and said, “Where can businesses obtain black lights?”

  “Black lights, also called UV-A lights, are available at local hardware stores, online, or may be obtained at cost by contacting our office at the number listed on your screen. Anyone found in possession of these counterfeits with intent to distribute will be questioned and the bill will be confiscated. The outstanding fakes are now essentially worthless to the counterfeiters because they can no longer be safely passed.”

  Debbie repeated the number on the screen and said, “Thank you, Agent Winston, for keeping the Channel Four viewing public up to speed on the latest happenings in this fascinating story that has captured the attention of the entire St. Louis metropolitan area.”

  “You’re welcome, Miss Macklin.”

  The camera returned to a close-up of Debbie who said, “Experts are now calling this case the most infamous crime in St. Louis history, far outdistancing the five million stolen last year from an ATM repository by armed robbers who were quickly captured. Experts also anticipate the future counterfeiting trial will be the most notorious court case in St. Louis history.

  “Stayed tuned tomorrow night as Channel Four takes you on a private tour of the Washington, DC Bureau of Engraving and Printing where you will see authentic hundred-dollar bills being printed, cut, and stacked. Plus you will also hear the incredible story of a reformed counterfeiter who served fifteen years in federal prison who now uses his special knowledge to teach the Secret Service how to identify and catch counterfeiters. Stay tuned to Channel Four, the only station with the latest updates on this fascinating case.”

  Stan Winston’s account added another twist. I refused to believe Lonnie had used the wrong paper—he was too smart for that. Had Winston been turned or had Lonnie conned me? I recalled the prophecy of Milton Peebles about the Golden Goose. If he was right it opens a whole new Pandora’s Box.

  I hoped Peebles’ eyes were brown and that he was full of shit, but I remembered them being black and beady and keen as a laser.

  I left the shadows of the studio before Debbie noticed.

  I waited in more shadows on a park bench reading a novel for thirty minutes until Winston emerged from the studio lugging a suitcase and walking to his car. I’d chosen an empty bench next to an unmarked dark blue sedan with a bubble-top on the dash, thinking it looked like the kind of car a Secret Service agent would drive. I looked up casually and rose to make it obvious I was waiting for him.

  “I'm Bill Dolan,” I said, extending my hand which he shook. “You did a good job in there. Your work must be fascinating. It’s incredible how sophisticated the Secret Service has to be to keep ahead of the bad guys.”

  His look turned skeptical. “Are you a reporter?”

  I laughed. “God, no. Nothing like that. I’m the son of the station manager. Is your test really foolproof?”

  He shifted his weight. “Why do you ask?”

  “I received two hundred-dollar bills yesterday and one of them looked funny.”

  He looked down at his shoes briefly, then back at me. “You have them with you?”

  I nodded.

  A perturbed look crossed his face and he glanced at his watch.

  “Do you remember where you received the bill?”

  “I can do better,” I said, “I know who gave it to me and where to find him.”

  He said, “Come over to the bench with me.”

  He quickly extracted tools and vials from his briefcase while I laid two bills on the bench between us. He donned gloves to handle the bills, and then he snapped and smelled them, inspecting them closely through a jeweler's loupe. Then he subjected areas of the paper and ink to various tests.

  “They both look real to me. There's no excess ink spillage. One last test and we’re done,” he said, reaching into the case and grabbing a small, hand-held device.

  “Is that the black light you mentioned inside?”

  “Uh-huh,” he said in a bored, detached tone. “I can already tell you what we'll find. They'll glow red.” And sure enough, the thin strips in both bills glowed pink in the daylight.

  “Good news. Your bills are real,” he said, handing them back, sounding disappointed.

  “Thanks. I'm curious, do you run all the tests yourself, or do you delegate them to subordinates?”

  “Why?”

  I gave an exaggerated shrug. “No reason. My favorite shows are the CSI ones, and I’m fascinated by the techniques you know.”

  He paused. “The simple tests—weighing, measuring, checking for prints, and black-lighting—were done by lab workers. I like to be hands-on, so I conducted the chemical and quality tests.”

  If I pressed him for more, red flags would start flying in his head.

  He looked at his watch again and said, “Gotta go.” He tossed his briefcase in the back of the sedan and sped away, trying his best not to sneak looks at me but failing.

  One of the bills had come from my bank this morning. The other came to my home yesterday in an envelope with no return address. The note inside simply said: One of 250,000. Same handwriting, but no signature, no LW.

  The crisp new bills looked identical to me.

  I told myself this didn’t prove anything because I didn’t know the origin of the bill. But I stood there alone in the parking lot wondering whether Agent Wilson or a lab worker in his office had been turned, and to what degree.

  chapter fifteen

  change in the weather

  That night I drove down Hebert Street and sensed something different, something wrong. Thunderclouds were building in the distance and the air felt charged, volatile. A growing throng of young and middle-aged black men had gathered on the street, the line stretching from Fairground Park, tracking my every move as I parked in front of LaKeesha’s brick and frame house. Some of the men I recognized from the scrum at the mini-mar
t. Instead of running up to negotiate their next pay raise, DeAndre and Ty quickly pedaled away, casting furtive looks over their shoulders. It was too late to drive forward or backward as the mob of bodies had already surrounded my car.

  Oh, shit.

  I didn’t see Skinny Yolanda over the heads of the mob along the street, but she broke through their ranks and approached my Solstice under a full head of steam, her square jaw set and those oval obsidian eyes fixed on me.

  When I got out of the car she slapped me hard across the face and struck my head and shoulders with closed fists. She lunged at me while I backpedaled. I couldn’t understand her guttural screams, she was that out of control. Her sole focus was on attacking me. Her long nails clawed at my face; she kicked, spat, and bit at me. The silent mob of gawking onlookers had doubled by this time but made no effort to intervene. Icy stares met me from all sides.

  I reacted instinctively—wrapping my arms around her thin, twisting, fighting ones and took her to the ground as gently as I could. Still, we hit the bare dirt near the buckled sidewalk hard. The mob encircled us during my take down, I assumed to lend her aid, but they held their ground when they saw she was unhurt. We wrestled and I held onto her until she at last stopped hitting, biting, and scratching. Her heart rate and breathing at last normalized from sheer fatigue. She cried, “You did it! You did it! You led them to him, you bastard!” She repeated the last two words softly as if chanting a mantra.

  Then the crying started and all the fury left her. She went limp and sagged in my arms like a wounded bird with a broken heart.

  That made me feel worse than when she was hitting me. It dawned on me what happened and how they had played me.

  She sat on the crabgrass, one thin leg folded under her, her back to me, and sobbed. I released my grip and she said, “They found him. Lonnie told me you were different from the others. He’s a good judge of character. I wanted so much to hope again. I knew I shouldn’t have trusted you. My readings are never wrong.”