Yasuda puts his hand out and lays it on her forearm. “Hannah.”
She looks at him, retracts her fangs, and settles back into her chair.
“What is it exactly that you want, Mr. Madriani?” says Yasuda.
“First, I want my client released into my custody and I want it done before I leave here today. Apparently from what Hannah just said you’ve already cut the paperwork on this. Second, I will prepare the final written settlement agreement as regards the sum owing to Mr. Betz under the IRS Whistleblower Act. Your accountants can talk with our accountants as to the precise amount owed.”
“What about the records?” says Yasuda.
“What assurance do we have that your office will pursue them? Investigate and prosecute?” I ask.
“None,” he says. “That’s a matter of prosecutorial discretion.”
“In which case you already have my terms on that issue. We’re prepared to release them to you simultaneously with a release to the media.”
“That’s unacceptable,” says Yasuda.
“Fine. Then we can sort out the claim on the Whistleblower Fund by filing suit in the tax court. We will lodge an appeal in the Ninth Circuit regarding the manner in which you charged and thereafter incarcerated my client. I’m sure the court will be very interested in learning why you charged him in the manner you did, particularly given the evidence at trial regarding his extraordinary efforts of cooperation that you spurned. But before I do any of this, I will gather up the records of Mr. Betz, make a sufficient number of copies, and send them to every media outlet I can find.”
“That would be highly irresponsible,” says Yasuda. “Give us a moment.”
“Take all the time you need.”
He and Parish turn their backs and huddle at the table. I’m wondering if I should turn on the white noise for them.
Finally they turn around. “Let me lay it all on the table for you,” he says. “If we release Mr. Betz, what assurances can you give us that he’ll be safe? You know the risks.”
“I do.”
“Why don’t you let us put him in witness protection?” says Yasuda.
“Of course, the final decision on that belongs to Mr. Betz. But I suspect he’s had about enough protection from the federal government for the time being. If you’re asking if I can give a guarantee as to his safety, the answer’s no. But perhaps with a little assistance on your part we can afford him a reasonable amount of security until we can make other arrangements.”
It is not Betz’s security that is their primary concern. It is the security of the documents that they want.
“Good,” says Yasuda. “Then we’re agreed as to that issue. As for the money, we have no problems. We are more than willing to negotiate a corrected amount, consistent with the code and the regulations regarding the whistleblower award.
“It’s the last item that’s the problem,” says Yasuda. “What will you do with the records if we do nothing more here today?”
“We will hold them for the time being,” I tell him. “In point of fact, you’re aware, as I am, that as long as these remain hidden with the risk that they will be delivered to the media if anything happens to Mr. Betz, they provide some added measure of security.”
“Then can we agree to discuss this at a later date?”
“It’s fine by me, but I wouldn’t wait too long.”
“Good.” Yasuda looks at the supervisor sitting at the end of the table. “Please make the arrangements for Mr. Betz’s release immediately. Get him some street clothes and some cash, a generous amount. We will treat it as an advance on the award.” He looks at me. “You and I need to discuss security arrangements.”
Yasuda doesn’t know the half of it.
FIFTY-TWO
The day after arriving home from the ordeal at Supermax, I dispatched Harry to meet with Alex Ives’s father. At Ives’s office at the airport, the two of them made all the necessary arrangements. The small air cargo jet would return to Mexico, pick up Alex and Herman, and bring them back, at least partway.
I’ve been pushing everything else off my desk to deal with all of this, and I have a growing stack of mail and telephone messages screaming at me. One of them is from the judge’s clerk downtown as we edge toward the meeting I’m trying to avoid, and another from the guy out in Del Mar, Becket.
As soon as Harry returned to the office he gave me the details, time and date for the pickup at the dirt strip east of Ixtapa. I sent a message to Herman on the Internet bulletin board in Tampico, Mexico: “It is time to come home.”
In cryptic terms I spelled out the details. He already knew the location. I let him know that I would watch the board for any message coming the other way in the event that they couldn’t make it.
Because Alex lacks a passport we cannot fly him back the way he went out, directly across the border on the jet. Landing at a US airport, TSA, which does air cargo security, and ICE, Immigration and Customs, would nail him. They would probably see to it that the company transporting him lost their license, too. Alex would end up back in the pokey for violating the terms of his bail, and Harry and I would be sitting on a hot seat in front of some judge downtown.
With all of the stories about people walking across the southern border, the fact is, it isn’t that easy.
So the jet, loaded with a light cargo of consumer electronics, will fly south to Mexico City and drop off part of its load. It will then make a quick detour west, taking less than an hour to the dirt strip, pick up Alex and Herman, and then head north. It will land again at Tijuana to deposit the rest of its cargo. Because the connecting flights, the two cargo drops, are within the country, Mexican authorities at Tijuana are not likely to take a hard look at the plane.
Herman and Alex will be picked up by a car near the cargo terminal at Tijuana. Alex’s father has made arrangements for this. They will be driven to the fishing port at Ensenada, and from there, they will board a fast forty-two-foot sport fishing boat owned by an American buddy of Ives. He will transport them well out to sea, then north, up the coast, where they will land at Mission Bay, the boat’s home port.
On board will be three American sport fishermen with bad sunburns, along with a couple of large yellowtail tuna that the skipper will buy off the docks in Ensenada.
If all goes well, Alex and Herman should be back in San Diego within two days. The question of where to hide Alex has also been solved, at least for the time being. I will hide him with Betz. Alex has always wanted to meet the whistleblower. Here is his chance.
Before I left the Supermax facility in Colorado, I made a phone call to another acquaintance in Washington, D.C. His name is Zeb Thorpe. Harry and I call him “Jug-Head.” A former marine, Thorpe is actually the executive director for the National Security Branch of the FBI. At one time he held my life, along with Harry’s and Herman’s, in his hands. To the extent that you can trust anybody in circumstances like these, I trust Thorpe.
I asked him if he knew Fenton Yasuda. He did. According to Thorpe, Yasuda is a straight arrow, a career prosecutor who has worked his way up within the Department of Justice. Although the position he currently holds is an exempt appointment, he is no political hack. Thorpe says he is someone I can trust. So I do. Thorpe also gave me some other advice and said he would make a few phone calls.
With that, Yasuda and I, out of the presence of everyone else, made a deal. As agreed, the government transported Betz and me back to Miramar, the Marine Air Station near San Diego, where they will temporarily house Betz until other arrangements can be made. It was Thorpe who called ahead of me to the station and cleared the way.
The fact is, we have no other choice. I can’t take Betz to my office or to my house. Neither place would be safe. The minute they knew he was there, they would descend on both of us.
I am hoping that Betz will be at Miramar no more than a few days, a week at most. US Marshals will provide security inside the compound. Marine guards at the gate filter everyone coming and going.
If it is carefully worked out, arrangements might be made for his daughter to visit him there.
On the plane back Betz and I set up a code. He is to call me three times each day using the back line at the office and my home phone at night. I will not pick up, as I will not recognize the incoming phone number. He is to leave a message on voice mail that my laundry is ready to be picked up. If I don’t get the message, I will call the marshals and start to worry.
My fear is not that someone will kill Betz, at least not immediately. The concern is that they may try to kidnap him in order to squeeze him for information as to the location of the Swiss bank records. Once they have those, none of us will be safe.
With everything that has happened, the strange thing is that we still have no clue as to who is behind all of the bloodletting. Is it being driven from within the government or from the outside? There is no question that Grimes is caught up in the middle of it. Other members of Congress as well. But I doubt that they are the ones perpetrating the violence. I could understand an individual member under pressure, being blackmailed, desperate enough to kill the person threatening them. But this, a highly organized series of assassinations, carefully planned and executed—it doesn’t fit.
Instead, it is far more likely that the members, some whose names were given to Harry and me by the banker, Korff, are the commodities that are being protected. Someone invested in their corruption is shielding his capital outlay.
If Harry and I had anything solid, documents or a witness pointing us in the right direction, it would be something we could give to the D.A. or to the cops. Anything to get them off our backs on the case against Alex.
It’s what I was hoping for in the declaration from Ben, her statement under penalty of perjury naming the man who hired her to lure Alex to the party, the man with the silver bird-headed cane. But I don’t have it, and she’s dead.
I could produce Betz. He could testify to the fact that others had a motive to kill Serna, but without something more it would be meaningless. The prosecution would claim that it was nothing but a desperate attempt to shower blame on a phantom conspiracy. They would demand to see the evidence, the mysterious bank records. The feds would be on us in a minute, US attorneys up to our hips, demanding that everything be sealed, motions to remove the entire matter to the federal courts. And while we were arguing, someone would stick a knife in my back. Betz would end up with another lawyer, someone looking to get a good grip on his throat to find out where the bank records are kept.
Bizarre as it is, we are still saddled with the vehicular homicide case and a meeting in front of a judge in his chambers the day after tomorrow. I am hoping that Alex will be back in time.
FIFTY-THREE
This morning Harry and I are closeted in the library at the office, busily working up notes with our accountant. We’re going over the terms of the agreement, how to handle the money, the settlement between Betz and the government.
We have already hammered out the terms of his release. They are trying to sweeten the pot by dangling a full pardon. I doubt that it matters to Betz as long as he can see his daughter. Their first visit was this morning, and from the tone of his voice he was floating on air. She is the only thing that matters to him in life.
Our CPA, Bruce, is spread out at the table, becoming giddy as he crunches the numbers. He huddles over his computer, punching in figures. All that is missing from this picture is a green visor on his head and a handle he can pull periodically like a slot machine.
“We don’t have all the numbers yet,” he says. “We have the eight hundred million in fines from the bank, and some of the fines and penalties along with back taxes collected from the five thousand some odd individuals he turned over.”
These are the US taxpayers with hidden accounts identified by Betz at his company’s bank, his old Swiss employer.
“But we don’t have them all as yet. And you say there could be more?”
He means the PEPs who were moved to Gruber Bank, though he doesn’t know the terms or any of the details because we haven’t given him any of it. None of us know the fate on those as yet.
“If they go public and end up in the tally,” says Harry, “it’s gonna be like finding the Atocha.” Harry is talking about the Spanish treasure galleon that went down in the Caribbean back in the 1600s.
“Who are they?” says Bruce.
“Never mind.” I look at Harry.
“Sorry,” he says.
It is an irony that after all this time Harry and I, as a consequence of taking Alex Ives’s drunk driving case, and in the process netting Betz as a client, stand to receive what may be a very large payday, though neither of us understand the full dimensions of it yet.
Rubin Betz is insisting that we take, at a minimum, ten percent of everything over one hundred and ten million, the original offer made to him by the government. He says that without me he would have never seen a dime over that amount and would probably still be sitting in his cell at Supermax. More important, because he is free, he has regular contact with his daughter.
The question, I wonder, is whether Grimes knew about this, and figured that maybe she was buying me off? During the phone call Proffit told me that I would be well compensated. But I never had a clue as to the amount. My guess is neither did he; otherwise he would have shouldered me aside and tried to grab it for himself. I suspect this is what happens when you rub up against the rich and powerful in D.C.: flecks of gold wrapped in bouquets of garbage rain down.
“I expect what they’re going to want to do is go back to square one and start their calculations all over again,” says Bruce. “They’ll probably argue that the fine paid by the bank subject to the settlement is not ‘revenue’ within the meaning of the law. Therefore you get no part of it under the whistleblower program. The fact is, it’s money paid to the US Treasury, they would have never gotten it without the information given to them by your client, and they clearly used it to calculate their original offer to him. They’ve dug themselves a hole,” he says.
“Beyond that, you’re going to want to leave the agreement open-ended in order to capture any future claims. It’s gonna be a moving target by all appearances, developing as you go. The other three thousand taxpayers they’re still working on.”
“Can we do that?” I ask. “I was assuming they’d want a final figure.”
“You can do whatever you want as long as the government agrees to it. If they refuse, I would file a claim in the tax court. Ordinarily my advice,” he says, “is to take whatever they offer you and go. You can die of old age fighting with the government. But in this case, given the amounts, the fact that you’ve got a minor on the receiving end, you’d be a fool not to press it.” Bruce used to work for the IRS. He knows the game, but he tells us we are plowing new ground here. “This is without question the biggest claim the Whistleblower Fund has ever seen,” he says.
I make a note to keep the agreement open-ended to capture future claims.
“There may be more, but for the moment let’s keep it conservative,” I tell them. “Run the numbers on what we know, the figures we have right now. I’ll draft the agreement to capture whatever might be owing from the rest of the five thousand we already know about. Anything else, we’ll have to see.”
“You and I’ll have to talk about that.” Harry wants a pound of flesh from the politicians.
The accountant starts punching numbers. “OK, so we start with what we know. The government claims revenue of one point one billion dollars, of which eight hundred million comes from fines paid by the bank. The balance comes from about two thousand of the five thousand hiding funds offshore. Working backwards at ten percent, that gets you to the hundred and ten million dollars they originally offered him.
“However, as we know, the statute and the regs call for a sliding scale of between fifteen and thirty percent of the amount recovered by the government. Let’s start at the low end,” says Bruce. He’s working the keyboard. “Fifteen percent o
f one point one billion is one hundred and sixty-five million dollars. That’s your client’s payday, bottom line, minimum amount under the statute and the regs. That’s as low as it’s going to get for them.”
“You mean . . .” says Harry.
“I mean unless there’s some extraordinary reason that none of us know about, either they pay that or they’ll be forced to pay by the tax court. They can delay, drag their feet, but ultimately you’ll collect.”
“That’s fifty-five million dollars more than they offered him,” says Harry. “That means . . . that means five and a half million dollars.” Harry looks at him.
“Your fee, that’s correct,” says Bruce.
Harry is stunned.
“So that’s where they’ll start negotiating,” says Bruce.
“What do you mean start?” says Harry.
“That will be their opener, lowball offer,” says Bruce. “You on the other hand start at thirty percent. Make your best case. Without the assistance and the information from your client, what was the likely return and revenue to the government? Zero. You haggle. Where are you gonna end up? Somewhere in the middle,” he says. “Let’s just take a ballpark, split the difference, say around twenty-two and a half percent, give or take.” He punches some more numbers, moves the mouse, does it again, then says, “Let’s see, that’s two hundred and forty-seven million, five hundred thousand dollars. Not to put too fine a point on it.”
Harry, sitting across the table from me, has just turned white.
“Your fee,” says Bruce. He does a few more calculations. “If I figure correctly, should be somewhere in the neighborhood of thirteen million, seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars. Now that’s the stuff we know about, current claim,” he says. “That doesn’t include the other three thousand taxpayers they know about but are still working to tally up. If you extrapolate knowing what we know from the first two thousand,” he says. “Figure another four hundred million in revenue to the government, at twenty-two and a half percent that’s another ninety million for your client, nine million to you. So the total ballpark figure is, say . . . let’s round it off, say three hundred and thirty-seven million dollars. That’s your client’s take. Your fee, thirty-three million, seven.” He looks up at us. “Now that’s the most you’re going to get. You can make it easy on yourself by getting in their faces and then backing off a little, take a little less. At some point they’ll cave and say ‘good.’ ”
The Enemy Inside Page 34