No Accident

by Dan Webb

  “Most people do. But I know you’re not really like that.” She looked into his eyes, and this close, he could tell why Luke had found her fascinating for so long.

  “Well, thanks for trying,” she said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “For trying to help me. The way you put yourself out there with Beto—I thought it was admirable.”

  “Oh, I’m not done with this case,” Alex said.

  “Really? I mean, I just assumed that after the explosion . . . someone almost killed you, Alex.”

  “Now it’s personal. I’ll never quit.”

  Sheila took his hand and squeezed it, an encouraging, hopeful squeeze. He squeezed back.

  “Luke’s dangerous,” she said. She rubbed in another dab of ointment but pressed too hard. Alex flinched from the pain, then gave an embarrassed little smile.

  “So are you,” he said. He gently took her hand and moved it away from his forehead.

  Their eyes met, and then their lips did.

  32

  After hours spent with the full Boswell & Baker team, which seemed to grow with every meeting, Luke now sat alone with Alan in a large conference room. The afternoon had been devoted to strategy regarding Grant Steele’s grand jury, which was considering whether to indict Liberty Industries—and Luke. Murder is a state crime, not a federal one, so as a federal prosecutor, Steele couldn’t bring an indictment for that. But Steele’s theory was that Luke had committed a host of federal crimes—wire fraud and the like—based on the idea that Luke orchestrated the accident in order to kill the employees and get the life insurance money.

  Alan swiveled his chair toward his client and looked at him earnestly. “Luke, I know we’ve strategized about your testimony tomorrow from every angle, but I want to revisit one more time the question of whether you testify at all.”

  Luke sighed. “Right. Prosecution targets like me supposedly never testify in front of a grand jury. But you still haven’t given me a good reason why I shouldn’t.”

  “I’m happy to go through the reasons one more time.”

  “I just don’t like the whole idea of a secret proceeding of people out to get me.”

  “Don’t think of it as a proceeding. Think of it as a box that Grant Steele needs to check before he can actually prosecute you. And the grand jury process really is almost a formality—Steele puts on all the witnesses, there’s no judge, no defense and no cross-examination.”

  “So, I’ll just testify and make the process a little more fair.”

  “Luke, we don’t know what tricks Steele has up his sleeve, or what evidence he has. I can’t prepare you like I would for a real trial.”

  “Then what have we been doing in this conference room all afternoon?”

  “It’s not the same. It’s all guesswork on our side. One wrong step, and you either make Steele’s case for him or set yourself up for a perjury charge.”

  “Give me a break, Alan, I won’t perjure myself.”

  “I know you won’t. But any little inconsistency becomes ammunition when he prosecutes you. If you testify, Steele gets to see under your toga but you don’t get to see under his. It’s a huge disadvantage in the criminal trial.”

  “This is your whole problem, Alan. You’re looking at this like there will actually be a criminal prosecution against me.”

  “Yes, Luke,” Alan said, his tone less polite than usual. “That’s what this is all about.”

  “Wrong.” Luke leaned back in his chair and spread his arms wide. “Let me adjust your thinking, Alan. I’m going to testify to ensure there will never be a criminal trial.”

  “That’s your hope.”

  “The problem with you lawyers is you only look at the downside. You’re always playing defense. But, Alan, when you’re up against a stronger opponent, playing defense just delays the inevitable. I’m going to testify to go on the offense.” Luke pounded his fist into his palm for emphasis. “If the government’s targets never testify before grand juries, like you say, then I guarantee Grant Steele won’t know what to do with me. He thought he was just going to check a box, but instead, he’s got to win a street fight with me before he can even file charges. He’s probably more nervous about this than you are.”

  “Luke, that’s . . .” Alan’s face slowly grew redder, until it looked like the vein in his forehead might burst. “That’s delusional!”

  Luke just laughed.

  “Luke, you’re fooling yourself. You’re not negotiating some oil patch deal over martinis here. You’re dealing with the federal government. They don’t forget, they don’t forgive, and they don’t run out of money. They can take everything from you, put you in jail. And Steele”—Alan reached out and grasped the hair on Luke’s head by its roots—“wants your scalp!” Just as suddenly, Alan let go of Luke’s hair and, embarrassed by his outburst, retreated to his chair.

  Luke laughed more softly. “Alan, I’ve known you for years, and before this you’ve never shown any more emotion than an undertaker.”

  “Forgive me, I—”

  “Forget it; I’m proud of you,” Luke said, but Alan looked like he didn’t believe it. “Relax, Alan, you’ve washed your hands of this. You won’t get any blame if my little strategy goes wrong.”

  “It’s not about blame—”

  Luke held up a hand. “But you won’t share the glory when I succeed.”

  * * *

  Someone who ought to have known once told Luke that only drinkers drink on Monday nights. So maybe it was true, or maybe oblivion was just a state of mind. Luke found himself in a hotel bar near Alan’s office, and most of those there besides him were jet-lagged businessmen drinking quickly to fall asleep. Crash was there, too, drinking water. Luke had encouraged Crash to have a drink, but in Crash’s mind he was always on duty. Luke found Crash’s unflagging dedication impressive and, he admitted to himself at times like this, a little intimidating.

  He and Crash sat together on stools at a tall table. The bartender brought Luke another gin and tonic and then wordlessly returned behind the bar.

  “I dunno why Alan is so down on me testifying. He’s a quitter, Crash.”

  “That’s most ungrateful of him,” Crash said, as formal as ever.

  It was too bad, Luke thought—he would have liked Crash as a friend tonight rather than just a servant. Luke gave Crash a rough pat on the shoulder. “At least I still got you on my side. I’m gonna go in there tomorrow and show everyone Grant Steele is full of bullshit.” The word came out like ‘bushit.’ Luke slumped over his glass. “It’s fuggin’ bullshit is what it is.”

  Petra walked in. Luke sat up and lifted his head with surprise and delight. She wore a tight black evening dress, and the clap of her heels on the hardwood floor reset the tempo of everyone’s conversation.

  Luke roused his gin-thickened tongue to call out a greeting, but stalled when he saw her eyes—two leaping flashes of blue that danced behind her lashes like flames in a gas range.

  “You are drinking like woman, that is why you are crying like woman,” she said to him. “I get you man’s drink.” She barked an order in Russian to the bartender, who, whatever his ancestry, understood well enough to respond without hesitation.

  Luke staggered to his feet and grabbed Petra by the shoulders. “You look like a million bucks,” he said, and she smiled. “But you don’t cost a million bucks. You’re a much better deal than my wife.”

  She slapped him. Everyone looked over at them but the bartender. Luke drew her in and embraced her.

  “I may go to prison,” he said softly.

  Petra pushed herself away from him. “And for this you are special? I have two brothers in prison—Russian prison. Do I forget them?”

  Luke shook his head. He sat down and mumbled something. Then he said, more clearly, “I’m the biggest fish, honey.” Luke illustrated by curling his little finger like a fish hook inside his cheek.

  “You are thinking like victim,” Petra said. “If you think like
victim, you end up like victim.” She leaned in slowly, gently bit his earlobe and whispered, “And victims are soooo un-sexy.”

  Luke stood, and Petra giggled as he swayed on his feet and tried to hold the two of them up. She pressed her body against his, and they swayed together. Crash shifted uncomfortably on his stool.

  The bartender brought a tray with two shots of vodka poured into stylish narrow glasses. From his stool, Crash stretched out his thick arm to bar the man’s path. Petra casually reached across and took the glasses from the tray. She handed one of them to a beaming Luke.

  “Drink for luck,” she said. “Drink for love.”

  Luke stumbled when he tilted his head back to drain the shot glass. Petra took the glass from him and pushed him up under his arms. “You can still stand,” she said.

  “I think you’re right,” Luke said. He kissed her neck sloppily, and she giggled.

  “I have babysitter all night . . .” she said.

  Crash rose and pulled Luke away from her. With an earnest expression on his face he whispered in Luke’s ear, “Sir, I think you really need to get some sleep.”

  Luke looked confused for a moment, and then patted Crash reassuringly on the shoulder. “s’OK . . .” Luke said. “s’OK . . .”

  Then Luke launched himself on a staggering path toward the door.

  Crash and Petra watched him go, then Petra stepped in toward Crash, close enough for him to smell her perfume. She gave Crash’s chin a tight squeeze and said, “Come on and drive us home.” Then she quickly caught up to Luke and hustled him in the direction of the exit.

  * * *

  In the back seat of the car, Luke was all over Petra, and she was loving it, or at least acting like she did, giggling, cooing in a susurrant blend of Russian and English. She caught Crash’s eye in the rearview mirror and paused from running her tongue up and down Luke’s neck to flash a malevolent grin at Crash and lick the air mockingly.

  Luke didn’t notice. He was moaning softly in delight. Who wouldn’t, with a beautiful nymphomaniac wrapping her lithe body around him? But Luke didn’t know the truth about Petra, Crash thought. Crash had protected Luke from knowing that—and, he admitted, in so doing had protected himself.

  Luke suddenly roused himself and energetically announced, “I’ll kick his ass, P—you just wait.”

  “Ooh, I know you will, Luke. This Grant Steele is little man with big problem—you.”

  “You got that right,” Luke said loudly. In his drunken fervor he was almost bellowing. “An’ you know what I’ll do next? I’m gonna adopt Dmitri.”

  Petra turned serious. “Don’t joke, darlink.”

  “I’m not joking. I know how much it means to you, and I already talked to an adoption lawyer. As soon as the divorce is final, I’m doin’ it. And then you and me”—Luke took Petra’s hands and kissed them—“are getting married.”

  Luke and Petra fell into each other and kissed passionately. Crash turned his eyes toward the road. Petra could get herself a husband for all Crash cared, but she couldn’t—she wouldn’t—get Dmitri a new father. He wouldn’t let her.

  Luke was insensate by the time Crash pulled up to his mansion, snoring like a twelve-year-old dog.

  “You can’t let Luke adopt Dmitri,” Crash said to Petra.

  “Why not?” she said venomously. “Why do you care?”

  “You know why I care.”

  “You’re not his father. You’re a sperm donor. Plus, you’re weird.”

  Crash glared at her in the mirror. Petra pursed her lips into a sour frown. “Don’t piss me off,” she said, “or I’ll tell Luke where Dmitri really came from.” Then her expression changed to a sadistic smile. “I’ll tell him you forced yourself on me.”

  “You—”

  “And he’ll believe me. You know he will.” She unsentimentally slapped Luke across the face to wake him up, which he did with a start, unaware of the violence that had woken him. “Oh, my sleepyhead is awake,” Petra cooed. “Let’s go inside so I can take care of you.”

  Luke opened the car door and woozily exited. Before following him, Petra cast another glance toward the rearview mirror and gave Crash a full-pucker air kiss.

  33

  Luke and Grant Steele faced off in a grand jury room in the federal courthouse. Steele wore an expensive suit, in contrast to the more casual dress of the grand jurors. In the chest pocket of his suit jacket he wore a handkerchief folded so that its four corners poked up in uneven triangles like alligator teeth. He looked at home at the podium.

  Luke looked small sitting in the witness box. The grand jury sat in two rows in another wooden box along the side of the room, and the court reporter, motionless except below her wrists, sat to the other side, echoing each question and answer with a flurry of soft tapping on her stenography machine.

  Steele’s questions started off easy, boring even—preliminaries to establish the factual background. Despite Steele’s reputation as a smooth speaker, Luke was surprised to find that in the courtroom Steele wasn’t a very polished questioner. He paused frequently to consult notes, and ‘um’ and ‘ah’ were sprinkled throughout his speech. Luke kept telling himself not to let his guard down. Any bumbler can be dangerous—when he’s trying to indict you.

  “You’re quite the Wall Street darling, aren’t you, Mr. Hubbard?” Steele said.

  “I’m not sure what that means,” Luke said. He recalled Alan Matthews’ advice to keep his responses simple and concrete, not to say more than he needed to.

  “What I mean is that in the past two years, you have appeared six times on the covers of these major business magazines,” Steele said, hoisting a stack of magazines. “Why do you think that is?”

  “I think the interest some business journalists have in me is a reaction to the growth of Liberty Industries and its success over the past two decades.” Alan would have been proud of that response, Luke thought.

  “Financial success?” Steele said.

  “Yes, that’s how the financial press measures success,” Luke said. Steele scowled, and a young female juror giggled. Steele took a moment to compose himself, then continued.

  “Has Liberty’s financial success surprised you?”

  “I always had faith that, with a little luck, we could succeed.”

  “Has Liberty’s financial success surprised the stock market?”

  Luke considered the question, then responded. “I would say so. If everyone expected Liberty to be as successful as it is now, our stock price would have started out where it is now, instead of generally rising up to that level over the years.”

  “So in the past, analysts expected Liberty to make less money, and now they expect Liberty to make more money, generally speaking.”

  “Yes, generally speaking.”

  “And so, over the years, you’ve often made more money than Wall Street analysts expected?”

  “In many cases, yes.”

  “And that made your stock price go up?”

  “Generally speaking, yes, our stock price has risen when we’ve beaten the analysts’ earnings estimates.”

  “And is the opposite true as well? When you don’t meet estimated earnings, your stock price has gone down?”

  “That’s the basic idea,” Luke said.

  “Thanks, this is helpful. I’m not a finance guy.”

  Luke sighed. Steele had been going on like this for an hour.

  Steele ostentatiously flipped a page in the notebook he had in front of him on the podium. “Let’s talk now about the life insurance policies that Liberty Industries purchased on the employees who were killed in the accident last December 23rd.”

  “That accident was a tragedy,” Luke said gravely.

  “That wasn’t a question,” Steele said sharply. “Here’s the question: you didn’t buy those life insurance policies knowing those men were going to die, did you?”

  “Of course not. The policies were purchased years before, as part of a corporate policy in which we buy l
ife insurance on many employees.”

  “How much did those policies pay out when those employees died?” Steele said.

  Luke responded loudly and clearly. “Two million dollars.” He figured there was no need to by shy about innocent facts like this one, especially since Steele was trying to insinuate they were somehow criminal.

  “And how much of that money went to the men’s families, to their widows?”

  “None of it,” Luke said. “As you know, the company was the beneficiary on those policies.”

  “Two million dollars,” Steele said, turning toward the grand jury and raising his eyebrows. “Lot of money, isn’t it?”

  Alan had warned Luke that Steele would resort to grandstanding like this. Luke took a deep breath and forced himself to relax. Then he responded. “Liberty Industries has been fortunate enough to grow its revenues and earnings to the hundreds of millions of dollars per quarter. Two million dollars is a lot of money, to be sure, Mr. Steele. But in the context of an enterprise as large as Liberty, it is not generally significant.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Are you going to ask me every question twice, Mr. Steele?”

  Luke knew he shouldn’t taunt Steele, but it felt good, and now several of the jurors chuckled. Steele kept his gaze on Luke.

  “What were your earnings in the fourth quarter of last year, the quarter that ended on December 31st?”

  “You’ve seen our financials. You know that they were about $205 million.”

  “Here’s a copy of Liberty’s quarterly income statement,” Steele said. “What does it say Liberty’s earnings were for the fourth quarter?”

  Luke took the paper from Steele. “Two hundred and six million, one hundred and twenty-three thousand dollars. Like I said, about two hundred and five million dollars.”

  “And here’s a copy of a report from Dow Jones from last December fifteenth. It sets forth the estimate for your fourth quarter earnings by each of the securities analysts that cover Liberty. At the bottom is an average of those estimates. What does it say?”

  Steele flapped the paper in front of Luke as he asked the question. Luke impatiently took the paper from him and read off the number at the bottom.