by Tim Dorsey
They headed for the defense table.
“But the gun’s ballistics,” Yale said as he was seized by the arms. “And her prints?”
“Didn’t match, none of it.”
Boynton Beach.
Five black Suburbans screeched up to the curb. Agents poured into the posh offices of Consolidated Financial.
“Nobody move!”
But what about the thumb drive?” asked Dartmouth as he was about to be led away.
“Yes, the thumb drive,” said Boone. “It paints an interesting story, which began when some genuine victims of foreclosure fraud retained the services of Mr. Ziggy Blade. To the surprise of the defendant, Mr. Blade was able to get the case certified as a class action. At such times, it is perfectly normal for a much larger firm with infinitely more resources to absorb the case with an agreed-upon split. In this case, however, documents on the thumb drive show a much different motivation for the arrangement. When the housing bubble burst, some people saw gold in the streets, primarily by defrauding the government through the use of straw buyers and bogus appraisals . . .”
“But that wasn’t on the thumb drive!” said Dartmouth.
“How do you know what was on it?”
The attorney shut up.
“Exactly what I thought,” said the judge. “As a result, Consolidated Financial acquired a number of silent partners, whose identities were intentionally clouded through a series of offshore subsidiaries, all leading to Aruba and something called Grand-Bourg Holding, that essentially laundered the money in a loop through the Caribbean before ending up back in South Florida . . .”
Fort Lauderdale.
A wave of dark windbreakers emptied file cabinets on the thirtieth floor of a downtown office building. Handcarts wheeled out piles of evidence boxes.
On the other side of the glass in a massive conference room, the partners of Shapiro, Heathcote-Mendacious and Blatt heard handcuffs click behind their backs.
But when the case became a class action,” said Judge Boone, “it threatened to expose the hidden straw-buyer deals and, of much greater concern, the identities of those silent partners. So one of those secret partners—the Shapiro law firm—absorbed the case from Mr. Blade, not to win it for their clients but to assign a pair of rookie lawyers to the trial in order to tank it. It’s rare, but it happens: Defense and plaintiffs conspired to fix a case. Only one problem. The rookies were better than anyone thought. And their discovery of the Grand-Bourg file was the proverbial smoking gun.”
The deputies led the Ivy Leaguers away. “I want to call a lawyer!”
“Good idea,” said the judge. He turned and dismissed the court stenographer.
The back doors closed behind the deputies and then it was down to just Brook and Ziggy. Boone had a smile as he shook his head at the odd couple. “There’s one last thing that bothers me.”
“What’s that?” asked Brook.
“There was no smoking gun.”
She wore her best poker face.
“If someone was super smart, I mean really clever, that file from Aruba maybe led them to suspect that the Shapiro firm was in bed with the defense team. But there was nothing remotely approaching probable cause for any kind of warrant.” The judge bore down specifically on Brook. “Now, what would a lawyer do if they knew someone committed a massive crime but couldn’t prove it?”
Ziggy raised his hand. Brook pulled it down.
“You have wise counsel.” Boone smiled again. “The Grand-Bourg documents might have given a hint to the shenanigans, but there were major gaps in the evidence trail that prevented any prosecution.”
Brook’s lips were drying from the granite facade.
“Let me speculate, hypothetically of course,” said Boone. “Say some attorney knows her firm is dirty and sabotaging her case—and heaven knows what else from that pistol they brought in. How could such an attorney point law enforcement in the right direction? How would someone go about filling in the Grand-Bourg evidence gaps and supplying the missing links?”
The courtroom’s back door opened. Serge was ready to bound in, then saw the tension of the moment, waved his apology and let the door close back on its own.
“They might buy a document scanner and printer,” continued Boone, “and fabricate documents to fill in those missing links. Essentially framing the guilty . . . That’s right, we’ve already determined those documents were fake, but not before they led to the real documents and the coordinated raids this morning. And it’s all legitimate: The FBI acted on good faith from what I gave them last night—I’d personally swear to that in any court.”
“Interesting,” said Ziggy.
“Yes, it is,” said the judge. “But here’s something even more fascinating to me. Now, it’s perfectly legal for a person to whip up all the fake documents they want in order to incriminate the law firm that employs them—as long as they keep them at home and don’t try to pass them off. They can wallpaper the den with ’em for all the law cares. What would be highly illegal is to, say, introduce the documents as evidence in a trial such as this.”
Brook just stood there looking innocent, and Ziggy didn’t.
“But a funny thing happened on the way to the courthouse,” said Boone. “If someone steals those false documents that you’re keeping at home—or in a rental cottage—you’re not responsible for what they do with them. And if an attorney, such as yourself, wants to introduce false documents without committing a crime . . . and knows that somebody might try to steal something from you and submit it to this court to damage your case . . .” Judge Boone took off his glasses and bent forward toward Brook. “Tell me, are you really that smart?”
“I got okay grades.”
A brief grin from the judge before the glasses went back on. “One last question. What was originally on that thumb drive?”
Brook just stood mute and cute.
“Right, ask your lawyer.” Judge Kennesaw Montgomery Boone stood and stepped away from the bench. He glanced back one last time. “I truly hope I get the chance to see you practice before me again.” Then, still shaking his head with amusement, disappeared into chambers.
Part FOUR
FANTASY FEST
Chapter FORTY-TWO
KEY WEST
A giant mutant crab blocked the road in both directions.
It stood upright, giant spiny legs reaching, twitching twenty feet into the night sky.
People screamed.
Then came a massive spider with even longer legs. And a peacock with a plume span that reached both sidewalks. A lobster with claws the size of refrigerators. A twelve-foot conch shell with a human face in the middle.
The screaming continued, along with laughter and applause, as each of the costumes passed down the middle of Duval Street. Music blared, liquor flowed. Many of the spectators on the sidewalks were also dressed—or undressed—for the occasion. They had paid handsomely for meticulous body-paint jobs that covered topless breasts with images of tigers, skeletons, devils, tropical fish and most of the characters from Avatar. For some reason, many decided their costumes needed large insect wings.
Serge threaded his way through the sardine crowd. He’d rented a white suit from Scarface. Brook was right behind, holding his hand, dressed as a Miami Dolphins cheerleader. Ziggy had Bob Marley dreadlocks, a Jamaican-flag shirt and a real spliff. Coleman brought up the rear; the only difference in his appearance was a cheap beard held to his face with a rubber band.
“I’ve never seen so many people crammed in one place,” said Brook. “We can barely move.”
“It’s like this every year,” said Serge. “Since 1979, when merchants decided to juice the off-season local economy each October, this monster has grown. Mardi Gras and Carnival in Rio might be bigger, but Fantasy Fest is exponentially more intense.”
“Why?”
&nb
sp; “Geography,” said Serge. “Over a hundred thousand revelers—quadruple the normal population—descend on an island only four miles long and a mile and a half wide. Then all that is funneled into a mile stretch of Duval.”
Out in the road, four human dung beetles rolled a ten-foot brown ball.
“Everyone’s hammered and out of control.” Brook stared at a woman with a clownfish design that placed the eyeballs over her nipples. “Not to mention all the public nudity. Why aren’t they arrested?”
“A splash of paint and the police look the other way,” said Serge. “The rest of social norms are chucked in the sea as well, releasing an eruption of bizarreness you could never imagine, let alone actually see.”
“That’s hard to believe.”
“True story: A totally naked woman left one of the body-paint boutiques, approached a cop on the street at noon and asked, ‘Am I legal?’ He said, ‘Put on a bikini bottom,’ and walked away.”
A parade float called “A-Cock-Alypse Now” went by. Then another float dubbed “The Big Lewinsky,” populated by White House interns.
“Comin’ through!” yelled Edith.
“Out of the way!” yelled Ethel.
Four topless old ladies body-painted like the band Kiss pushed their way up the sidewalk with open containers.
Someone pointed at them with a power salute. “Eat me!”
Brook froze as she watched the women pass. “Jesus.”
“No, Jesus is over there,” said Serge. “In that formation of mopeds with his disciples.”
“Serge,” said Coleman, tugging the back of his white jacket. “Why do I have to carry your tote bag?”
“Because it would clash with my Tony Montana image.”
“Can we stop for a drink?”
“We’re not really moving anyway,” said Serge. “And could you possibly have put any less effort into your costume?”
“You don’t like it?”
“It’s just a beard on a rubber band.”
“I’m that guy from The Hangover.”
“Nobody’s going to make that connection.”
Coleman pouted. “I like it.”
The old ladies came back the other way, followed by Spider-Man, the Creature from the Black Lagoon and a dozen Hemingway look-alikes.
Brook clutched Serge’s arm. “All this weirdness. I’m . . . getting dizzy.”
“It’s still early,” said Serge. “Nobody’s gotten killed yet.”
“Killed?” said Brook.
“Here’s one story that will tell you everything you need to know about Fantasy Fest,” said Serge. “Remember that great bar on Truman called Don’s Place?”
She nodded.
“Last year, some guy was drinking in there wearing a full-body leotard and giant butterfly wings. Then he leaves the bar and just disappears.”
“Where’d he go?”
“From what the police were able to put together, the dude apparently had an altercation on the street and suffered a brutal beatdown but was able to escape by crawling under a parked van. He was afraid to come out and didn’t realize he’d already received fatal injuries. Nobody noticed for like half a day, and then late the next morning someone had to go to work or something and casually drove off in the van. Then these tourists out for a stroll notice a dead human butterfly lying in the street next to Don’s Place. Only in Key West.”
“Hey,” yelled a frat boy. “It’s that guy from The Hangover.”
Coleman saluted.
They pushed on.
“But all this is tame next to the little adventure we just had,” said Serge. “You’ve got one hell of a legal career ahead.”
“I still can’t believe it,” said Brook. “And I don’t understand why they didn’t just let Bones shoot us in that cottage and avoid all that complicated nonsense.”
“A couple very good reasons,” said Serge. “First, they’d already killed Shelby, so two dead lawyers on the same case is too much heat. Second, once they’d gotten in bed with Bones over the blackmail deal, there was no way they could let someone like that live. Too much of a loose cannon. And killing him dovetailed nicely into not only framing you but also planting evidence of attorney misconduct that would win the case outright.”
“I still start shaking if I think about it too much.”
“Don’t,” said Serge. “It’s all over now. Relax and have some severely deserved fun.”
Across the street, a femme fatale came dressed as the Lady in Red from the Dillinger shootout. “Molly!” someone yelled. She spun and reached for her purse. The guy dove inside a T-shirt store.
“This way,” said Serge. “Let’s get over to that side street and out of this mob.”
They fought their way through breasts and floats and female impersonators on unicycles, until they reached the west edge of Southard. The crush of humanity began to uncoil on the dark block. Little knots of people in the shadows, the pungent whiff of marijuana, someone throwing up in a flowerpot. By the time they reached Whitehead Street, it was clear and mellow.
“This is much better,” said Brook. “You can only take that in small doses.”
“Serge,” said Ziggy. “Me and Coleman are just going to slip into that narrow alley, but we’re not doing anything suspicious.”
“Don’t lose my bag!” yelled Serge. “It’s got the key element to my costume.”
“Right here.” Coleman raised the canvas tote by the handle before disappearing between buildings.
Serge shrugged and grinned at Brook. “So what now for you?”
“I was thinking more like us.”
“Don’t mean to be rude,” said Serge. “But that cheerleader outfit is working.”
She smiled and playfully shook her pom-poms. “We’re already in paradise. Why don’t we spend a few days together, now that all the excitement’s over?”
A cell phone rang. Serge flipped it open. “Florida headquarters, Serge here.”
“Listen carefully, motherfucker!”
“There’s no need for potty mouth. Who is this?”
“We spent some quality time together rolling Bones up in a plastic sheet.”
“Oh yeah,” said Serge. “The guy in the aqua golf shirt. Clint Racine, was it? I’ve been meaning to kill you.”
Brook got a strange look. “Who is it?”
Serge held up a hand for quiet.
“Shut up!” yelled the phone. “I want my money!”
“What money?”
“The million-dollar contingency fee I was supposed to get if we won the case! You ruined everything!”
“My sincerest apologies,” said Serge. “Let’s meet and discuss the arrangements, and chat a little about Shelby. I’m guessing that was also your work.”
“I don’t seem to have your serious attention,” said Clint, backing off his tone with a splash of cockiness. “Wasn’t someone else supposed to join your party for Fantasy Fest?”
“What are you talking about—?” Serge stopped as the meaning clicked. He closed his eyes. “I’m listening.”
“Your little reporter pal Reevis is here with me. I snapped some nice long-range shots of you two exchanging documents at that park in Coral Gables.”
“What do you want?”
“I told you, the money!”
“How do I even know you even have Reevis?” said Serge.
“You want proof of life?” said Clint. “How’s this?”
Clint handed the phone over and snapped one of Reevis’s fingers back.
“Ahhhhhhhhhh! Stop! . . . Serge, don’t listen to him! He’ll double-cross you! This isn’t a James Bond movie—”
Clint snatched the phone back. “Ready to stop fucking around with me?”
“Just don’t hurt him! . . .” Serge’s eyes flickered as the mental gear
s spun in his head. That Reevis was sharp. The four Bond movies with Florida scenes they’d discussed, specifically License to Kill, where Timothy Dalton comes to Key West for a wedding and reads The Old Man and the Sea . . . on the second-floor balcony of the author’s house.
“Hello?” said the phone. “You still there?”
“Yeah, I’m here.” Serge took off running south on Whitehead Street. “But you’re going to have to give us a few days. We’re not even close to getting the money yet.”
“Bullshit,” said Clint. “You’re resourceful enough with your buddy’s life in the balance.”
“Okay, let me think . . .”
Brook ran after him. “Where are you going?”
Serge sprinted around the corner at Angela Street, running along the brick wall surrounding the Hemingway Museum.
“You still there?” asked Clint.
“Yeah,” said Serge, returning to Duval and looking for motels closest to the Hemingway house. “I’ll pull out all the stops and get the money ASAP. You just tell me what to do. Name it.”
“That’s better. So I’m going to take your friend for a little ride where you’ll never find us, until you get the money together. But don’t drag your feet because he has nine more fingers, and then other stuff . . .”
Serge crashed through people on the sidewalk, staring up at rooms and drunk people screaming down to the parade from their balconies. Frustration. Over the phone, he heard a background of festivities, and was trying to match it with the noise around him on the street. But the sounds were too much of an indistinguishable drone.
“I’ll call tomorrow,” said Clint.
“Wait!” Serge kept running and glancing up at hotels. He needed more time. “Why don’t you call later tonight in case I can come through early?”
“Not even you are that resourceful. Stop stalling!”
Out in the street, a float went by full of penguins blowing long, loud vuvuzela soccer horns.
“Just don’t do anything crazy . . .” Serge heard the horns’ viciously annoying blare in stereo: from his phone and the float directly behind him. He hit the brakes and turned to face a clapboard motel called the Queen Angel. “Excellent.”