by Tim Dorsey
“Oops, was that me?” said Serge. “Dang, another outburst. And I was trying to watch that. It’s been a lifelong struggle, thinking I’m talking inside my head when I’m actually just blurting away. I’ve even tried working with a service dog.”
“Shut up or I’ll hold you in contempt!”
Serge grabbed Ziggy by the rear of his collar and jerked him backward. Urgent whispers.
“Your Honor,” said Ziggy. “I’d like to cite Rourke.”
“I’m not familiar with that,” said the judge.
Another whisper.
“Mickey Rourke,” said Ziggy.
“The actor?” said the judge. “I’m going to fine both of you for contempt if this foolishness doesn’t stop immediately!”
A longer set of whispers.
“What I mean,” said Ziggy, “is that in this movie, Rourke plays a lawyer faced with stolen evidence, and he cites the DeSoto case.”
“Of all the crazy . . . wait,” said Boone. “I’ve heard of DeSoto. A professor of mine was even a counsel in that trial, and I’ll be damned if it isn’t precisely on point.”
From the other table. “Your Honor! This whole exchange has gone completely awry of any acceptable judicial procedures!”
“I will decide what’s acceptable in my court,” said the judge. “And you will sit down. Now!” He turned back to Ziggy. “If the party stealing the evidence is not working as an agent of, or in concert with, the government or plaintiffs . . .”
The plaintiff’s table sat mute. The judge raised his eyes toward Serge. “Well?”
Serge overdid his mime act of pursing lips like they were super-glued shut.
Boone squeezed his gavel in exasperation. “Now you can talk!”
Serge had also been holding his breath. He heaved out air and panted strenuously to restore oxygen. “Thank you, Your Honor. Things were getting sparkly.”
“Who gave you these documents?”
“A whistle-blower.”
“Who was it?”
“I don’t know,” said Serge.
“I’m going to make it simple,” said the judge. “You can stay where you are, but you’re under oath just like if you were sitting in the witness chair, with all perjury ramifications attached. Swear to tell the truth?”
“For you, anything.”
The judge reclined. “Then tell me how you came into possession of these papers.”
“They were slipped under Ziggy’s door after he left Miami this morning.”
“And any vague idea what precipitated this moment of serendipity?”
“I know exactly what did it,” said Serge. “Mahoney’s client needed a breakthrough, but our normal methodology of research hadn’t borne fruit, so meanwhile there’s this public courtyard where a bunch of Consolidated employees eat lunch with fountains and pigeon shit, and I stood up like a preacher and said right at the beginning—as a legal prophylactic—‘I don’t want to know your names, but your employer has made a lot of people suffer, including some who have died prematurely, and I need your help with the class-action lawsuit that I’m sure you all know about from the news. So if any of you has a throbbing conscience or is just a disgruntled asshole who can get your mitts on any unflattering company documents, please slip them under our door. But I’m definitely not asking you to steal anything, and don’t let us see your face or give any other details because the judge would require me to disclose them.’ . . . Then I threw a bunch of Ziggy’s business cards in the air and made it rain, like in a strip club, except they came down on bologna sandwiches instead of boobs.”
The judge shook his head with a grudging smile. “That’s totally devious and legally brilliant. You should go to night school and make the leap from paralegal.”
The other table was livid. “Your Honor! You’re rewarding criminal behavior!”
“No, I’m not,” said the judge. “Would you like to renew your other objection?”
“I don’t remember.”
“That they already rested their case,” said Boone.
“That’s right! They already—”
“Sustained. The documents are out,” said the judge. “You’re welcome.”
“But, Your Honor!” said Brook.
“Sorry, it doesn’t meet any threshold,” said the judge. “Should have done your homework earlier . . . Defense may resume its direct of their witness.”
Yale approached the stand again. “As I was saying . . .”—he gave Brook a shit-eating glare, then turned to the witness—“your position with Consolidated affords you great overview of the entire mortgage industry. In general, what happened a few years ago?”
“Something nobody could have ever foreseen,” said Neff. “The housing bubble was a hundred-year-storm event. I feel just awful about all those hardworking people losing their homes.”
“Is it the fault of the mortgagees who were foreclosed upon?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Your fault?” asked Yale.
“No.”
“Then if you had to put your finger on it, whom would you blame?”
“Wall Street.”
“Wall Street?”
Neff nodded, working his gambit to distract the jury with an even more unpopular villain. “All their exotic investment instruments took down the market and sent investor money elsewhere. Plus an unprecedented number of speculators entered the housing market, artificially driving up prices without an actual underlying demand.”
The attorney began walking along the front of the jury box, making eye contact. “So in a fair world, the plaintiffs would be suing Wall Street and vulture capitalists?”
“But it’s not a fair world,” said Neff.
“That’s right,” said the attorney. “They’re suing you instead.”
“I don’t blame them,” said Neff. “I’d be upset, too . . .”
Ziggy nudged Brook. “Why aren’t you objecting and stopping this? There’s no foundation.”
“Giving him rope,” said Brook. Then to herself: “Come on, come on, just a little more . . .”
“ . . . But we’re victims of the stock market and speculators as much as they are,” said Neff. “Unfortunately, we both signed those loans, and we have shared responsibility for what happened, even though neither of us caused it.”
“One last question,” said the lawyer. “Did you treat all your customers honestly and with good faith?”
“Yes, I did,” said Neff. “And under the circumstances, I wish I could have done more.”
“No more questions,” said Yale.
The judge turned to Brook. “Your witness.”
She arose and walked toward the stand with a handful of documents. “I’d like you to look at these and tell me if you recognize any of them—”
Four Ivy League lawyers on their feet at once. “Objection!”
The judge made a beckoning motion with both hands. “Approach.”
They all lined up in front of the bench. A defense attorney snapped in a hushed tone: “You already ruled on this, Your Honor. The evidence can’t come in. She rested her case.”
“That’s right,” said Brook. “But defense’s witness just stated that the company acted in good faith. Your Honor knows what’s in those documents. They’re necessary for my rebuttal to the credibility of the witness about his good faith.”
“Your Honor!” said Yale. “This is just a cheap attempt to circumvent your ruling and get inadmissible evidence in through the back door.”
“That’s exactly what she’s doing,” said the judge. “And it’s a back door you just kicked wide open with your line of questioning. You knew what she had. I’m surprised you nibbled anywhere near that opening where she could take advantage.”
“But—”
“Documents are in,” said Boone. “Step bac
k.”
Brook strolled to the witness stand. “Do you recognize these?”
Heinrich Neff pushed reading glasses up his nose and glanced over the pages. “Not specifically, but they look like the sales of properties that were previously foreclosed. Fairly standard.”
“And what about these?” asked Brook.
“Roughly the same thing.” Neff attempted to hand the pages back.
“More than roughly the same,” said Brook, stepping away. “Wouldn’t you agree?”
“What do you mean?”
“Most of the addresses are the same.”
“So? The same houses got sold again.”
“Feel free to correct me,” said Brook, “but there’s a whole pool of your foreclosed properties whose values were set by the same small handful of appraisers.”
“If you find people who do good work—”
“Interesting you should say that,” said Brook. “Because I’m prepared to present expert witnesses who will testify that when the homes were sold the second time, you issued mortgages based on ultra-high appraisals far out of line from any comp properties or accepted industry practices.”
“It’s a subjective area,” said Neff. “We use sound safeguards.”
“Sound?” said Brook. “But you already knew these were high-risk properties, and yet you re-issued loans for amounts higher than what you had just foreclosed upon. Why would you do that? Is it because you could avoid all risk by bundling these off to Freddie Mac and Fannie Mae and stick the taxpayers?”
“Objection!”
“Overruled.”
“I don’t know in these specific cases,” said Neff. “But yes, we do sometimes resell the loans to those agencies. That’s the whole reason the government set it up. Very standard.” He tried to hand the documents back again but Brook intentionally returned to her table, leaving him with an awkwardly outstretched hand, wanting to rid himself of evidence. It was a well-known jury tactic, like getting a murder defendant to hold the knife.
She grabbed a notepad and walked back. “Now let me ask you this: Is it unusual for someone to stop payments on a home within six months of purchase?”
“Not at all. People lose jobs, get unexpected medical bills. Happens all the time.”
“What if it happened in every single case you’re holding in your hands?”
“I don’t know,” said Neff. “I’d have to review the documents.”
“Please do,” said Brook. “And take your time.”
“Uh, well, if you say so.” He conducted a theatrical examination of the paperwork again and passed it back.
Brook flipped through the stack for the benefit of the jury. “Isn’t it a fact that your company colluded with appraisers to jack up values before you enlisted straw buyers who intended all along to default, making millions for your company from the sale of those loans to the government?”
“Objection!” said Yale. “She’s testifying and speculating and . . . and—”
“Your Honor,” said Brook. “I intend to bring in my own giant easel with flow charts and experts to explain to the jury exactly how the scam worked.”
“Objection to characterization of scam!”
One of the judge’s arms disappeared inside his robe to scratch himself. “Jury will disregard that last description. As to the other, the witness may answer.”
Neff looked back at the judge. “I don’t remember the question.”
“Would you like me to repeat it?” asked Brook.
The defense lawyers urgently shook their heads at the witness. Once was enough for the jury to hear that.
“I remember now,” said Neff. “I don’t remember.”
“The question or the answer?” asked Brook.
“The answer.”
“And nobody can ever prove whether or not you remember something,” said Brook. “So did anyone advise you that if you don’t want to answer an incriminating question and don’t want to be charged with perjury, you should say, ‘I don’t remember’ or ‘I don’t recall’?”
“Objection!” said Dartmouth. “That would be covered as privileged under attorney-client communication.”
“I never said anything about an attorney,” replied Brook. “But opposing counsel has just answered the question concerning who told him to say ‘I don’t remember.’ ”
“Objection!”
“Withdrawn. No more questions.” Brook strolled triumphantly back to the plaintiff’s table.
The judge turned the other way. “Would you like to examine your witness any further?”
The defense saw the faces in the jury box. Even a perfect redirect of their witness would fall on deaf ears right now. So, like a basketball team on the south side of a 16–0 run, they called time out.
“Your Honor,” said Harvard. “In light of this last-second evidence, we request a recess until morning to examine these documents and prepare additional questioning.”
“Granted.”
The gavel banged.
Furious hands dialed a number in Fort Lauderdale. “It’s Moss, dammit! Who else? . . . I know she ate our attorneys’ lunch today. But how did those documents get loose in the first place? . . . All I can say is it’s tit for tat. Time to give our standby player the green light . . .”
Chapter THIRTY-SIX
THE NEXT MORNING
Two early birds sat alone in the silent courtroom.
“We’ve got the momentum back,” said Ziggy. “I’m starting to think we’re actually going to win this thing.”
“Brook really deserves this,” said Serge.
They high-fived.
The doors in the back of the courtroom opened.
“Brook!” said Serge.
Brook got a funny look on her face. Then she ran back out the door.
Serge turned to Ziggy. “Something I said?”
Ziggy shook his head. “Nerves. They should charge her rent for that bathroom stall.”
Brook sat indisposed in the tiny space. A personal pep talk. “Get it together, girl. This is the big day. You’re in the homestretch now . . .”
Footsteps from the sink. “Brook? Is that you in there?”
Brook thinking, What’s a man’s voice doing in the women’s room? It’s not Serge or Ziggy. “Who’s out there?”
“I have something for you.”
A legal-sized envelope slid under the stall’s door. Footsteps ran away.
Brook reached down and picked it up, removing photos and a typed letter. As she read: “Oh, dear God, this isn’t happening. How did they find out?” Her stomach became a free-falling elevator. She would be spending some extra time this morning familiarizing herself with the porcelain.
Back in the courtroom: “This is getting exciting,” said Ziggy. “What can that executive possibly say today to dig himself out of that hole Brook put him in?”
The doors opened again. “Brook,” said Serge. “You’re all flushed. Let me get you a chair.”
“I’m fine.” She steadied herself with the edge of the table and eased down into a seat. “Just some bad shrimp I got last night.”
The judge and jury came in. The defense called Heinrich Neff back to the stand.
“Concerning these so-called straw buyers. Were you at all aware?”
“Absolutely not,” said Neff. “If I’d had even the slightest notion, I would have immediately called authorities.”
“And those appraisers who set high prices?”
“We don’t use them anymore,” said Neff. “Some unethical appraisers are always trying to drum up business by qualifying unrealistic amounts for loans. As soon as we saw the foreclosure rate, we dismissed them . . .”
“Brook,” Ziggy whispered. “Why aren’t you objecting?”
She just sat dazed.
“You lo
ok like you’re feeling worse than you’re letting on,” said Serge. “Why don’t we have Ziggy ask for a recess?”
“No, I’ll be okay . . .”
The defense called more Consolidated officers to the stand, who explained in highly technical obfuscation why everything was on the up-and-up. They were polished and handsome and scoring points.
“It was our duty to the shareholders, many of whom are senior citizens with our stock in their retirement portfolios, who depend on us to put those houses back on the market and get the highest price.”
The judge looked toward Brook. “Cross-examination?”
She shook her head again.
And so it went, through the rest of the morning and into the afternoon. The defense systematically chipping away at everything Brook had constructed the day before.
The defense finished with another witness. The judge looked toward the plaintiffs’ table again with skepticism.
“No questions,” Brook said in a vacuum of energy.
“Brook,” said Ziggy. “You haven’t cross-examined a single witness today.”
She sat.
Ziggy stood. “I request a recess.”
“Why?”
“Medical.”
The judge didn’t need to be told something wasn’t right, and he didn’t need any more details. “We’re in recess.”
They left the courtroom, and Brook immediately ran to the restroom.
Ziggy and Serge waited outside and knocked. “You okay in there?” They pressed ears to the door. Water running.
“Something’s wrong,” said Ziggy.
“And I don’t think it’s her regular nerves about the trial,” said Serge.
The door finally opened and the guys quickly pulled their ears away. Brook’s face still dripped from splashing at the sink. She silently led them out of the courthouse and toward her motel room. At the corner of Southard Street, she glanced back. A man in an aqua golf shirt looked up from a newspaper, then down. Brook’s heart raced. She picked up the pace, looking around every ten yards.
They reached the Southern Cross Hotel. “I think I need to be with Brook awhile,” Serge told Ziggy. “Can you check on Coleman back in our place and make sure he isn’t tearing it up?”
“You got it.”