He waited for Pierre to respond. “Then the lawsuit—the wart as you call it—could be removed by Mr. Felloff.”
“Exactly. Similarly, thousands of pages of documentation required to establish that each and every unit in the project is exempt from Boston rent control laws have mysteriously disappeared from the city hall offices—the nefarious work of tenant activists, no doubt. But what if, hypothetically, Sebastian had the original certificates issued by the Rent Control Board hidden securely in his safe?” He arched an eyebrow at Pierre. “You understand my point, I take it.”
Pierre nodded. “Another wart easily removed.”
“So, flash forward to today in our little tale of woe, and it turns out that Sebastian’s back-up plan is not necessary. The RTC has bought the whole story about Sebastian losing all his money gambling and snorting. In fact, the RTC is willing to take the half million and let Sebastian walk, with only one caveat: He must pay them another three hundred grand in two years. Not a bad deal, huh?”
Pierre nodded. He had hid millions. It would be easy to come up with the $300,000.
The attorney raised his index finger again. “Not so fast. This $300,000 is a trap, don’t you see? It’s not so much that the government wants the money, it’s that they want to see where Sebastian gets it. And when I say ‘they,’ I mean the FBI now. See, the way it works in these cases is that the FBI tells the RTC to make Sebastian pay a chunk of money in two years, and in the meantime they’ll follow him around and see where he gets the cash. If he gets the three hundred from some Swiss bank or something, they’ll nail him for fraud and throw him in jail unless he pays the millions he originally owed. Pretty cute idea, I must admit. Except that the idiot negotiating for the RTC was so insistent on the three hundred thousand that I began to smell a rat.
“So, finally, this is where you come in. Sebastian, under this hypothetical, needs to find some way to earn a legitimate three hundred grand over the next two years. And in exchange, he can help somebody buy an eight million-dollar property for five million because he knows where the warts are. And how to get rid of them. But that somebody would need to be someone with no prior connections to Sebastian, or else the FBI would think he’s just playing games, trying to keep the property by using a straw.” The lawyer sat back, sipped from his water again. “So that’s the story. Hopefully everyone lives happily ever after. I’m sure you have questions.”
Pierre tried to wrap his mind around this bombardment of information. He was clearly dealing with some brilliant minds; he better be careful. “Let’s assume that somebody like me would be interested in this kind of theoretical situation. The FBI involvement would obviously scare me.”
“Fair enough. But remember, as sordid a tale as this is, you would not be involved in any of it. I made up this hypothetical story so that you’d understand what might be motivating someone like Sebastian to call you and propose an ... arrangement.
“But whatever the realities of Sebastian’s current situation, it’s important you understand that we wouldn’t be asking you to do anything illegal here. All you’d be doing is hiring Sebastian as a consultant for two years at two hundred per year—that would net him one fifty after paying taxes. You’d get together once every week or two to make it look good. Hey, he might even be able to help your real estate business. Whatever.”
“What if I don’t end up with the property?”
The attorney spread his hands. “Look, it’ll be your decision how high to bid at the auction, and if you’re not the high bidder you won’t have to pay Sebastian a penny. And don’t forget—you’ll really have him by the balls. He’ll deny everything, of course, but there’s no doubt you could make his life miserable if you wanted. That’s why he chose you; he really checked you out. He believes you’re an honest and decent man that will do what he says. And, apparently, there aren’t many people like that in real estate right now. Everyone’s too busy trying to save their skin.”
“Including your client?” Pierre couldn’t resist.
The lawyer nodded and spoke softly. “Oh, yes. Most definitely including my client.”
CHAPTER 33
[May 3, 1990]
Bruce was starting to get impatient. He had been at the firm almost eight months, and all he had to show for it was $42,000 in profit from the sale of the Marlborough Street condo, which he would soon pour back into the Beacon Hill condo. Even if he made another $40,000 from that deal, he was still only up about fifty grand after paying taxes. It was nice money—his landlocked father would have thought it a fortune. But it was hardly the million-plus score he was looking for.
And it was getting tougher to control the foreclosure auctions. The market was still flat, but there were a growing number of investors looking to grab property now and wait for a market recovery. Vultures, sharks, hyenas, bottom-feeders—whatever you wanted to call them, they were growing in number and becoming more aggressive in their search for food. And he was running out of tricks.
His best hope now was that one of his pigeons would come home to roost. Pierre Prefontaine was his best bet—he was actively buying and had good money behind him. More importantly, he seemed to trust Bruce. But so far Pierre hadn’t done anything big enough to warrant a play by Bruce.
He looked at his calendar—May 3. He would give Pierre and the other pigeons three more months. If none of them had locked onto something big by then, Bruce would have to consider another strategy. Perhaps find a money partner. But most real estate investors were still reeling from the market collapse. And those that were stable were probably happy to remain on the sidelines until the dust settled, or could only be lured into the game with the promise of a huge cut of the profits.
Even worse, partners were dangerous. Gus, for example. He could still screw things up for Bruce. If Gus got caught, Bruce had no doubt he would sing in exchange for a reduced sentence.
So, no more partners. It was safer to operate alone. Wait in the shadows, then move in with a surgical precision so seamless that even the victim himself would be unaware that he had been violated. A painless incision, an extraction of money, no scar or other trace of the wound.
CHAPTER 34
[May 10, 1990]
Shelby already had taken a job at the District Attorney’s office after graduation, so she figured she could just tell Reese to go screw if things got ugly. She hoped it wouldn’t come to that, but she couldn’t sit around any longer while Reese ignored Charese’s case. Charese had looked barely human the last time Shelby saw her, and there were more than a few needle tracks on Charese’s arms.
It was Roberge’s choice to play hardball. If he didn’t want to pay the mortgage on the condo, that was his business. Shelby couldn’t really blame him for that. But when he went out of his way to let the bank foreclose right away, instead of taking the usual four or five months, she knew he did so just to punish Charese. Roberge knew he couldn’t evict her while the lawsuit was pending, but he figured—correctly—that the new owner would try to kick her out right after the foreclosure. Roberge probably thought that if Charese were homeless and destitute, the lawsuit might just go away. And if she died on the street, better yet. It was just a sleazy move all around, and it justified anything Shelby might do in response.
She phoned Roberge’s attorney. She skipped the pleasantries. “Tell your client that he’s a sleazeball. That little stunt with the bank is going to cost him.”
“Hey, Shelby, slow down. I don’t even know what you’re talking about.” Roberge’s lawyer wasn’t a bad guy—pompous, yes, but he’d been straight with her so far. Shelby gave him the benefit of the doubt.
“The condo that your client owns, the one Charese lives in.”
“What about it?”
“It got foreclosed on. He stopped paying the mortgage.”
“I didn’t know, but so what? I mean, it’s not like that’s a crime or anything.”
“Well, do you know how long a foreclosure usually takes?”
“Yeah, i
t’s a pain in the ass. Six months maybe, start to finish.”
“Except if the borrower signs a waiver allowing the bank to foreclose right away.”
Roberge’s attorney was silent. When he spoke, he did so in a tone of disbelief. She guessed that he had made a career out of advising his clients never to concede or waive anything. “Did Roberge do that? Are you sure? That can’t be right.”
“He did. I’m sure. That’s right.” She took a deep breath. “When the new owner showed up at my client’s door last month, she called me. I called the bank. They just sent me the papers—your client signed the waiver.”
“I really know nothing about this.”
Shelby believed him—she sensed he still hadn’t figured out why Roberge had done it. “Well, be that as it may, please convey a message from my client to yours. Ask him if he wants a copy of the video they took when they were on vacation in Mexico. She has a couple of extra copies.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I have no idea. My client just asked me to convey the message. Maybe now that the condo’s been foreclosed on, she’s started packing up her things and found some old mementos. But I’m just guessing.”
Shelby was on a roll now. She hung up, and pulled out a nine- by twelve-inch envelope she had been carrying around for a couple of weeks. It was a Board of Bar Overseers complaint form. The BBO was the organization that regulated the conduct of Massachusetts lawyers. Non-lawyers tended to laugh at the idea of a code of conduct for attorneys, but it was actually rather strict and the penalties for misconduct severe.
Shelby had been undecided whether to suggest that Charese file the complaint against Reese. She clearly had grounds to do so, but it would be a difficult case to prove. After all, the offer of settlement from Roberge’s attorney had not been in writing, so it would be difficult to prove it had ever been made. Even then, Reese would surely claim that he had communicated the offer to Charese and that she had rejected it. Shelby would testify on Charese’s behalf, but she had no doubt that the other Lapdogs would circle the wagons and hire the best lawyers to defend Reese. It would be a tough case to win, and even if they won, Reese being punished wouldn’t really benefit Charese.
But that was not why Shelby hesitated to file the complaint. She hesitated because, once she did so, Reese would withdraw from Charese’s case. And Charese could not afford to pay another lawyer; even if she could, the case would be further delayed while the new attorney got up to speed.
Shelby’s last meeting with Charese had removed this hesitation. Charese would simply not survive much longer. Drugs and hooking—and, if she got evicted, homelessness—would likely kill her. Her only hope was for Shelby to force Roberge and Reese into an immediate settlement. With a chunk of money, Charese could hopefully pull herself together and start a new life somewhere.
The threat of revealing the Mexico video hopefully would bring Roberge back to the settlement table. But when Reese heard about the sex tape, he would resist settlement until he could use the video to further damage the Krygier family. Shelby would use the threat of the Board of Bar Overseers complaint to force Reese to do the right thing. She knew she was burning the candle at both ends; she would have to take care not to get singed.
She picked up the phone for her last piece of Charese business, returning a call from Pierre Prefontaine. She had yet to build up a dislike for Pierre; he actually seemed like a decent guy.
“Premier Properties. Pierre speaking.”
“Mr. Prefontaine, this is Shelby Baskin returning your call.”
She heard him swallow. “Yes. I was calling to talk about Charese Galloway.”
“I don’t see what there is to discuss, Mr. Prefontaine. I explained our position to you a couple of weeks ago. You have accepted a rent payment from my client of $200. That creates a tenancy relationship between you and her. Although I agree with your statement that it is a tenancy-at-will, the law in Boston is clear—a tenancy-at-will in Boston may not be terminated by the landlord without good cause. Unfortunately for you, the fact that you want to sell the unit is not considered good cause. Now, if you wanted to move in to the unit, that would qualify, but we know you already own a condominium in Brookline.”
“I understand your position, Ms. Baskin. My attorney advises me that we would have a good case to evict your client, but he agrees that it would be time-consuming and expensive. What I would like to do is pay your client $5,000 in exchange for her vacating the apartment.” Shelby smiled to herself. She guessed that what his attorney had really told Pierre was that accepting the $200 check was the stupidest thing he could have done and that he was screwed. The pro-tenant judges sitting in Boston would have little sympathy for his position. By depositing the check that said “April rent” on it, he had in the eyes of the law accepted $200 as the agreed-upon rent. He could raise her rent once a year, but by no more than ten percent. And as long as Charese paid him every month, he was stuck with her.
Shelby actually felt bad for Pierre, but that was life. She contemplated his offer. Five grand sounded like a good chunk of cash, but after paying a moving company and giving a new landlord a security deposit and first and last month’s rent, there really would be nothing left over. And a new apartment would cost much more than $200 per month. Plus Pierre was desperate, or soon would be. If $5,000 was on the table now, more would be on the table later. “I’ll communicate your offer to my client, Mr. Prefontaine, but I will also counsel her against accepting it. I’ll get back to you if we’re interested. Good-bye.”
CHAPTER 35
[May 22, 1990]
Roberge was surprised to hear his father’s voice on the line—they barely spoke anymore, maybe only once or twice since the wedding. And not at all since the foreclosure of Roberge’s condo. He figured it wasn’t likely to be good news.
“Hi, Father. What can I do for you?”
“Forget the bullshit, Roberge. What the fuck is this I hear about a movie with Mexican boys? You fucking pervert.”
Roberge rarely heard his father swear, but he knew the swearing was the least of his problems now. Roberge’s lawyer had relayed Shelby’s message about the videotape. He asked his lawyer not to tell his father about it, but since Dear Old Dad was paying the legal bills now, it was unlikely they would keep him in the dark. He decided to keep his voice calm. “The tape did exist at one point. I thought it had been destroyed, but I don't think Charles is bluffing. If he says he has it, he probably does. I’m happy to talk to you about it, but only if we’re going to have an adult conversation ....”
His father replied in a barely-controlled hiss. “Listen carefully. Don’t you dare tell me what kind of conversation we’re going to have. You are going to listen and I am going to talk. And I am going to talk clearly so you can understand. You can thank your mother for the fact that I did not cut you off after the newspaper article. Not to mention losing the condo I gave you to the bank. But if this movie becomes public, I swear to God in Heaven you will never see a penny of my money when I die. Not one penny. Now, I don’t care how you do it, but you make sure that movie stays buried.”
Roberge felt the little boy in him well up. “I want it buried too!” He swallowed, trying to keep the whininess out of his voice. “Just give me the money to settle the case.” Roberge had about $65,000 left from the mortgage on the condo, but they put that money in Megan’s name to shield it from Charese, and Megan made it clear that there was no way Charese was getting a penny of it. “Once we settle, she’ll give up the video.”
“You’re such an idiot, Roberge.” He spat out the name. “Do you really think there’s only one copy of this video? Give two hundred grand to that … thing … now, and it’ll just ask for more later. You have to deal with people like this forcefully, you gotta make them pay for fucking with you.”
Roberge started to respond, but his father spoke over him. “And one more thing you should know, you selfish little worm. Your mother and I are fighting like crazy to keep our
real estate business afloat—this crash is killing us. Banks are calling in loans, tenants are breaking leases, rents are nose-diving. Our best hope right now is to get the rent control laws repealed—that’ll give us the extra income we need to ride this thing out. I’m going to have to call in every favor I can to get the votes on the City Council. But if this movie comes out before the vote....”
Roberge was surprised—just two years ago his father was named one of the fifty richest men in Massachusetts. Had the real estate market slumped that much? It would sure explain his father’s fiery anger. “I understand Father. I’ll try to....”
His father cut him off, and this time he spoke calmly, icily. “Don’t try. Do it. I’m not kidding, Roberge. Do it. Any way you have to.”
CHAPTER 36
[May 23, 1990]
Shelby walked unannounced into Reese’s office. Final exams were over, and most of the students had made their pre-Memorial Day summer escape. Graduation was still a few days away, however, so there were still a few third-years hanging around. Shelby closed the door behind her—hopefully Reese didn’t misinterpret her desire for privacy. She suppressed a shiver and sat down opposite him.
“Listen, Reese. This Charese thing has gone on long enough. I know you want to go to trial on this—it’ll make for great publicity and further add to your glowing reputation as the Robin Hood of the legal community. But you’re fucking with a human being, and it ends now. I have reason to believe that Krygier is going to be making another settlement offer. I expect you’ll handle it correctly this time.”
Reese was silent for a moment. Shelby had noticed that he had taken on an even more self-important air since embarrassing Krygier with the newspaper story. According to people Shelby knew, his stature in the tenant activist community had skyrocketed. He eyed Shelby with a half-smile, sucked the saliva off his lower lip, and pulled out his calendar book. “Now, Ms. Baskin, unless I am mistaken, today is May 24. And classes officially ended May 16, over one week ago. I don’t believe you any longer have a say in this matter. I will handle the case in the manner I see fit.” He sat back in his chair and folded his hands in his lap.
[Boston Law 01.0] Unlawful Deeds Page 21