Doug braced himself against the wall, his stomach rolling over like a beach ball.
“You own Computer Innovations,” Cozzens said, his voice laced with conviction. “Just because you’ve got other people fronting for you doesn’t mean anything. There’s a paper trail a mile long and it leads directly to your doorstep. You’re a smart fellow. It’s hard for me to understand this type of deal, even though I see it all the time.”
The money amounted to years of mind-boggling and tedious work. This was Doug’s bailout, his only hope, the one thing that kept him from going insane inside this filthy, stinking institution. Admittedly, he’d made serious mistakes, both in the financial and personal arena. What he’d told Cozzens, however, was the truth. Before Joanne had tracked him down, he’d successfully sold his new software program to Forrest Hoyt Technologies for fifty million dollars. Forrest Hoyt Technologies was now the largest manufacturer of computer software in the universe. After a legal battle between the established titans in the industry had ended in a stalemate, the three major players had merged under the Forrest Hoyt Technologies umbrella. Doug’s timing had been impeccable. As people all over the world grew weary of using telephone lines for Internet access, and converted to cable or high-speed DSL connections, the risks involved became apparent. Doug’s program. Lockout, was revolutionary in the industry as it not only blocked all attempts to hack into computer systems, it provided documentation that could be presented in a court of law.
Due to the money he’d embezzled from Telinx and dozens of other computer firms over the years, Doug was forced into funneling his profits through from the sale of Lockout by means of an offshore corporation. The law firm who’d negotiated the deal with Forrest Hoyt Technologies had suggested he set up an offshore corporation, and one of the attorneys had even taught tax law. Of course, the lawyers had no knowledge of Doug’s true identity or any reason to suspect that he was involved in criminal activities. As soon as he’d taken the children and fled, he’d legally changed his name to Walter Evans Breymore. He’d needed a cover anyway to keep Joanne from tracing his whereabouts. The children had even grown accustomed to using the Breymore name. Doug explained that offspring of wealthy individuals were sometimes kidnapped, and that he had changed their name for their own safety.
Since the Breymore name wasn’t listed anywhere in the articles of incorporation for Computer Innovations, he couldn’t say he was totally unaware of the risks involved. The attorneys he’d dealt with had assuaged his fears, however, swearing they’d never had a problem with this particular banking institution, nor any of the outside individuals who would be handling the financial transactions on his behalf.
The reason Doug’s program had not been developed in-house by Forrest Hoyt Technologies was fairly simple. Even before the merger, Forrest Hoyt Technologies, along with most of the giants in the computer industry, had been working frenetically in the development of advanced operating systems. A man like James Hoyt might have blinked a few times when on-line gambling started to surface, yet technology was exploding in so many directions that it was impossible for him to seize every opportunity. In addition, Internet gambling was extremely complex. Telinx and other major technology-based conglomerates were reluctant to do business with the kind of unsavory and paranoid individuals affiliated with the gaming industry. A virtual casino could lose millions of dollars in a matter of minutes if their system was impeached.
“Do you recall an individual by the name of Michael Milken?”
“Of course,” Doug said, snapping to attention. He was a featherweight compared to a financial icon such as Milken, considered one of the greatest financial innovators in history. In one year alone, Milken had earned five hundred and fifty million in the junk-bond market. He’d served only two years in prison and managed to reestablish his position in society.
“Do you have the kind of money Milken had?” Cozzens asked. “Say an extra three or four hundred million tucked away somewhere that you earned legitimately? That’s outside of whatever funds you have in this Computer Innovations account in the Cayman Islands. If you do, now would be a good time to tell me.”
“No, no,” Doug muttered.
Jack Cozzens was ready to have a little fun with an amateur in the field of life. “When Dante wrote The Divine Comedy, many people declared it unfathomable. Even if you’ve never had a chance to read his work, the title alone was both magnificent and astute.”
“What does this have to do with Michael Milken?” Doug asked, perplexed. ‘What I really want to know is what does it have to do with me?”
“It’s a play on words,” Cozzens told him, laughing again. “I don’t care much for milk. Lactose intolerant, you know.”
“You’re not billing me to discuss your digestive problems, I hope?”
“No,” Cozzens said, his tone serious again. “As I said earlier, the last half of our conversation is off-the-record. You have just received some of my most valuable advice. Knowledge can be sold, as you well know. Genius is many times imprinted in a human’s genetic code. Wisdom, however, is priceless.”
Doug was ready to jump out of his skin. A shrill tone blasted forth from the speakers, then a voice came on issuing the five-minute warning for them to return to their cells. “Look,” he shouted, stepping aside as several inmates marched past him. “I paid you three hundred grand to represent me. I don’t need to listen to all this philosophical baloney Start doing something to get me out of this mess, or I’m going to hire another attorney.”
“You’ve got plenty of time to think about the things we’ve discussed tonight, maybe even solve my little riddle,” Jack Cozzens said caustically “Regardless of who represents you, Mr. Kuhlman, you can kiss the money you have in this offshore corporation good-bye.”
A lie was still a lie, Doug thought, tasting the harsh reality of his moralistic upbringing. Even in the world of mathematics and programming, his father’s words held true. If you made a lie your root, no matter how many years you worked at a problem, the result would ultimately be worthless.
EIGHT
Thursday, February 8, 2001, 9:35 P.M.
IAN DECKER dialed his mother’s number from the pay phone in the lobby of the Economy Inn. The Rubinskys had sent him out to pick up food. Just as he heard his mother’s voice, Gary stepped up behind him and yanked the phone out of his hands, then pressed the button to disconnect the call. “I knew you were doing things behind our back, you stupid prick!”
“I wasn’t doing anything wrong,” Ian said. “I just wanted to see if my mother was okay.”
“What did I tell you?” Gary said, spitting the words at him. “Your mother’s poison. If I ever catch you talking to her, I’ll wring your neck like a chicken. Where’s the damn food?”
“I…I haven’t gone to get it yet,” Ian stammered. “I don’t understand why I can’t drive the car anymore. I don’t like to walk when it’s dark.”
“Forget the food,” Gary said, staring at something through the window. He made a motion for Ian to follow him, leading him up the back staircase to their room.
Tom was asleep on the bed. Gary walked over and shook him. “I’m almost positive I saw a cop car parked across the street, and I caught Ian trying to call his mother. For all we know, he’s already told her where we’re staying.”
“You think the police found out we swiped the car?”
Gary paced around the small room like a caged animal. “No,” he said. “We’re cool with the car. We could probably drive the Chrysler another three months and get away with it. I found the paperwork in the glove box the other day The car’s only been on the storage lot for six weeks. Since it’s been wrecked, the insurance company must have totaled it. My bet is the owner’s already been paid off and ABC is just waiting to get the paperwork pushed through so they can sell it.”
Tom popped open another can of Budweiser. “Then why are you all worked up?”
“They’re waiting for us to do something so they can slam our butts
back in jail,” Gary told him, walking over and snatching the can of beer out of his brother’s hands. He took a swig, then handed it back. “They’re not gonna put me back in one of those cages. No one leaves this room except you until we figure out another place to stay”
“Why me?” Tom exclaimed. “What if I get stopped? Maybe Ian’s mother found out the car was missing from the lot. She knows Ian doesn’t have the Firebird anymore.”
“The cops aren’t interested in Ian,” Gary said, a wild look in his eyes. “We’re the ones they’re after. What if they saw us leaving the skating rink?”
“You’re paranoid,” Tom said, flopping down in the chair. “Are you certain that’s regular pot you’re smoking? You haven’t been using crack, have you?”
Ian had a puzzled look in his eyes. “You guys went skating?”
Tom laughed before he realized his brother had made a mistake by mentioning the skating rink. “We thought we could score some more pot from a guy we know who deals around there.” He tilted his head to one side. “You need to think every now and then, Ian. Do you really think Gary and I went skating? We’re in big trouble here.”
Tom’s brother had been seconds away from killing Ian the day they’d robbed the Quick-Mart. A car full of kids had pulled up, and Tom and Gary told them Ian was drunk and had fallen down. Then they had placed Ian in the backseat of the Firebird and dropped him off at the apartment before they had gone on to the skating rink.
“We can’t stay in this room until the trial is over,” Tom told him. “It could be months. And Ian’s got a thousand dollar limit on that credit card. Once the motel runs our tab, we’ll be out on the street.”
Ian was too afraid to speak out. With his finger, he touched the abraded spot near his hairline. He only recalled fragments of the Saturday afternoon when he’d driven Tom and Gary to the Quick-Mart. The doctor at the hospital told him it wasn’t uncommon to suffer memory loss from a head injury. He said the cause of Ian’s blackout could have been all the booze he’d consumed the night before. According to the brothers, he’d struck his head against the door window. He swore he’d never drink alcohol again. All he remembered was waking up in his apartment with a cut on his head and a terrible headache. On the drive home from the hospital, the police had stopped the three men and placed them under arrest. Although the clerk hadn’t copied down the complete license plate, he’d reported the make, model, and color, along with the letters “FDS.”
“We wouldn’t have had this problem if Ian still had his apartment,” Tom pointed out. “How are we going to find another place to stay without a credit card?”
“I lost my apartment because you guys kept taking my money,” Ian said, brushing his hair off his forehead. “It took my mom years to get me a spot in that complex.”
Gary lunged at him. Ian jumped out of his chair and flattened himself against the wall, certain the other man was going to hit him. “I don’t want to hear anything about your stupid apartment anymore, get it?” Gary poked Ian in the chest with his finger, then snarled at him, “Did we take your money, huh? You gave us the money. You wanted us to have the money. Did we need your lousy money?”
Ian crept along the wall, but Gary punched him in the stomach, causing him to double over in pain. Ian grabbed on to the green curtain, pulling himself back to an upright position.
“Isn’t that what happened?” Gary continued, swiping at his mouth with the back of his hand. “Are you going to try and say we robbed you? Is that what you’ve got on that idiotic brain of yours?”
“No, Gary.” Ian heard a rip, then saw a piece of the curtain had torn off in his hand. “Please, don’t hurt me.”
“Then say it,” Gary Rubinsky yelled. “You heard me. Say it!”
Tears were streaming down Ian’s face. “You didn’t take my money I wanted you to have it because we were friends.”
“Fine,” Gary said, panting now. “And did we rob the Quick-Mart?”
“No,” Ian answered. “All you did was go in for some beer.”
“When we came out of the store,” Gary went on, his breath hot and rancid on Ian’s face, “what did I have in my hand?”
“A sack,” Ian whimpered, wiping the tears from his face with the scrap of green fabric. “A sack with beer in it. That’s all you had, Gary…just a sack of beer and some cigarettes.”
“Did I have a wad of money?”
Ian shook his head, his hands locked into fists at his side.
“Have you ever seen the gun the police say we used? Do I even have a cell phone or anything that looks like that gun?”
“No…Gary…please,” Ian pleaded, his shoulders shaking as he sobbed. “You don’t have a cell phone. You don’t have a gun. I never saw any money. I promise I’ll never say anything except what you tell me. Only what you tell me, Gary. Only what you tell me.”
Gary snatched the beer off the table and finished it in one swallow, then crushed the can in his fist. “See what you started,” he said to his brother. “Now the baby is crying. And you think we can trust him. Think again, Tom.”
NINE
Friday, February 9, 2001, 8:05 A.M.
WHEN JOANNE arrived at her office, the receptionist at the front desk handed her a large envelope, advising her that Arnold Dreiser had left it for her. She assumed it contained the records she had requested on Ian Decker. As Joanne was heading to her office, she ran into Dean Kennedy, the elected district attorney. He stopped, which surprised her. Generally Kennedy whisked past her without so much as a nod. “How’s your trial coming along? That new gun is frightening.”
“More complicated than I expected,” Joanne told him, eager to research the materials before she discussed them. “Dreiser claims Ian Decker is developmentally disabled, that he was unaware that he was participating in a crime.”
“I see,” Kennedy said, glancing down as he thought. At thirty-nine, he had a thick head of brown hair, rust-colored eyes, and a tall, lanky frame. No one under forty had ever held his position. His brilliance was uncontested, his grasp of the law rivaling that of any Supreme Court justice. People speculated that his post as district attorney was only the first step in what would turn out to be an exceptional career.
He spoke in short, choppy sentences, always concise, and was known to make almost instantaneous decisions. He seldom made mistakes, yet when he did, he was the first to admit it. “Is this person mentally incompetent to stand trial?”
“No,” she answered. “At least, not according to the present standards for competency. I need to go over Decker’s school and psychological records before the hearing. I’ll keep you informed.”
“Dreiser is cunning,” Kennedy cautioned, holding up a finger. “Make certain that whatever records he gives you are authentic. He’s had some serious personal problems.”
Joanne stepped aside to let another attorney pass. “I know about his son’s suicide.” She paused and took a breath. “I’ve had problems as well. That doesn’t mean I would falsify documents.”
“This has nothing to do with your situation.”
“Are you questioning Dreiser’s integrity?”
“No,” Kennedy said crisply “When you finish going over the information, stop by my office. I want to be apprised of all the particulars before you respond to this motion.”
Joanne watched as he took off down the corridor. His gait was stiff and his arms hung loosely at his sides.
Most of the clerical staff were just reporting to work. A number of attorneys had already been at their desks for hours, poring over police reports, examining evidence, dictating pleadings, reading victims’ statements, or attempting to interpret California’s convoluted legal system. Unlike other professions in contemporary society, much of a prosecutor’s work had to be done at the office. Any item considered evidence such as criminal history files, and other highly sensitive or irreplaceable documents, were not allowed to leave the building.
Joanne’s office was located down a corridor on the right side of
the floor. The front was enclosed in glass, yet there were no windows, and the room was about the size of a walk-in closet. Her co-workers constantly complained about the lack of offices with windows. Even in the jail, they said, many of the prisoners could see the outside world. Removing her key, she inserted it into the lock and stepped inside. She had no interest in having a window. When a person looked out the window, they contemplated. Inside her office, Joanne’s only goal was to concentrate.
A little more space would be nice, she told herself, having to step over several cardboard evidence boxes to reach her desk. Even that wasn’t a necessity, however, as the size of the room made it easier for her to find whatever books or files she needed. Since she possessed no compulsion for order, a little clutter here and there didn’t bother her. As long as she remained focused, her surroundings disappeared. One of the male prosecutors insisted he couldn’t work unless every object on his desk remained in exactly the same position. He pitched a fit if the cleaning staff moved so much as a stapler.
Placing her backpack on the floor, Joanne ripped open the envelope Dreiser had left, dropped down in her chair, and began reading.
“We have a problem,” Dreiser said, waiting for Joanne outside the doors to the courtroom.
“I reviewed the paperwork,” she told him. “It doesn’t make sense to continue voir dire if Spencer rules to sever the cases.”
Dreiser’s face twisted into a grimace. “Will you please just listen to me,” he said forcefully “Ian is gone.”
“You mean he failed to appear?”
“The Rubinskys told their attorneys he skipped out last night,” he told her. “I don’t believe them.”
“I have to inform Spencer so he can issue an arrest warrant,” Joanne said, her mind clocking at lightning speeds. “I guess this guy isn’t as innocent as you thought, Arnold.”
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