[Boston Law 01.0] Unlawful Deeds

by David S. Brody

  He sighed. There wasn’t much he could do about it. He had made sure he had a solid alibi—he let Marci strong-arm him into escorting her to a St. Patrick’s Day party, then made a point of staying late. Still, the evening spent with Marci didn’t mean that Bruce wouldn’t be considered a suspect—he could have masterminded the theft and simply used Marci as an unwitting alibi.

  CHAPTER 31

  [April 2, 1990]

  Bruce wished he had somebody to share his little April Fool’s prank with. He would get a laugh over it, which would be his first since Gus’ Gardner Museum heist two weeks earlier. The cops hadn’t arrested anybody yet, so Bruce was beginning to think maybe Gus had pulled it off. But they sure were wasting a lot of man hours following Bruce around.

  Even better than the laugh, Bruce expected to make a nice profit from today’s scam. But it would be even more fun if he had somebody waiting at home to share the joke with. Maybe Grandpa, wherever he was, would be watching and get a chuckle out of it. The only problem was that April Fool’s Day fell on a Sunday, so Bruce had to wait until Monday for his fun.

  Bruce walked the short distance from his office to Beacon Hill, cut up a narrow brick alley, and emerged into a small, square courtyard framed by wrought iron fencing. A brick pathway cut through the courtyard, illuminated by a row of gas lights and bordered by a series of wooden benches. The trees were taller, as were the buildings in the background, but otherwise the scene had probably changed little over the past 150 years.

  Bruce was foreclosing today on one of the condos in a brick, federal-style building in one corner of the courtyard. It was a typical Beacon Hill condo—two bedrooms, living area, kitchen and bathroom squeezed into an area the size of a typical suburban living room. It had sold for $170,000 two years earlier, and Marci had told Bruce she thought it was worth about $130,000 today. Leumas, reliably crotchety, had appraised the unit for $112,000, and Nickel had instructed Bruce to bid 70 percent, or $78,000.

  Bruce figured he could pay up to $90,000 and still make a comfortable profit, and was planning on doing so through his Arab Acquisitions front. He couldn’t let another property slip away—there weren’t that many good ones left. If he had to, he knew he could delay the closing until the resale of his Marlborough Street condominium, scheduled for later in the month, was complete.

  By ten o’clock, seven bidders had qualified to bid by showing the required $20,000 deposit, and Bruce instructed the auctioneer to begin reading through the necessary legal notices and announcements. At 10:20, the auctioneer finished the readings. Bruce took the cell phone from his briefcase, feigned dialing a number, put the phone to his ear, and walked away from the crowd. After five minutes, he returned.

  “Ladies and Gentlemen, I’m sorry for the delay. I have just spoken to counsel for the borrower, and he assures me that the borrower is on his way into town with funds necessary to cure the mortgage default. I have agreed to postpone the auction until 11:30 this morning, approximately one hour from now.”

  Bruce ignored the grumblings from the bidders, slung his jacket over his shoulder and began walking back to his office. He could have stuck around at the auction site, but he decided that he should make a show of returning to his office to meet the borrower purportedly on his way to cure the default. Bruce exited the brick alley, worked his way over to Myrtle Street, then passed under the State House driveway arch. It was a familiar walk—he had passed under the arch less than an hour ago on his way to the auction.

  Bruce looked up—Gus stood a few yards ahead, leaning casually against a pillar. He caught Bruce’s eye, dropped a gum wrapper on the ground, walked away. Bruce maintained his pace, cursed to himself, then stopped near the gum wrapper. He bent over to tie his shoe, casually looked around, and pocketed the gum wrapper. He walked another fifty yards before pulling it out of his pocket. He recognized Gus’ left-handed handwriting: “5:00—One Beacon Street pay phones.” He gave Gus credit—unlike some of their other meetings, this was a safe way to talk, assuming Gus was smart enough to call from his own pay phone.

  Forty-five minutes later, the group re-congregated on Beacon Hill at the auction site. Only five of the bidders were now present. Bruce instructed the auctioneer to re-read the legal notices.

  A couple of the bidders grumbled. The auctioneer addressed Bruce. “But Mr. Arrujo, I just read the notices. Are you sure I need to read them again?”

  “I’m sorry, but just to be safe, please re-read them. You know how the courts can be.”

  At 11:50, the auctioneer completed his reading, and Bruce again retreated with his cell phone. Five minutes later, he made another announcement. “Ladies and Gentlemen, I again must apologize. I have just spoken to counsel for the borrower, and he assures me that the borrower, although not here just yet, is indeed in his car and on his way into town with funds necessary to cure the default. I have dealt with this attorney before, and I believe him to be trustworthy. Therefore, I have agreed to postpone the auction again until 1:30 this afternoon, approximately one and one-half hours from now.” Bruce knew the bidders would be getting impatient and frustrated—in fact, he was counting on it. But he also knew there was nothing they could do about it.

  At 1:30, the group had dwindle to only two qualified bidders. Bruce went through the charade again, once more postponing the auction, this time until 3:00. He hoped the remaining two bidders would finally drop out; he wasn’t sure if he could justify yet another postponement.

  He didn’t have to. At 3:00, only he and the auctioneer appeared at the auction site. Bruce made his phone call to the Arab investor, entered a bid of $82,000 on his behalf, and signed the necessary documents. He resisted the urge to smile. This was another good score, perhaps $40,000.

  Bruce studied the auctioneer—Bruce was the auctioneer’s meal ticket, but some damage control might be a good idea anyway. “You know,” Bruce observed, “banks are funny sometimes. If it were up to me, come the day of the auction I would just go foreclose—no last minute negotiations. But they’re really sensitive to public relations issues; remember, they’re regulated by the government. So Nickel has a policy that we should postpone the sale if we feel there’s a legitimate chance the borrower is on his way with the money. It seems silly to me—I mean, unless the guy hit the lottery last night, what could have changed since the day before? But the bank is the boss, and I do what they tell me, you know?” The auctioneer nodded, apparently satisfied with the explanation.

  Bruce killed an hour at his office, then walked to a neighboring office tower. He was pretty sure nobody had followed him, but to make it look good he stopped at the bank machine on the ground floor and withdrew fifty bucks. It felt good to have money in the bank. After today’s auction, he would soon have forty grand more.

  At a few minutes past five, one of the three pay phones in the ground floor lobby rang. Bruce casually walked over and picked it up.

  Gus spoke first. “Howdy, counselor. Those foreclosure auction ads you put in the Sunday newspaper sure make it easy to find you on Monday morning.”

  “Can’t say I’m glad to hear from you. I thought you’d be long gone by now. Bought your own island or something.”

  “Funny thing about that. I always planned on just ransoming everything back to the insurance company—that’s why I took the Vermeer. I mean, there’s no way to sell something that rare. But you know what? There’s no fucking insurance. Ain’t that a pisser? Some of the best art in the world, and no insurance. Newspapers say the museum couldn’t afford the premiums. And I got no buyer, so I’m stuck with the stuff.”

  Bruce snorted. “Sounds like you fucked-up, Gus. You took too much, and you took the good stuff. The whole world knows those paintings are hot. There you were, like a kid in the candy store. But you didn’t know when to stop. And now you’ve got chocolate all over your face and a big-ass tummy ache. Let me guess—now you want me to try to sell the stuff for you.”

  “No, I know better than to expect Mr. Lawyer to do something illegal.�
�� Bruce heard a tone of resignation he’d never before heard in Gus’ voice. “But Bruce, I need you to set up a meeting for me with your guy from Columbia.”

  “The cocaine guy?”

  “Yeah.”

  “No fucking way. That guy is crazy. I dealt with him once, and I swore I’d never do it again. I mean, he showed up at our meeting in Philadelphia with six guys carrying Uzis. Like it was a fucking drug deal or something. It’s one thing to steal paintings, but I don’t like getting shot at.”

  “Look, I’m desperate. My partner’s ready to kill me for not knowing about the insurance—he wants to cash-out already. So I’ve got to move these paintings, and your cocaine friend’s the only one I can think of who’s ballsy enough to come to this country to do the deal. I’ll drive to wherever he wants, but I just can’t risk flying anywhere with all this stuff.”

  “That’s a hard meeting to set up, Gus. It took months last time—those guys are pretty paranoid. And the cops are crawling all around my apartment, probably listening to my phone calls. Sorry, can’t help you.”

  “Wait, Bruce, please don’t hang up.” Bruce wasn’t planning to, but Gus didn’t know that. “I understand it’s risky. But I’ve got to try something. And I know this isn’t a freebie, Bruce. I’ll do whatever you want.”

  “What do you mean, ‘whatever I want’?”

  “Just what I said. Whatever you want. What I can’t handle, my partner can. He can fix things, fix problems, you know?”

  “You mean, broken legs and that kind of stuff?”

  “That, or worse. Whatever you need.”

  It sounded like Gus might be going for another cold swim, this time a permanent one, if he couldn’t fence some of the stolen paintings. “You picked quite a partner.”

  “Well, my last partner dumped me and went off to law school.”

  “A lot of fucking good it did me. You still need me to clean up your mess.” Bruce contemplated Gus’ request. He didn’t give a shit about Gus’ problems, but he realized he was stuck with the fact that his past with Gus was a threat to his future without him. Gus sounded desperate, and the last thing Bruce needed was for Gus to go off and do something stupid and get caught. Plus, maybe Gus’ offer would be worth something someday—Bruce didn’t need anybody roughed up or killed at the moment, but who knew what the future might bring? “All right, I’ll find out how to contact him. Call me here in one week. Same time. But you owe me, Gus.”

  “Thanks, Bruce. And you know I always pay up. You gotta admit that about me, Bruce. I always pay up.”

  CHAPTER 32

  [April 16, 1990]

  Pierre was beginning to wonder if he had the stomach for this foreclosure stuff. He had barely been able to close on the Clarendon Street condo the previous Friday—the thirteenth, no less. The sales agreement required him to come up with the money and close within thirty days, and the private lender he was dealing with had ruthlessly leveraged this deadline to his own advantage. He knew Pierre either had to accept his terms or forfeit his $10,000 deposit—he had Pierre by the balls and was not at all shy about squeezing. So he charged Pierre for “inspection fees” and “underwriting fees” and “condominium document review fees,” adding thousands of dollars to Pierre’s closing costs. In the end, Pierre paid the fees and was able to close (putting title to the property in the name of a trust, lest his auction cohorts discover his ruse), but he had had to borrow money from his parents to do so.

  They couldn’t really afford to lend it and, Pierre could tell, they were more than a bit surprised to be asked. They had always thought of their son as a successful businessman, and it killed him to see the concern in their eyes as they handed over the check. He promised himself he would pay it back quickly, with interest.

  But what was quickly? It seemed as if he owed everyone in the world money, and there was very little income coming from the brokerage business. And taxes were due today—they didn’t owe much, but it was still a couple thousand bucks. It was a strange feeling—his net worth had grown by six figures over the last few months, but he had never felt poorer.

  To make matters worse, he had just gotten off the phone with the condo occupant, Charese Galloway, and she was being totally uncooperative. She had agreed to let him come up to see the condo in two hours, but only for five minutes and only this one time. He didn’t even have a chance to bring up the subject of her leaving before she hung up the phone. And he couldn’t sell the condo with her in it.

  He hopped into the car and drove toward the South End. No rollerblades today—he wanted to appear professional and serious. He had even put on a tie.

  He parked at a meter and entered the building. Pierre had been inside many times, but still appreciated the effort that had gone into preserving the architectural details of the original church. Most of the front face of the church had consisted of a large stained glass window, and the architect preserved this feature and made it the focus point of the building. Standing in the entry foyer, Pierre turned back toward the street, looked up to see the entire window stretching heavenward. The use of the atrium ceiling to allow for this vista had cost the architect thousands of square feet of potential living space, but the result was one of the most dramatic residential buildings in the city. Pierre actually felt pride at owning a part of it.

  The doorman called up to Charese, and after a fairly lengthy conversation, hung up and turned to Pierre. “She says you can go up, but that I should call the police if I haven’t heard back from her in fifteen minutes.” His tone was non-threatening, but Pierre did not doubt he would do as he was told.

  * * *

  Charese answered the door. She had spent the past hour and a half dressing and making herself up, spending extra time trying to cover a bruise on her cheek she had received from an ornery customer a few nights earlier. And she kept her promise to Shelby and was straight for the meeting. The look of surprise in Pierre’s eyes as he searched her face for signs of masculine qualities pleased her. She knew he would find none. She hoped he would instead find was strength and resolve—a formidable, conservatively dressed woman. She thought about playing the sympathy card, but, after discussing it with Shelby, decided that she’d likely have better results with a more confrontational approach. Which was fine with her—she was tired of getting pushed around by the men in her life.

  “Please come in, Mr. Prefontaine.” Charese conjured up memories of how her mother sounded when parishioners came to seek her father’s counsel or forgiveness.

  “Thank you. I’d like to look around the apartment if you don’t mind.”

  “As a matter of fact, I do mind. You are here as my guest, and you may sit on the sofa here in the living room. If you want to inspect the property, you may get a court order. Now, what is it that you wanted to discuss?” Charese sat in an armchair across from the sofa, legs crossed, hands folded in her lap. A cultured lady.

  Pierre was flustered—he was probably not used to tenants telling the owner what to do. He sat down as instructed and took a moment to gather his thoughts. “Well, to get right to the point, I am the new owner of this condominium. Here’s a copy of the deed.” He put it on the coffee table in front of Charese. Her eyes remained level with his. “So, basically, I’d like to talk about a time frame for you leaving. And about rent payments in the meantime.”

  “First of all, Mr. Prefontaine, I am not leaving. I have lived here for a number of years, and this is my home. As for rent, I am not in a financial position to pay you much of anything.” She pulled her checkbook out of her purse and wrote out a check for $200 and handed it to Pierre. On the bottom left of the check, she wrote “April rent.” “But, I am not in the habit of accepting a stranger’s charity. Here is $200 for April. It is all I can afford.” Actually, it was more than she could afford. But Shelby was adamant that she get Pierre to accept something that said “rent” on it. Then they could argue later in court that the $200 was the agreed-upon rent and that Pierre had no right to raise it under Boston’s rent c
ontrol laws because Charese was a low-income tenant. It was a sneaky tactic, but Shelby said she was willing play a little hardball to help Charese.

  “The rent for this place is much more than $200. You know that. This place rents for over a thousand.”

  Charese began to put the check back in her purse. “You can quote any number you like, Mr. Prefontaine, but the fact remains that this is all I have to give you right now.” She saw his eyes following the check on its journey away from his pocket. “If you don’t want it, I’m happy to keep it.”

  * * *

  Pierre closed his eyes. This meeting was not going at all as planned. He opened his eyes and focused on the check.

  “No, wait. I’ll take it. But only as partial payment.” He reached out and Charese shrugged and handed him the check. It was better—barely—then nothing, and he needed the money. He struggled to control the anger in his voice; he was willing to be reasonable with her, but she was acting like she owned the place and he was the tenant. “Look, I’d rather not evict you. But you know, one way or another, you’re going to have to leave. And in the meantime, the rent for this place is a lot more than $200.”

  “Mr. Prefontaine, I am not at all convinced that I have to leave. This apartment is the subject of a lawsuit between myself and the prior owner—you may discuss the legalities of the matter with my attorney. In the meantime, the $200 is what I can afford. You may contact my attorney if you would like to discuss this further.” Charese gave Pierre Shelby’s name and phone number, and stood up. “Now, if you don’t mind, I have another appointment.”

  Pierre stood up with her, and walked toward the door. He really didn’t know what to say; nothing had been resolved at all. He hadn’t even had a chance to make her a cash offer to leave—not that he had cash to give her. But it didn’t feel right to make the offer now. It was time to leave and regroup. He needed to figure out a strategy to get her out, and soon. It was costing him over $3,000 a month in interest to carry the condo, money he didn’t have.