Attorney at Large (Thaddeus Murfee Legal Thriller Series Book 3)

by John Ellsworth

  The jiggling had ceased. “Absolutely.”

  “Then let’s all hop to it. Out of here now, both of you!”

  David Fisher stepped into the hall, counted off twenty steps, and disappeared inside his own private office. His was right next to the big guy’s, as he was Number Two in the U.S. Attorney’s Office, Nevada.

  David Fisher was at heart a good man, but he had learned twenty years ago that good men didn’t get very far when it came to prosecuting criminals. Sometimes it was necessary to fudge the facts and he was not above doing so.

  The FBI agents he worked hand-in-glove with knew him to be a switch-hitter. With Fisher running the show, stories magically changed in mid-stream, prosecutions doubled back without warning, heads rolled when least expected. In short, he was tiptoeing the line between legal and illegal at all times. So what if there was the occasional venture into the illegal? Who really got hurt, the bad guys? Seriously? Sometimes, if you really wanted to put someone away, someone, say, really evil, sometimes it was necessary to cross over that line.

  Truth be told, David Fisher was no stranger to operating in the gray zone and sometimes in the darkest zone of all—he would get down on the same level with the criminals he was hunting and play by their rules.

  But he was also brilliant, because he always left himself a way back.

  He could take any questionable scenario and give it a little spin to make it appear totally legal. His boss, the U.S. Attorney himself, knew this about David Fisher. Which was why Fisher got all the top-drawer assignments and which was why Fisher had remained a Number Two to an ever-changing parade of political hacks, the U.S. Attorneys.

  He was reliable.

  He could get it done.

  And nothing, absolutely nothing, mattered more than results to the men designated U.S. Attorneys by appointment by the President of the United States.

  Which was why Fisher drew the short straw on Thaddeus Murfee. It was very clear. The guy was going down.

  Fisher dialed the extension of Aldous Kroc at IRS headquarters, four floors below.

  “Al? Dave Fisher here.”

  “Good morning, Mister Fisher. Who is our entrée of the day?”

  “Mister Casino.”

  “Oh goody. That’s one of my favorite files.”

  “What do you have on him so far?”

  “Only everything, sir. Enough to put him away for twelve years. Oh, except for one small item, but I’m sure you’ll be able to provide that.”

  “What’s that?” probed Fisher. His voice was low and he was feeling conspiratorial, as he knew Aldous Kroc to be one of the IRS Special Agents who felt about criminals just like he did. Put them away no matter what. “What are we missing?”

  “I haven’t been able to tie Murfee in to the actual taking and removal of the cash from the casino. I need the smoking gun.”

  “Hell, that’s the whole case, isn’t it?” Fisher sounded troubled. Things had taken a sudden right turn.

  “Not exactly. I think I can prove the connection with a lifestyle audit.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “Mathilde Magence and I are working up a lifestyle profile on this particular tax cheat. We are looking at proving it was costing him more dollars to live than what he was reporting as his taxable income on his tax returns.”

  “Won’t that be like asking the jury to really reach to make the case? I don’t like that at all.”

  Pause at Kroc’s end. Then, “What do you suggest?”

  “I suggest we find an insider. Someone who’s in on the skim with him. Threaten them with prosecution and then cut a deal in return for their testimony.”

  “I like that. But who do I get?”

  “Go back through your notes. Find the people who had access to the visitor log in the count room. Have them say something like—I don’t know, something like Murfee came to the count room at times and insisted on being inside alone. That he did this a few times a week, always alone. That that was unusual, that it violated corporate policy. You make it up—you tell me, Kroc. But get it. We need live testimony to nail this guy. And here’s one more thing. Don’t actually charge this person with conspiracy, just threaten to do it. We don’t want them testifying that yes, they’re giving testimony against Murfee in return for immunity from prosecution. Get my drift?”

  “I do get your drift. Don’t charge them with a crime. Just scare hell out of them.”

  “Right, and here’s one more thing,” said Fisher. “Use someone close to him. Someone he trusts implicitly. Maybe some gal he’s banging.”

  “He doesn’t bang employees.”

  “Or someone who’s seriously unhappy with how they’ve been treated at work.”

  “He has employee satisfaction panels in place. People whose only job it is to give disgruntled workers the chance to be heard and to have wrongs against them corrected.”

  “He did all that?”

  “He did. Has. This kid isn’t going to be easy, Mister Fisher. He plays his cards pretty close to the vest, to borrow an expression from his casino.”

  Fisher sighed. “Well, you know what I want. Now go get it.”

  “Will do,” said Kroc. “I think I already have someone in mind for that.”

  “Excellent. Get back to me in one week.”

  “Done.”

  “Goodbye, Agent Kroc.”

  “Thank you, sir. I will make you very happy.”

  “I know that.”

  22

  Mickey Herkemier didn’t like the setup, didn’t like it at all.

  They didn’t exactly invite him to come by the office—it was more like a demand.

  There was a veiled threat. “We need to discuss a matter with you that could very well touch on someone’s freedom.”

  Brother, he said to himself as he rode the elevator up, when the IRS tells you someone’s going to jail and they want to talk to you, you damn well better show up.

  For previous accounting clients Mickey had met with the IRS audit arm probably

  300 times.

  But he rarely met with the CID—the Criminal Investigation Division.

  In fact, he couldn’t recall that he had ever met with the CID.

  Moreover, it was in all the books that CPAs never meet alone with the CID without a lawyer. Except that this Kroc guy had told him to come alone, that his own well-being depended on it. Who was he to argue?

  He carried within his chest a flickering hope that the talk had nothing to do with the fact he had been skimming funds out of the casino. It might be about that but it was highly doubtful.

  He was a smart guy, and as a CPA he thought he knew how much he could skim without anyone, including the IRS, getting wise.

  So far, Thaddeus was clueless. He was certain of that.

  The money he was stealing was money that was coming directly from the casino gaming tables. When it arrived in the count room it was in an unknown amount. The bonded employees who worked the count room tallied the dollars and made entries into the cash tracking system so that anyone upstairs could click a mouse and know to the penny how much money was in the count room waiting to be transported to the bank.

  But Mickey beat them to it.

  Federal law required a foolproof cash accounting system—the IRS required such a system.

  And all casinos were meticulously scrutinized by the IRS agents who were always lurking around. But their primary role was gamer oversight. The agents were there to make certain the winners paid their taxes before they could hoof it outside without paying up. It was literally a form of withholding tax, and the revenue officers were planted there for the players, not for the casino.

  The casino itself went about its business for the most part unwatched, just so long as it stayed current on its own tax liabilities. But let it get behind, and the IRS swarmed the place like army ants.

  The elevator whooshed open on 7 and Mickey got off.

  To his left was a bare wall except for the mandatory picture of the Presid
ent.

  To his right was a door knob with a keypad below and a speaker.

  He punched in the code for Aldous Kroc and waited.

  “Two minutes,” a voice announced.

  He closed his eyes and tried to think of areas he wouldn’t discuss and would never reveal, and areas where it was safe to tread. So much depended on Lady Luck in these inquisitions, he knew, and he prayed that the Lady would be with him that day.

  His pulse quickened. He was a lapsed Catholic who hadn’t been to confession in twenty years. Maybe that explained the ease with which he stole the casino’s money. He didn’t have to tell. Of course God knew, but hey. So far not even God was interfering.

  In Mickey’s present state of mind he had even convinced himself that the heavenly authorities supported what he was doing, given how easy and anonymously it was proceeding. “The Lord helps those who help themselves,” he reminded himself.

  Then he wondered if the saying was actually from the Bible or if it was something he had read in his grandmother’s needlepoint wall-hangings; she had had so many of them.

  Steady, he told himself. Shut off the damn thought machine and simmer down. You need your wits now, more than ever before.

  The door came crashing open and there stood Aldous Kroc, egg eyes glowing, a slow smile parting his lips, almost drooling over the waiting feast.

  “Thanks for coming,” he said to his visitor, and offered a damp, cool hand to shake.

  They pumped hands like long-lost fraternity brothers whose secret rituals were hidden away in the Internal Revenue Code. They were insiders to the largest piece of legislation in the history of mankind, the Internal Revenue Code, and there was instant empathy.

  “Follow me, please. Miss Magence and I are happy you came.”

  “Sure, happy to help,” Herkemier said, and instantly realized how lame it sounded. Who in their right mind would be happy to help out the IRS? As if they even needed any help.

  He was guided into a small, windowless conference room, again accessorized only with the inaugural photo of the President, who, Herkemier decided, seemed to enjoy lurking around the offices of the greatest inquisition since the actual Inquisition.

  Never had a government known so much about the personal lives of its people as the U.S. government now knew about its own citizens, thanks to the inquisitors themselves—the IRS agents.

  Mickey’s hands broke out in a sweat at the notion. He stuffed them inside his trouser pockets and sat back, intent on assuming the air of a citizen with absolutely nothing to hide.

  “This is Mathilde Magence. She’s working on this matter with me.”

  “What matter would that be?” Mickey asked with his warmest smile.

  Without warning, his hands, stuffed deep in his pockets, began to tremble. He tried not to jiggle the four quarters inside the pocket (he always knew exactly how much change he was carrying, a moving target that his CPA brain kept nicely tallied).

  “We’re here to talk about the Desert Riviera Casino and Hotel,” Kroc said expansively, as if he had a majority stake in the place. “We know a lot about it already, but we need you to fill in some blanks for us.”

  “Water?” asked Miss Magence, who had seized the gold and black plastic pitcher and upended it to fill the glasses poised on the table. “Anyone?”

  “I’m fine,” said Mickey in a subdued croak that sounded like anything but how he wanted to sound—strong, assured vibrato, and all that. He thumped a fist against his chest as if to clear his airway and tried it again. “I’m fine. More than fine.”

  They looked closely at him. He had the feeling he was being examined by artists.

  Did they sense his terror?

  Did they realize how far up the horror scale they had sent his mind reeling when they mentioned the casino by name?

  “Well,” she said, “if at any time during our questions you need a drink or need to use the restroom, just speak up and we’ll pause.”

  “While you get your needs met,” said Kroc, a distant memory of How to Win Friends prompting his determination to be a helpmate to the victim.

  “Fair enough,” Mickey said.

  “Just a couple of introductory questions. First, do you mind if we record our conversation today?”

  “I guess not.”

  Kroc pushed a button on the pad before him.

  “When I said record you, I should mention we’re also videotaping as we speak. Do we have your permission to videotape?”

  “Okay,” said Mickey, and he adjusted the necktie knot.

  “First off, you are the CEO of the Desert Riviera Casino and Hotel, are you not?”

  “I am.” Mickey remembered the most basic rule of all depositions: Answer only what is asked, volunteer nothing.

  “And as CEO you have access to all security measures taken by the casino?”

  “I’m not sure what you mean.”

  Kroc shot a look at Magence. She smiled soothingly at Mickey.

  “For instance, you have access to the casino’s videotaping system, correct?”

  “I think so. Far as I know.”

  “Far as you know? You mean there might be security precautions not even you know about?”

  “Anything’s possible. I guess.” Don’t guess, his brain warned him. No guessing.

  “So there could be casino security measures being taken you don’t know about?”

  “Possibly. Anything’s possible.”

  “Who would know about such security precautions?”

  “I can’t answer that. You’re asking the name of someone who knows about something I don’t know even exists. I can’t help you there.”

  “Fair enough. You would, for example, have access to the security system that oversees the count room?”

  “I would. Plus others would too.”

  “Names of others?”

  “I don’t have names. I probably don’t know who that would be.”

  “Let me chime in,” said Magence. Her eyes arched and she said, “Do you have a master roll of casino security operations and the names of those with access to those systems?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  She gave him a quizzical look. “But you are the CEO?”

  “I am.”

  “And you’re telling us you don’t know what employees have access to what systems?”

  He tugged at his shirt collar. “I don’t remember ever seeing that list.”

  Kroc came back, asking, “So there is a list?”

  “You’re putting words in my mouth. I don’t know if there’s a list.”

  “You just said you hadn’t seen that list.”

  “I meant, if there is such a list, then I haven’t seen it.”

  “Thank you for that clarification. Do you need a glass of water? We have an icy pitcher right here.”

  “Still no thanks on that.”

  “Let me ask this. Would you, as CEO, have the ability to disable the security system in the count room?”

  The question was an arrow straight to the heart. Mickey was certain they had seen the fear flash across his eyes.

  He removed his hands from the table and clasped them below, so they wouldn’t see him shaking.

  “I don’t think I could disable the security system,” he lied, and mentally entered a “one” in the federal felony column for lying.

  “Have you ever tried?”

  Again, felony two. “No. Why would I?”

  Kroc’s egg eyes widened. “I can’t answer that. Why would you?”

  “That’s just it, I wouldn’t.”

  “Never?”

  “Never.”

  “So it’s your testimony here today that you’ve never tried to disable the security system in the count room at the Desert Riviera Casino and Hotel?”

  Mickey inhaled mightily, buying precious time to think. “Define what you mean by ‘security system.’”

  “Sure,” Kroc said easily. “I’m asking about the count room videotaping system.”
>
  “I don’t think it’s tape anymore. I think it’s digital.”

  “But you know the system I’m talking about.”

  “The count room video system?”

  “Yes.”

  “Have I ever tried to disable the count room video system?”

  “Yes.”

  “No.” Three felonies. Or is this a repeat of number two?

  “Let me ask this. Have you ever been inside the count room when the video system was disabled?”

  “No.” Four felonies.

  Would it be a felony for each time he stole money and lied about it, or would it just be one big felony for the lie?

  Now he was becoming confused and he wished he had been able to bring along a lawyer. Even Langston Moretti would be better than this, and he didn’t hold Moretti in the highest regard because, well, mainly because Moretti was loyal to the kid—Thaddeus Murfee—and therefore untrustworthy.

  “You’ve never been inside the count room while the video system wasn’t working—is that your testimony?”

  “Not to my knowledge, I haven’t.”

  “Have you ever removed money from the count room?”

  “Myself?”

  “Yes.”

  “No. That’s not my job.” Six. A huge six. Martha Stewart did twenty months for one miserable little lie that wasn’t even a lie. It was something the FBI cooked up.

  But his testimony today—it was purely fabricated.

  He unknotted his necktie and pulled the collar away from his Adam’s apple. Was it steaming in here, or was it just him? “I’ll take that water now,” he announced hoarsely. “And I’m getting hoarse. Hope we’re about done here.”

  “We’re just getting started. But if you need, we can break anytime and pick it up again tomorrow after you’ve rested your voice. Wouldn’t want to do any damage there, would we, Agent Magence?”