Phoenix Rising

by Nance, John J. ;

  “So it’s the courts or nothing,” Rawly said, more to himself than to Elizabeth.

  She nodded, feeling somber, as if the gathering were something between a wake and a hopeless gesture.

  Jack Rawly got to his feet suddenly and slapped the table. “Right. Okay, I was about ready to summarize everything, Elizabeth.”

  “Good. I’m not sure what I missed.” He walked to a large white posterboard propped on an easel and examined the different boxes representing such players as Nick Costas, ITB, the lenders, and Irwin Fair-child.

  “We have the connection and money transfers from Costas to Fairchild down cold.” Rawly looked at one of the other lawyers. “Bill, you’ve got the copies of those computer printouts?”

  “Right here, along with the formal petition for the restraining order.”

  “Okay, good.” Rawly looked back at the board. “Now, thanks to Creighton MacRae’s work, we also have a clear trail of the huge sums of money sent to our revolving-loan lenders from Costas’s bank in Hong Kong, and pretty good circumstantial evidence that those sums were always to be passed on to Pan Am as a loan. That tentatively connects Costas with our lenders, since Costas is the owner of that bank, ITB. But what’s missing is this.” He tapped the empty box at the top of the chart. “Whatever name fits in this box, we must assume they own or control, through intermediaries, large amounts of stock in United, Delta, and American. We presume they’ve commissioned someone—probably Nick Costas—to kill off Pan Am because Pan Am’s threatening the big three’s lock on the North American market.” He turned back to the others. “I think we’re all in agreement that we don’t need to prove this part of it to get a temporary restraining order, but we will need proof to get a permanent injunction.”

  Rawly looked at the other attorneys. “By the way, guys, I think we should haul this chart along to show the judge. You agree?”

  They both nodded.

  “Okay,” Jack Rawly continued. “Now here’s the weak point. Elizabeth, we have your testimony that Fairchild met with Mr. Hudgins of Bannister Partners after you secured the deal in principle on the eighty-five-million-dollar loan, and after you saw Fairchild walk out of Hudgins’s building, the deal collapsed. Does that state it correctly?”

  She nodded.

  “The problem is, that’s purely circumstantial. In the first place, we can’t prove Fairchild went in there with the intent of interfering with Pan Am’s interests. In the second place, even if we could prove he meant to interfere, we can’t absolutely prove that the two hundred thousand dollars Costas paid him had anything to do with such activities.”

  “So what do we do?” Elizabeth asked.

  Rawly shook his head and sighed. “We desperately need more evidence. We need someone who’ll have the guts to come forward and testify that Fairchild tried to convince them not to deal with Pan Am. In the meantime, what we’re going to say to the judge in a little while is that our lenders, by actively trying to destroy our ability to repay their loans, have breached the loan contract. We are therefore entitled to mitigate the damages by withholding any further payments while we sue. Since they breached the contract, they can’t declare us in default, and we would appreciate a temporary restraining order to prevent them from doing so.”

  “Have you called the judge?” one of the other attorneys asked, looking at his watch.

  Rawly nodded. “He’ll see us at eight P.M. sharp, at his home south of White Plains, which means we’d better get going.”

  31

  Saturday, March 25, 6:45 P.M.

  White Plains, New York

  The chief federal judge for the Northern District of New York had made the short list of candidates for the United States Supreme Court twice, but both times Walter Hoover Hayes had taken himself out of the running—just as he had refused many opportunities to leave the trial court behind to sit on a more sedate appeals court.

  “The damn peace and quiet would kill me,” he had explained to The New York Times on the occasion of spurning the last promotion offer.

  At age sixty-two, slightly overweight, bald, and fond of wearing a handlebar mustache, Hayes was an original. With a gravelly voice that could scare the hell out of the most hardened attorney across a crowded courtroom, he had become a bit of a legend for his intolerance of elliptical arguments and time-wasting questions. He would come springing out of his chair with eyebrows flaring as he launched the rolling thunder of his voice at the offending lawyer.

  He was also known for being one of the bravest judges on the federal bench when it came to trying to right wrongs as he saw them, yet his decisions were seldom reversed by his younger brethren on the appeals court.

  In the opinion of Jack Rawly—who had begun his law practice as a clerk for Walter Hayes—the judge was the perfect choice in the matter of Pan American Airways, Inc., versus Intertrust Bank et al.

  Judge Hayes threw open the door of his French Provincial mansion with a broad grin and grabbed Jack Rawly’s hand.

  “Young Counselor Rawly, I presume? How the hell are you?”

  “Not so good, Judge.”

  The judge motioned to the other four people on his porch and Rawly introduced them, noticing Hayes’s eyebrows rising a notch as he squeezed Elizabeth’s hand.

  They settled in the dining room around an ornate polished pecan table. The judge reached out and snapped on a small tape recorder, then uncapped a fountain pen and laid it on a legal pad before him.

  “This informal session of the Federal District Court for the Northern District of the State of New York is in session. Counselor, I take it this is an ex parte application?”

  “It is, Your Honor.”

  “Proceed.”

  After nearly forty minutes of presenting the case, Jack Rawly sat down, watching carefully as Judge Hayes pulled at his mustache and thought.

  The silence became excruciating, and at last the judge dropped his hand and sighed.

  “Under Rule 65 of the Federal Rules of Civil Procedure, a temporary restraining order can be granted without notice to the adverse party only if the specific facts show that immediate and irreparable injury, loss, or damage will result before the adverse party can be heard, and if the applicant’s attorney certifies, in writing, good reason why notice of the other party should not be required. I am satisfied that irreparable harm will be done if a default is declared on Monday. I’m also satisfied that there is sufficient justification not to require notice to the adverse party before granting a TRO this weekend, provided some reasonable attempt is made at giving notice.”

  The judge stopped and surveyed the faces around the table as they all held their breaths. He moved forward slightly in his chair and continued.

  “What I’m not satisfied with is the level of proof I’m being presented in regard to the central allegation of your complaint. In other words, you allege breach of contract by Intertrust Bank et al., in that they hired certain parties to interfere materially with the ability of Pan Am to perform in accordance with the terms of the contract, and therefore they cannot issue a notice of default under that same contract. This is actually in the nature of estoppel. There’s the terrible old example of a boy who kills his parents and then asks the court for leniency because he’s now an orphan. He would be estopped from using that defense because he brought about his own handicap. So, too, would Intertrust Bank et al. be estopped from presenting you with a notice of default if they in effect created that default.”

  Judge Hayes paused and sipped his coffee.

  “Okay, I’m persuaded that this Mr. Costas paid a Mr. Fairchild a lot of money. I’m persuaded that Mr. Costas owns a bank in Hong Kong that has some extremely suspicious transfers of funds to Intertrust Bank et al., your creditor. We have almost a complete loop except for one thing. All you have is circumstantial supposition that this Mr. Fairchild actually accepted Mr. Costas’s money for the purpose of interfering with Pan Am’s ability to raise funds and stay solvent.”

  Judge Hayes sat back
and slapped the table lightly.

  “So I’m going to deny the petition for tonight, but I’m going to be in my courtroom at five P.M. tomorrow in Manhattan. I want you, Counselor”—he inclined his head toward Jack Rawly, who nodded in return—“to be there with additional proof, in whatever form you can find it, to persuade me that there is, in fact, reason to believe that Mr. Costas hired Mr. Fairchild specifically to interfere with Pan Am’s ability to get a loan. I also require you to notify opposing counsel by tomorrow, or report your best efforts to do so. If they show up, I will hear them. I also require you to be prepared to post a surety bond in the amount of two days’ interest on the balance of one hundred forty million dollars at the interest rate set in your contract with the defendant. This matter is continued until then.”

  At the same moment, Creighton MacRae was sitting on a packing crate in the dank and filthy basement of a large, expensive apartment building near East End Avenue, worrying about rats.

  He had seen nothing so far, but the occasional sound of scurrying in the darkness chilled him, and resurrected a lifelong phobia.

  Unchallenged entrance to the basement had taken a thousand-dollar bribe. The doorman had been ready to call the police, but the cash erased his memory of the man he’d admitted to the basement stairway in early evening.

  It had taken most of Saturday to locate the right person, a professional friend of Harold Hudgins—someone who would report to Hudgins instantly any rumor connected to Hudgins’s name. By 4:00 P.M., however, Creighton had done it.

  Something else scurried across the stale room in the darkness. Creighton turned on a tiny flashlight and stabbed the blackness with its puny beam. Then he turned it back on the job at hand, checking the connection between his lineman’s handset, a caller ID box, and the two specific terminals on the building’s master telephone distribution panel from Apartment 14F.

  He picked up his rented cellular phone and dialed the number across town that belonged to a twenty-eight-year-old investment banker to whom Hudgins had been a mentor.

  The man answered, flabbergasted to find himself talking to someone who identified himself as an investigator from the Securities and Exchange Commission. Creighton could hear fright tighten the young man’s voice.

  “What I need, Mr. Chadwick,” Creighton told him, “are a few answers regarding an associate of yours, a Mr. Harold Hudgins. Right now this is just a background, off-the-record, no-attribution inquiry. But you are a licensed broker, and your license gives you certain responsibilities. And, of course, we could always subpoena you on the record if you don’t want to help us this way.”

  “That’s … okay. What do you want to know?”

  Creighton’s questions were crafted to startle and scare: Did he know a man named Fairchild? Had there ever been any rumor that Harold Hudgins had off-the-books accounts, or offshore banking accounts he used personally? Was Hudgins living beyond his means? And would Hudgins’s brokerage house react badly if presented with evidence that Hudgins had accepted a payment under the table from Irwin Fairchild in exchange for canceling a pending loan deal?

  The increasingly nervous Chadwick wanted no part of being a stool pigeon or an SEC target. His answers were careful and very vague, not that his answers mattered. Creighton thanked him at last and disconnected, shifting his eyes then to the telephone connection between apartment 14F and his lineman’s handset.

  Something dark and furry shot out of the blackness and ricocheted off Creighton’s left shoe, then disappeared as rapidly in another direction. Creighton forced himself to concentrate on the mission.

  The phone rang within seconds, the small caller ID device in Creighton’s lap showing the inbound number as the same one he had just talked to across town on the cellular phone. It was Chadwick, and he was losing no time in reporting to Hudgins that the SEC was hot on his trail.

  The two men hung up after less than five minutes. Creighton braced for the main event, checking the small recorder and the tiny pickup attached to the cellular phone’s earpiece. He snapped the recorder on now and waited, worrying about whether or not Hudgins had seen the fax.

  Apartment 14F’s phone line remained silent. Creighton spent the long moments reviewing everything, looking for any missing links, or any tasks left undone.

  There were none.

  Creighton had sent a message to Hudgins earlier in the day, a single-page fax that appeared to have come from Irwin Fairchild.

  Harold H.—Very important you call my associate Craig MacRae around 9 tonight. He’ll be at my private number, which has changed and is unlisted: 582-7873. Something’s come up.

  Tnx/I. Fairchild

  Someone in apartment 14F lifted the phone and began dialing.

  There was a pause as the various relays mated through the city, routing the call to Creighton MacRae’s cellular phone, which rang now.

  “Yes?”

  “Irwin?” Hudgins’s voice was shaking.

  “This is Mr. Fairchild’s line, but he’s not in at the moment.”

  “Oh … then this is … is Craig MacRae, right?”

  “Who’s calling?”

  “This is Harold Hudgins.”

  “Oh yeah, Mr. Hudgins. Irwin said to expect your call tonight.”

  “I’ve got to talk to Irwin immediately. Now! Tonight!”

  “He’s not here, but you can talk to me. Is something wrong?”

  “Damn right, something’s wrong!” Hudgins said. “I just got a call from a friend of mine. The SEC’s asking questions about me regarding—”

  “Ah, not on the phone, okay?”

  “What do you mean, not on the phone? Are they tapping my phone? I had a message to call you anyway.”

  “I know, but not about this. What I need to discuss with you at Irwin’s request is routine. Look, where can we meet in an hour or so?”

  Hudgins fell silent for a few seconds, apparently brainstorming amid a sea of fear.

  “I … I don’t know. My office, I guess.” He gave Creighton the address. They disconnected with an agreement to meet at 11:45 P.M.

  Creighton stuffed his equipment back into a small jump bag and took the back exit from the building as the doorman had begged him to do, removing his latex gloves just before stepping out to the street.

  His car was two blocks away. He walked briskly in that direction now, checking to make sure no one was following.

  Elizabeth had known all along she’d probably end up in front of her apartment building in the Village again, but now it was more than wistfulness that had propelled her there. She would have to decide whether to move back to New York. Tonight seemed an appropriate time to face the question.

  The building looked older and more decrepit than she remembered from just eleven days before. The entire neighborhood, in fact, seemed seedy and slightly threatening compared to the sparkling cleanliness, charm, and modernity of Seattle.

  But Manhattan itself was shimmering through a veil of drizzling rain, a surreal vision of quiet, glistening streets and sporadic surges of traffic.

  Elizabeth drove aimlessly, her mind rehashing the critical puzzle of how to satisfy the judge. She wasn’t aware of having returned to the office tower housing Bannister Partners and Harold Hudgins’s office until she found herself across the street from it.

  She braked to a halt, remembering the angry morning less than two weeks back when Hudgins had reneged on their deal, and she had caught Irwin Fairchild oozing his way from the lobby to his limo right in front of her.

  She kept her foot on the brake as she casually watched a tall man in a tan overcoat walk up the street and turn into the entrance of the building, which appeared to be open.

  Something about the man looked familiar. As she watched, he stopped to talk with the guard and sign in before walking to the elevators out of her range of view.

  Elizabeth suddenly let off on the brake and steered diagonally across the street until she was at the curb in front of the building with the elevator lobby clearly in
view.

  “Creighton!” Her voice echoed around the interior of the car as she slammed the gear lever into Park and stopped the engine.

  But she hadn’t seen Creighton all afternoon. What could he be doing here?

  She reminded herself that there were other offices in the building, as well as a restaurant on the top floor. She locked the car door behind her and rushed into the lobby of the building as the man disappeared into one of the elevators.

  The guard was a large black man with penetrating eyes. An ex-cop, she decided. He had a knowing look, as if nothing escaped him.

  She glanced at the sign-in book, startled to see Creighton’s name clearly inscribed.

  “I’m … sorry, but I did it again! I let my husband get in here with our house keys. Can I chase him down?”

  “This fellow?” The guard launched a fat finger at the register and Creighton’s name. She nodded.

  He hesitated less than a second.

  “Sure can. Don’t have to sign in. He’s going up to the forty-fifth floor.”

  “I know,” she told him with a thank-you wave as she moved to the elevators and waited an eternity for one to arrive. The clock in the lobby showed 11:35 P.M. as the sound of the main glass doors opening from the street reached her ears. Another man was entering now, and she glanced in his direction, her blood running cold at the instant recognition that Harold Hudgins was headed at flank speed toward the sign-in book.

  He hadn’t looked in her direction, and her name wasn’t on the book. Those thoughts ricocheted around her head as she stepped into the elevator and punched the forty-fifth-floor button repeatedly, praying the doors would close before Hudgins reached her.

  Her elevator door wasn’t closing, and Hudgins would reach her elevator in a matter of seconds!

  She could hear his voice around the corner, and then the sound of his shoes on the terrazzo floors as he began walking rapidly toward the elevator lobby.

  She punched all the buttons above the forty-fifth floor, repeatedly, hitting the Close Door button as she melded into the front corner.