"Would you please read the heading on page six?"
" ‘General Provisions.'"
I turn and face the jury. Without looking at Stern, I say, "Would you please read the title of the fifth paragraph in the right column of page six?"
" ‘Ownership and Control.’ "
I'm still looking at the jury when I interrupt him. "No, Mr. Stern. The following paragraph. It's entitled ‘Suicide Exclusion.'"
His voice is barely a whisper. " ‘If the Insured, whether sane or insane, dies by suicide within two years from the issue date, we will pay no more under this contract than the sum of the premiums paid, minus any contract debt and minus any partial withdrawals.’ "
I turn and face Chuckles. "Mr. Stern, that section contains what is customarily known as a suicide clause, doesn't it?"
"Objection. Foundation. Mr. Stern isn't qualified as an expert on insurance."
"Overruled."
"It's a suicide clause," Stern says.
"And in layman's terms, what does it mean?"
"If the insured commits suicide within the first two years, the insurer doesn't have to pay."
"And, if it was determined Mr. Holmes committed suicide, what would it mean for the firm?"
"We wouldn't get the twenty million dollars."
I turn back to the jury. "Just so we're all perfectly clear on this, Mr. Stern, if the death of Mr. Holmes is determined to be a suicide, you guys will lose the twenty-million-dollar insurance payment."
"That's right," he says. His lips barely move.
"You might say the firm has twenty million reasons to hope the death of Mr. Holmes is not declared a suicide."
"Objection."
"Sustained." Judge Chen points her gavel at me. "I've already warned you about grandstanding in my courtroom, Mr. Daley."
I've gone far beyond the bounds. "No further questions." Thanks, Perry. I'll buy a million bucks of life insurance from you.
Skipper practically leaps out of his seat. First things first. Stern has placed Skipper at the scene that night. He must clear his name before he starts his cross-examination. It's as I had hoped. He's distracted. His reputation is on the line.
"Isn't it true that you saw me at the Simpson and Gates office at around one o'clock that night?"
"Yes."
"And we had a brief conversation, didn't we?"
"Yes."
"And I told you that I had returned to the office to pick up my briefcase, right?"
"Objection, Your Honor. Hearsay. Mr. Stern cannot testify as to what Mr. Gates said. If Mr. Gates wants to testify about what he said, we're perfectly happy to permit him to do so."
She can't resist a grin at Skipper. "Sustained."
Skipper gathers himself. "Mr. Stern, did you see me leaving the office with my briefcase?"
"Yes."
"Did I say anything to you?"
"Objection, Your Honor. Hearsay."
"Sustained."
Skipper frowns. This isn't going very well. "Mr. Stern, do you have any reason to believe that I was in the office for any purpose other than to collect my briefcase?"
"Objection. Speculative."
"Sustained." She certainly can't be faulted for going easy on him.
Skipper spends five minutes asking Chuckles perfunctory questions about the insurance policy and the firm's financial condition. Chuckles swears that the firm is in solid financial shape and doesn't need the proceeds from the policy to survive. He's unconvincing. The damage is already done.
We're back in my office at eight o'clock the same night. "You don't think it was Stern, do you?" Rosie asks.
"I don't know. I'd say he had about a million of his own reasons to do it. And the firm had about twenty million reasons for him to do it." His memory lapses about the insurance policies and the trust made him look like a lying ass in front of the jury. I can understand his desire to keep the terms of Bob's trust confidential, but his testimony on the insurance policy was odd.
The phone rings. It's Pete. I tell him about our day in court.
"Listen," he says, "somebody wants to talk to you." The phone goes silent for a moment.
I punch the speaker button so Rosie can hear. A nasal male voice shrieks, "Who the hell is this?"
"Who the hell is this?" I bark back.
"Vince Russo. Who the hell are you? And tell this goon to let me go."
The line goes quiet. My mind races. A moment later, I hear Wendy's voice. "You'll never guess who we found down at the bank today."
"Elvis Presley?"
"Close." I can hear the smile in her voice. "We ran into Vince at Trevor Smith's office. I guess he decided to come down here to visit his money. Pete and I followed him back to his hotel. He's got a little cottage at the Graycliff. It's really very nice."
Indeed. The finest hotel in Nassau.
"Anyway," she continues, "it's a little tough finding a room down here, so Pete and I decided to bunk with Vince. He was just telling us all about his trip."
Jesus. "Wendy, listen to me. Don't hurt him. What you're doing may be somewhat illegal."
"Don't worry. We ordered room service. The foie gras is delightful. Pete takes off the handcuffs when he has to eat or pee. We offered to call the cops. Seems Vince is a little nervous about that. It kind of fouls up the part of his story where he wanted everyone to think he committed suicide."
Fabulous. Either we've just got the biggest break in the case or we're all going to jail. "You guys going to be there for a while?"
"Of course. We just ordered champagne." I hear a cork pop and she says thank you to Pete. "Say, Mike," she says, "are you doing anything this weekend?"
"I think I may need to take a little trip. The stress is getting to me."
"Anyplace in particular?"
"I understand the Bahamas are nice this time of year."
"Our cottage is called Yellow Bird. Tell the concierge you're with Mr. Kramer's party."
"Are they getting suspicious?"
"Probably. We told them we aren't to be disturbed."
"I'll be there as soon as I can."
I hang up. I look at Rosie. "I need you to go to Judge Chen tomorrow and tell her I was called out of town on an emergency. See if you can get her to put things off until Monday."
"What do you want me to tell her if she asks me what the emergency is?"
"Just tell her something came up."
At nine o'clock that night I'm on the phone. "Roosevelt," I say, "I need your help."
"I'm not supposed to be talking to you, Mike." He chuckles. "So, what do you need?"
"Got any plans for the weekend?"
"The usual."
"How would you feel about an all-expense-paid trip to the Bahamas?"
"Sounds pretty good to me."
51
"TECHNICALLY, YOU'RE DEAD"
"With long beaches, friendly people and perfect weather, the Bahamas have been a tourist mecca for over two hundred years."
—Bahamas travel brochure
Fourteen hours later, at two o'clock in the afternoon Bahamas time, Roosevelt and I get out of a cab in front of the Graycliff, the dignified three-story Georgian colonial mansion across the street from the Government House in Nassau. No matter where I go, it seems to be raining. Our connecting flights through Chicago and Miami were late, and we flew through a hailstorm to reach the modern airport in Nassau. Air travel has never really agreed with me. And I'm getting too old for all-nighters. I'm beat. Roosevelt is holding up better. His stamina is remarkable. It comes with the territory if you're a cop and you're interested in living long enough to collect your pension.
The Graycliff was built as a private residence about two hundred years ago. For the last hundred years or so, it's been the finest hotel in Nassau. With only nine guest rooms in the main house and four suites by the pool, it's a slice of nirvana in the middle of town. Although it's been a long time since the Beatles stayed here, it's still very popular among rock stars, businessmen and politic
ians.
When we walk into the lobby, our disheveled appearance immediately attracts the attention of the concierge. He stands and says with a clipped British accent, "May I help you, gentlemen?" He sounds like Sir John Gielgud and bears a striking resemblance to John Cleese.
"Yes, please," I say. "We're here for an important meeting with Mr. Rus—Mr. Kramer. I believe he's in Yellow Bird."
He eyes us suspiciously. "We've been instructed not to disturb Mr. Kramer and his colleagues."
"He's expecting us. If you'll explain to his assistant that Mr. Daley and Mr. Johnson from the San Francisco office have arrived, I'm sure they'll have you show us to his suite."
"One moment, please." He picks up the antique phone. He nods several times. I hope he's talking to Wendy or Pete and not to the local police. "Right this way, please," he says politely.
As we walk through the garden, I decide to speak the local language—money. "I trust you have access to a local banker," I say. "It may be necessary to set up an account here so we can wire some money to various locations around the world."
Roosevelt gives me the eye. I'm laying it on pretty thick.
The concierge keeps looking straight ahead. "It can be arranged, sir." He pronounces the word "sir" as "suh."
"Do you have a fax machine we can use? And I trust we'll be able to plug in our computers?"
"Of course, sir. The rooms have modems, sir. We can make special arrangements, sir."
I love people in this part of the world. They understand their existence depends on tourists and maintaining their status as a tax haven. "Excellent. What did you say your name is?"
"Burton, sir. Duncan Burton."
Perfect. "Thank you for your assistance, Duncan."
"Of course, sir."
The Yellow Bird cottage is next to the pool where Winston Churchill used to swim. I can see that the drapes are drawn as Duncan leads us to the door. "Will you be staying with us tonight, sir?"
"I'm afraid not. Our business should be completed by the end of the day. We'll be taking the red-eye back to the mainland."
"Very good, sir."
I love this guy. "Duncan," I say, "we'll be in high-level negotiations all day. Would you please tell the hotel staff that we're not to be disturbed?"
"Of course, sir."
"Thank you, Duncan." I shake his hand and slip him three crisp hundred-dollar bills. The universal language. Good help is hard to find. "Remember, Duncan. We mustn't be disturbed."
He almost smiles. "Please let me know if there is anything we can do to assist you, sir."
As he leaves, I glance around the garden and knock on the door. Pete opens it immediately. "Come in," he whispers. He darts a quick look around the pool area before he shuts the door and fastens the bolt. "Anybody follow you?" He's still whispering.
Roosevelt shakes his head. "No, Pete. This isn't a James Bond movie."
He grins sheepishly. "I'm out of my element."
You could have fooled me.
The sitting room in the Yellow Bird is furnished with period pieces from the early Georgian era. An elegant blue sofa sits next to a comfortable tall chair with a paisley pattern. A ceiling fan circulates warm air. The window air conditioner detracts only slightly from the ambiance. A small TV and a fax machine in the corner are the only signs of the twentieth century. Trays containing the remains of dinner and breakfast sit by the door. An empty champagne bottle rests on the antique side table.
Wendy walks in from what I presume is the bedroom and smiles at us. "What took you so long?"
"We ran into a small hurricane. Where's our guest of honor?"
"Watching TV. He didn't want to miss his cartoons."
"Is he pissed off?"
"You could say that."
"How did you find him?"
"We got lucky. We saw him coming out of First Bank. We followed him here."
"How did you get in?"
Pete grins. "You don't want to know."
I glance at Roosevelt. "Has he said much?"
"Nothing you would repeat to Grace. He said he's going to kick our asses and sue us for everything we're worth. Fortunately, that isn't a whole lot."
Roosevelt turns serious. "You know, you guys could be arrested for kidnapping."
"I don't think he's going to complain," Pete says. "We offered to let him use the phone. He refused. He's gone to a lot of trouble to convince everybody he's dead. He'd have to call the cops to bring charges." Pete sounds pleased with himself. "It seems a couple of his investors are looking for him. They aren't as friendly as we are." He lowers his voice.
"In all seriousness, a couple of his investors from the Middle East are unhappy about some money they lost on one of his deals. He thinks his life may be in danger."
Roosevelt is silent.
"You didn't hurt him, did you?" I ask.
"Not really," Pete replies. "He tried to grab Wendy, so we got into a little shoving match. I just pushed him. Wendy was the one who kneed him in the balls. Lifted him all the way off the floor. He was doubled over for a couple of minutes."
"The asshole grabbed me," Wendy says. "He tried to put his hand over my mouth. I drilled him."
"Let's go see our little friend," I say.
We walk into the bedroom. The TV is tuned to CNN. The unshaven Russo is dressed in khaki pants and a maroon polo shirt. He's sitting at a small table eating a muffin and drinking coffee. I notice he's using only his right hand. Then I see his left hand is handcuffed to the table.
"Mr. Russo," I say, "my name is Michael Daley. I'm Joel Friedman's attorney. This is Inspector Roosevelt Johnson of the San Francisco Police Department. He's the lead investigator in the case involving the deaths of Robert Holmes and Diana Kennedy."
He doesn't look up. "Are you the one who sent this goon to kidnap me, Mr. Daley?" he barks.
"That goon is a licensed private investigator. He's also my brother. You're lucky that he found you before somebody else did. You're a popular guy. A bunch of bankers are looking for you. So are a few of your investors and a couple of bounty hunters." Probably a few ex-wives, for good measure.
"Assholes." He pushes the muffin away. "I have nothing to say." He strains to fold his arms before he realizes that he can't.
I hand him a short legal document. "This is a subpoena that requires you to appear at Mr. Friedman's trial." Roosevelt and I got Judge Chen to issue a subpoena on our way to the airport. It's a bluff. A California subpoena isn't binding in the Bahamas. "I may have to get some dispensation from the judge to get you to testify, however."
"Why the hell is that?"
"Technically, you're dead. But I think I can persuade the judge to the contrary."
"And if I don't cooperate?"
Pete hands him a card with English writing on one side and Arabic writing on the other. "This gentleman is looking for you," he says. "We saw him last night. He's asked us to call if we find you."
He stares at both sides of the card. "Read my lips. Fuck you."
"Mr. Russo," Roosevelt says, "I've come here to ask you to voluntarily return to San Francisco so that we can sort out this matter."
"Why the hell would I do that?"
"If you have nothing to hide, you shouldn't have any problem returning with us." He eyes him closely. "We'd be happy to buy you a ticket. You don't have anything to hide, do you, Mr. Russo?"
"Of course not."
"Good. Now, we can do this the easy way, or we can do this the hard way. The easy way means you'll get on a plane with us and we'll go back to San Francisco together."
"And the hard way?"
"I'll call the local police. They'll want to know why a dead man checked into this lovely hotel under an assumed name. I'll ask them to detain you. We'll begin extradition proceedings. You'll be spending a fairly long time in jail here in Nassau. I'll swear out a complaint that you're a flight risk. They'll keep you in jail until your extradition is resolved."
"Are you charging me with something?"
&nbs
p; "Not yet. But you're a suspect. Which reminds me," he adds, "this would be a good time to read you your rights." He clears his throat and recites the Miranda warnings. "Mr. Russo," he says, "we're prepared to call your lawyer right now. He can meet us at the airport."
Russo looks at the TV. "I didn't do anything," he says. "It isn't a crime to go on a vacation."
"All the more reason for you to cooperate," Roosevelt says.
"I want to talk to my lawyer."
Wendy takes out her cellular phone. "Who do you want me to call?"
"Arthur Patton."
"Who the hell do you guys think you are?" Art Patton bellows at me through Wendy's cellular phone. "You can't detain him. It's kidnapping."
"He's here voluntarily," I reply. "I can call the local cops."
Silence. "Let me talk to Johnson."
I hand the phone to Roosevelt. He listens for a moment. He says "Uh-huh" a few times. Then he says, emphatically, "No deal. Look, if you're going to be an ass about this, we'll call the local cops. I'm sure they'd be delighted to make up a bed for Mr. Russo for the next six months while you argue about his extradition." He winks at me. "By the way, we're going to make sure all his assets down here are frozen. I think all his assets up your way are already frozen, so you may be doing his legal work pro bono." He listens for a minute. "Uh-huh. Okay." He has Pete unshackle Russo. He hands the phone to Russo and turns to me. "I think reason is about to prevail," he says.
I call the concierge. "Duncan," I say, "it's Mr. Daley. I need you to make some travel arrangements for us. Mr. Kramer, Mr. Johnson and I need to get to San Francisco as soon as possible. Yes, first class is fine. Just bill it to Mr. Kramer's credit card."
The line goes silent for a few moments. Then Duncan comes back. "We'll have all the arrangements ready within the hour, sir," he says.
"Thank you, Duncan." I wink at Pete. "Mr. Kramer's colleagues will need a place to stay for the next few nights. They have banking business on Monday. Would you make arrangements for them to keep Mr. Kramer's cottage?"
"Of course, sir."
"Thank you, Duncan. You may want to send a housekeeper up here. And some cold drinks."
"Very well, sir."
Our plane leaves Nassau at six o'clock Friday night. We connect through Chicago. When we get off the plane at O'Hare, we're met by three cops. At first, I think they're going to arrest Russo. Or me. Then I realize Roosevelt has called in a favor from a friend in the Chicago Police Department. He doesn't want to let Russo make a break through the mobs at O'Hare. With the help of Chicago's finest, we negotiate the United terminal. Naturally, our flight to San Francisco is delayed two hours.
MD01 - Special Circumstances Page 39