by Todd Merer
“I don’t know anyone named Traum. It might jog my memory if you tell me who he is.”
I like to think I can read faces. God knows I’m often wrong, but I could have sworn by Cano’s guileless expression that he was telling the truth.
“Never mind,” I said. “Sorry.”
“This is for you,” Cano said, thrusting an envelope in the hand I’d just been pointing in his face. “Consider yourself served.”
He left me there, holding the envelope.
I took the steps instead of the elevator. The four flights take a toll on my bum hip, but I didn’t want to be in the cage elevator. Too jail-like, given my situation. I double-locked my office door, sat behind my desk, opened the envelope. Three documents were inside.
One was what lawyers call a target letter, informing me that I was being investigated for criminal conduct. It went on to say that as a consequence of the investigation, my presence was required at a Curcio hearing in the case of United States of America v. Joaquin Bolivar. More on Curcio-hearing particulars later: for now, suffice it to say they suck.
The second was a subpoena demanding that I appear to testify before a grand jury in the Eastern District of New York.
The third was another subpoena demanding that I turn over all my financial books and records between December of last year and the present. It took about a nanosecond to spark the realization that the dates corresponded to my receiving monies to represent Bolivar, Rigo, and Sombra.
I needed help.
Back in the days when I had been the head of a sizable firm instead of a one-man show, a lawyer named Joshua Waldman worked for me. Josh was what we in the business call a paper man. Hustlers like me are too busy or lazy to do legal research; instead, we hire legal brains like him to churn out motions and memoranda. Josh was the best paper man I ever knew. He had the rare gift of being able to analyze a broad situation, then clearly focus on the heart of the matter.
I phoned him and made an appointment.
The following morning I went to Josh’s office. I hadn’t been there before. It was way downtown on Fulton Street, a deco building with brass-trimmed elevators that whisked me up to a high floor with long corridors ending at windows offering bird’s-eye views of New York Harbor. Nice. I’d expected Josh’s office to be modest, because paper men don’t make big bucks, but I was pleasantly surprised to find it a well-appointed suite.
Josh and I hadn’t met in person in years. I’d heard he was building a white-collar practice. I don’t even own a white collar, but he was the straight man I wanted between me and the law.
Josh didn’t look the way I remembered him. The rumpled troll who used to slave at a keyboard was now a well-suited smoothie whose corner office had a curved-earth ocean view. When I entered, he greeted me with the same cheerful smile I recalled, but by the time I sat and we got down to business, he was no longer smiling.
“After you called, I had a conversation with Kandi Kauffman,” he said.
“Fuck her. She loves this, putting me through the wringer.”
“Yes, I did sense she was enjoying this matter. Have to keep an eye on that aspect. Moving on. I told her no point in your appearing before the grand jury, because you’d be taking the Fifth—”
“Fifty times, right in her face.”
“Not necessary. She agreed. She was quite reasonable. The investigation, as you may have guessed, is centered on the escape attempt.”
“Centered?”
“Her word, not mine. Centered, which I took to mean that there are collateral matters the government is interested in. We shall see. For now, we need to deal with what’s on the table. Far as the subpoena for your books and records, we could move to quash, but in my opinion, Judge Trieant will uphold it. It being a given that we’ll lose; no point in irritating the old gentleman.”
“He is not a gentleman and never was.”
“Possibly true, but irrelevant. Despite his progovernment proclivities on drug cases, when it comes to citizen’s rights, Judge Trieant is surprisingly libertarian.”
“Unfortunately, this is a drug case.”
“A stretch of Ms. Kauffman’s imagination, I think. Despite the nature of his clients, my client does not participate in their business affairs. Am I correct?”
“Absolutely, I do not,” I said emphatically.
Did Josh buy it? Didn’t matter. He was so straight, he refused to use office postal stamps to mail a personal bill. So straight, his ethics dictated that he not hear clients confess their sins, for if they ever were to testify, he would not assist them in being untruthful.
“Good,” he said. “Ms. Kauffman sent over something by way of discovery in support of her motion for a Curcio hearing.” He slid a sheet of paper across the desk. “It’s the transcript of a conversation in which you allegedly participated.”
I read it and nearly wept.
ANDREY LNU: Is our friend going to court soon?
B. BLUESTONE: Tomorrow.
ANDREY LNU: What time?
B. BLUESTONE: Probably late afternoon.
ANDREY LNU: We appreciate your assistance.
When I looked up, Josh was looking at me.
“It’s not what it seems,” I said.
“No need to discuss that just yet.”
“They’re listening to my phone?”
“To the phone belonging to the gentleman who called you. For the moment, our focus should be on your books and records. Send them over. I’ll Bates stamp them, then deliver them to the government. I assume you’ve prepared your client for the Curcio?”
“Not yet.”
“Do so.”
I nodded glumly. I dreaded the Curcio process, which had to do with conflicts. In this variation, the theory was that the investigation into me personally might so distract me that I would not pay attention to Bolivar’s case; or in an even worse alternative, I might try to curry favor with the government by not representing Bolivar vigorously.
Josh stood. The meeting was over.
Josh was one of the rare lawyers who didn’t like being paid in cash. I took my checkbook out, but he waved dismissively. “Don’t pay me, not until I can get a grip on what this is all about.”
“When you do, tell me.”
“I will. I’m not shy.”
As I left, Josh was already engrossed in another case file, one of many neatly arranged atop his large, elegant desk. It occurred to me that my old paper man most probably was making the kind of bucks I aspired to, and sleeping well to boot. Our paths had crossed, and his had climbed while mine had descended to a lowland trail through an unmarked minefield.
I was glad Josh was on my side. My problem remained unchanged, but my relief felt palpable. Josh had my back. I could set my cares and woes aside. Not only was Josh a professional; he truly cared about me.
I was confident he’d win one for the home team.
CHAPTER 52
As I entered my office lobby, my neighbor, Gracie Loeb, was leaving. When Gracie saw me, she quickly looked away. I became aware of another presence, turned, and saw my neighbor, Sol Sonnenberg. He was smiling.
“Forget about Gracie, Benn. Some people, you just can’t count on. Don’t worry about it. Gracie might run off at the mouth, but there’s nothing she could say that hurts you, right?”
I had no idea of what he was talking about.
“They were here this morning,” he said.
“They?”
“Two DEA agents. Tall, older guy with acne scars. Short, young Spanish guy.”
I felt the earth move under my feet, as if a sinkhole were opening, about to swallow me. Scally and Cano. Poking into my doings, laying a foundation for a case. I shouldn’t have been surprised. It was the kind of thing I’d seen happen to hundreds of clients . . . but to me?
“You okay?”
“Why shouldn’t I be?”
“I mean, this is what you do, right? The cops-and-robbers game, right?”
“Right. Ah, Sol . . . I mean, Solom
on—”
“Nah. Call me Sol.”
“Sol. Did they speak to you?”
“Of course. But not to worry. Like they say in your business, I don’t know nothing from nothing. That is what they say, isn’t it?”
“Right. What did they ask?”
“Whether I knew anything about your clients, or your finances.”
I winced. Undoubtedly, they’d asked Gracie the same questions . . . Gracie, who’d seen me on my hands and knees amid a scattered pile of money. “Uh-huh. What did you say?”
“Like I said, nothing. I just told them, all I know is that you get visits from beautiful women. They asked if I knew their names. I said no, but the tall guy wouldn’t let it go, kind of like a dog with a bone in his mouth.” Sol shivered a little. “That one’s trouble. I could see it in his eyes when I told him.”
“Told him what?”
“He asked if I could describe any of the women, and when I described that gorgeous blonde, he started, like, well, almost drooling. Got that hungry look in his eyes and kept asking if I was sure I didn’t know where to find her. I said, how should I know? Just between us, Benn, do you know where she is? I mean, if you and her are quits, I’d like to give her a whirl.”
“Prince Boris,” I said, referring to our mutual neighbor. “They spoke to him, too?”
“They wanted to, but he’s in Europe. Benn, you don’t have a problem, do you?”
“No, no problem.”
“That’s what I figured. So. The blonde. Where can I find her?”
“I wish I knew.”
CHAPTER 53
I had to wait a long time for Bolivar to come down, and when he finally appeared, the reason was obvious: he wore the bright-orange jumpsuit of a SHU inmate. His hair was lank, his face drawn, and he needed a shave, not surprisingly. The SHU allowed showers only once a week among its other deprivations, including cold, meager food.
“They tell you why you’re in the SHU?” I asked.
He shrugged. “An investigation for something.”
I led him to a vacant visit room, which by chance was the one next to the last, biggest room. Inside that last room, among the rows of discovery cartons, I glimpsed Plitkin’s cronies conferring with Natty Grable’s codefendants. Despite the mass of boxed documents, no documents were on the table, and the conversation appeared relaxed. I thought that was a waste of billable hours, but then again, many lawyers prefer bullshitting to laboring.
For a moment, I looked at them, recalling what Traum had said about Natty and his two remaining codefendants’ refusal to accept sweetheart, non-jail-time deals. Even as I thought this, I realized Bolivar was making a conscious effort not to look at the other room. I wondered if it had to do with Natty, but that was another topic I didn’t want to discuss.
I set the transcript of my conversation with Andrey between us. He scanned it and looked up, his expression blank. “So?”
“So? You dumb motherfucker,” I said. “You put me right in the middle of your miserable life. This is the transcript of a conversation intercepted on a wiretap, a conversation between myself and a man named Andrey.”
“I put you in the middle of nothing. Are you finished?”
“Not quite. That call is the basis of a government investigation as to whether I was involved in your harebrained escape attempt.”
“Why would they tap your phone?”
“They were tapping Andrey’s phone. The point is, the transcript motivated them to investigate me, creating a possible conflict with my continuing to represent you.”
“Explain, please.”
I did, laying out the underpinnings of the Curcio hearing and how it applied to me.
Bolivar laughed. “You, currying favor with the government?”
“At the hearing, you’ll be given an opportunity to confer with independent counsel and, if you choose, to retain another lawyer in my place.”
“I won’t do either. Tell them there’s no need for a hearing.”
“I’m afraid we have no choice. Another thing. If you’re still considering cooperation? For certain, they’ll expect you to own up to prior knowledge of the escape attempt, which means giving up everyone involved.”
“Can’t own up to what’s not true, can I?”
“If you don’t cooperate, that means either you plead to a mandatory minimum ten for the case, or you go to trial.”
“The trial date is set for the Fourth of July, am I right?”
“Almost. Jury selection’s July second. Trial starts Monday, the sixth.”
“I like the timing,” he said, a hint of his old swagger returning. “Independence Day.”
CHAPTER 54
The Curcio hearing had been scheduled for two in the afternoon. The courtroom was crowded, as a dozen other matters were on the calendar. By accident or—as I suspected—design, mine was called first, so I suffered other members of the bar observing my integrity being questioned. In my paranoia, I even worried that I might be arrested then and there.
Kandi must have known the order of things, because she preened into the courtroom just as the case was called. My immediate reaction was that Kandi would play to the big stage, have me cuffed as I stood.
But nothing like that happened, and the Curcio began as scheduled.
Judge Trieant took his time, somberly intoning the pitfalls Bolivar might face if he kept me as his lawyer, pausing between each possible dire consequence to ask Bolivar if he was sure he wished to continue with me. I sat through it quietly, but when Trieant started repeating himself, I stood.
“Your Honor, with all respect, I object to the court’s repetitious—”
“Sit down, sir. If you interrupt me again, I will hold you in contempt.”
Fighting back an urge to say I found the court contemptible, I sat.
Finally, Trieant asked if the government had anything to add.
“Your Honor has covered everything,” Kandi said brightly.
“Very well. Mr. Bolivar, be aware that if you continue with Mr. Bluestone, you are waiving any future claim that he was conflicted. Understood?”
“Yes.”
“Do you wish to continue with Mr. Bluestone?”
“Yes.”
“You’re absolutely sure?”
“Yes.”
Trieant banged his gavel.
“All rise.”
Kandi was smirking. She knew the target letter had gotten under my skin. Now she wanted me to be worried to the point of distraction instead of properly preparing for trial. But fuck her and her agents. I might lose the trial, but they’d suffer the slings and arrows of having been in an outrageous, anything-goes war. There will be blood, I swore silently.
I walked from the courtroom and kept on walking right out of the courthouse, then across Cadman Plaza Park, unaware of a man nearby until he spoke.
“Here’s a piece of advice, Counselor,” he said.
I turned and, to my surprise, saw it was Scally. Surprising, because once a case reached court, agents were not supposed to converse with attorneys, not unless the prosecutor was present.
“When you’re up to your chin in a sea of shit,” he said, “don’t make waves.”
“Piss off.”
“Touchy, are we? Rethink things. Feel free to reach out to me anytime.”
Scally sauntered toward the street. An unmarked car was parked there, Nelson Cano leaning against it. Scally got in, and Cano got behind the wheel, and the car pulled away. I watched it go, trying to make sense of what lay beneath Scally’s banter. Rethink what things?
But I couldn’t even scratch the surface. I had a feeling Scally was talking about something other than Bolivar’s case. But I had no idea what it was.
We headed back to the city. Across the Brooklyn Bridge, the downtown skyline glittered in the sun, and I could see the golden statue of the woman atop the Municipal Building, and from there my thoughts segued to Jilly—
“Everything okay, Mr. Benn?”
“
Everything’s fine, Val.”
But it wasn’t.
CHAPTER 55
A few days later, Traum appeared at my office. I blocked the doorway, said, “I’m not shelling out a dime.”
“Easy, Benno. I’m not asking for a fee. Not yet, at least. I just want you to reimburse my traveling expenses.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Trying to tell you, kid. I took it upon myself to fly out to the state of Washington. Rented a car in Seattle, drove out to the Olympic Peninsula. Beautiful country, if you like pine trees and rain.”
“I’m busy.”
I went to close the door, but he interposed a foot. “Too busy to hear the skinny on the late Sholty Chennault the third, eminent trustafarian and husband of a certain blonde?”
I let go of the door.
“Not that busy, huh?” he said. “I can continue talking out here, but I bet you don’t want your neighbors knowing any more of your business than they already do. Am I right?”
I took that as a reference to Scally’s rousting my neighbors. No way Traum should know about it, although it was standard operating procedure. I moved aside, and he entered.
He sat on the couch, splayed his legs as if he owned the room, and stuck an unlit cigar in his mouth. He took a memo pad from a breast pocket, flipped through pages, read aloud.
“Sholty Chennault the third. Only son of the Ozelle County Chennaults. Ozelle County High School yearbook separated-at-birth joke was Sholty and Mr. Peepers. Twenty-five years later, people stopped laughing at him. No laughing at a billionaire married to a beautiful woman name of Jilly, not while you’re busting your ass and losing fingers in a sawmill and your wife wears varicose socks.”
He laughed. I didn’t. He shrugged and went on.
“Had a cup of coffee with the Ozelle chief of police. Nice old dude. Told me he couldn’t discuss the case. Officially. But cop-to-cop in his private opinion, Jilly was innocent. A dozen witnesses could testify she was in town at the time of the crime. Trouble is, in Ozelle when the Chennaults speak, people listen, and the family was talking plenty loud. Saying the day before the murder, Jilly was screwing an itinerant whose sailboat was docked at the town pier. Saying just days after the murder, she was in bed with her New York lawyer.”