Shell Game (Stand Alone 2)

by Badal, Joseph

  Shaking his head, he told himself over and over again, “No business talk tonight. No business talk tonight. No business talk tonight.”

  After picking up Betsy, he drove to his mother’s home and from there they drove to a local Italian restaurant. “Gee, I thought we’d eat at one of our Hot N’ Chili restaurants,” Katherine said after they’d been seated. “You said you’d take us out for a good meal.”

  Betsy laughed. “Yeah, little Eddie needs to get used to eating spicy food.”

  Edward gave his wife a strange look. “‘Little Eddie’? Since when do you call me Little Eddie?”

  “I wasn’t referring to you, dummy. I was talking about our son.”

  “Son? Since when?”

  “Since this afternoon when I had the ultrasound.”

  “Oh my God, Betsy. I’m so sorry, I forgot all about it.”

  Betsy reached out and patted his hand. “You’ve got a lot on your mind.”

  “Dammit! That’s no excuse, I—”

  Katherine interrupted, saying, “This is wonderful news. I am so happy we can celebrate together.” She shot a mischievous smile at Betsy and added, “I can’t wait to see how you make my son pay for missing the doctor’s appointment today.”

  “Hey now,” Edward protested jokingly, “You’re my mother. You’re supposed to support me.”

  Katherine jabbed a finger at her son. “Listen, Buster, once Betsy gives me my first grandchild, you’ll be lucky to get a hello from me.”

  Edward smiled at his mother and took his wife’s hand. “I’m going to order a bottle of champagne to help us celebrate.”

  “Boy, you’re on a winning streak,” Betsy said. “You know I can’t drink while I’m pregnant.”

  Edward playfully slapped his cheek before raising his hand and signaling their waiter. When the man came over, Edward said, “Three orange juices, please.”

  While waiting for their drinks, Katherine said, “I have more good news. Carrie’s coming home on leave next week. I’ve known about this for a few days and never seem to have the chance to tell you.”

  “I’ve been so preoccupied,” Edward said, feeling guilty.

  “Oh, come on, son. We understand. You need to keep on doing what you’re doing. Something good will come out of all of this. Remember that good things come in threes. We learned tonight you’re having a son, Carrie’s coming home, and . . . .” She spread her arms. “I’m confident the third good thing is just around the corner.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  Kelly Loughridge tucked her feet underneath her and stared at the wine glass in her hand. It was already 8:15 p.m. and she was fighting an internal struggle: Finish the wine and go to bed, or finish the wine and read the articles she’d copied and brought home. It wasn’t much of a struggle. Work always came first with her.

  She retrieved her briefcase, took out the copies she’d made before leaving the office along with a pen and notepad, and returned to the couch. She methodically went through the fifteen articles that mentioned Donald Matson. The first two articles dealt with speeches he had given at conferences over the past fifteen years ago. The third article quoted Matson at a press conference in 1996 where he’d announced the federal government’s successful sale of $200 million of secured notes from banks the Feds had closed. He’d declined to release the sale price in response to a reporter’s question.

  Loughridge flipped to the next article: Another loan sale two years later.

  An article from 2000 covered the sale of a bank in Long Beach Island, New Jersey, the FDIC had taken over: $1 billion in assets. This time the buyer was announced: Folsom Financial Corporation. Loughridge knew that name well. Her paper had printed several articles about the Feds turning over Broad Street National Bank to Folsom Financial Corporation. The reporter on the story had tried to interview Gerald Folsom, but had been stonewalled.

  The sixth article, from 2005, mentioned that Matson had been promoted to the head of the FDIC’s regional office in Philadelphia.

  The next two articles were fluff pieces about local charities; Matson sat on the boards of directors. Loughridge tossed those on the floor.

  Then another four articles between 2006 and 2008 about loan pool sales with face values of $300 million, $1 billion, $1.2 billion, and $800 million, respectively. Again, no mention of the sale price of the pools or who bought them.

  Finally, the last three articles dealt with banks the federal government had taken over and sold to investors. In 2009, the first bank, a community bank in Edina, Minnesota, was sold to a bank located in Anoka, Minnesota. The other two articles were about a bank takeover in Atlanta, Georgia, in 2009 and the Broad Street National takeover in Philadelphia this year. The buyer of the last two banks was Folsom Financial Corporation.

  Loughridge went back through the articles and made notes. She drew a diagram with Matson’s name at the top of a legal pad and Folsom Financial written at the bottom. In between, she wrote in the names of the banks Folsom Financial had purchased from the federal government and the dates of each of those events. She circled each one. Three sales to Folsom between 2000 and 2011 in New Jersey, Georgia, and Pennsylvania. She turned to the next page in her notebook and wrote a series of questions and things she needed to do:

  Were there other banks sold to Folsom Financial? Check database for Folsom references.

  Find contact at FDIC. Ask about its relationship with Folsom.

  Did Matson & Folsom have a personal relationship? Assign staff reporter to check.

  Talk to crime beat reporter covering Matson murder.

  She nearly closed her notebook when another two thoughts hit her. She added:

  Who were the investors on the loan pool sales mentioned in the articles? Ask FDIC contact.

  Call Edward Winter.

  FRIDAY

  JULY 22, 2011

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  Attorney Jeffrey Rose didn’t normally chauffeur his clients around, except for the occasional really big fish. Gerald Folsom was one of those really big fish. Plus, the charges against Folsom had already fomented a media storm that Rose knew he would benefit from. Rose shifted excitedly, dressed in his trademark blue suit, blue and gold striped tie, and black Santoni tasseled loafers. His brilliantly white teeth set off his perpetual tan.

  Rose drove to police headquarters and parked in an official police space. He didn’t care about parking tickets; he’d just get them fixed. Besides, no cop would ticket a $400,000 Maybach sedan.

  By the time Rose bailed Folsom out of jail at 10 a.m., his client was fuming and barely coherent.

  “Those bastards kept me locked up all night with a bunch of perverts,” Folsom complained.

  Rose pulled him aside, away from others’ hearing. “Listen carefully, Gerald. There are a dozen reporters out on the front steps. Fucking sharks smelling blood in the water. They want to turn this into a feeding frenzy, with you being the food. You need to let me handle the media; don’t say a word out there. No whining about the police, no comments about your wife, no nothin’. I know how to deal with those guys. You understand?”

  “I’m going to sue the fuckin’—”

  Rose stopped Folsom with a raised hand. “We’ll do the suing later. Right now, you need to calm down.”

  Folsom’s face went beet-red, but he finally nodded and said, “I got it. Let’s get this over with.”

  Rose preceded Folsom outside. The reporters started lobbing questions at them, sounding like a class full of five-year-olds.

  Rose raised a hand for silence. When the noise subsided, he said, “I’ve got a statement to make. Neither my client nor I will answer any questions, so take good notes.” He smiled his best bullshit smile and made eye contact with the reporters.

  “I have represented thousands of clients over the past thirty years. Both the innocent and the guilty.” He smiled widely again and then continued. “But never in my long career have I ever seen a greater abuse of the U.S. justice system than the charges brough
t against Mr. Folsom. My client is innocent, a kind and loving husband who has been generous to a fault to his wife. My client brought a penniless young woman into his life and treated her like a queen. But I guess the $20,000 a month he gives her isn’t enough. So she brings scurrilous charges against him in a desperate attempt to extort money out of a successful man, and I am surprised the District Attorney would be a party to such a travesty. I will have more to say on a later date. Thank you.”

  Rose turned, took Folsom’s arm, and led him away to his car. A couple reporters ran after them, but Rose wheeled on them and pointed his hand as though it was a gun. “Get lost,” he shouted.

  Rose and Folsom fast-walked to the Maybach.

  “Nice wheels,” Folsom said, a bitter twist to his mouth. “I got a feeling you’ll be able to buy a new one by the time I finish paying you.”

  “Maybe more than one,” Rose said. He pulled out of the parking lot and headed out of downtown, toward Folsom’s home. After they were on the expressway, Rose asked, “Tell me the truth. Do you beat your wife?”

  “What difference does that make? You not gonna represent me if I say yes?”

  “Of course I will. But if you’re guilty of the charges they’ve filed against you, then we don’t want to go to trial. And we need to get this story out of the media as soon as possible. If you’re guilty and your wife is determined to make you pay, the longer the battle and the bigger the press’ feeding frenzy. And your wife’s attorney, Sylvia Young, is sharp. If your wife had any visible injuries when she talked to Sylvia, then I guarantee you Sylvia now has photos. That would be very bad.”

  “I might have pushed her around a bit.”

  “Uh huh. So you kicked the shit out of her. Regularly or just recently?”

  Folsom stayed quiet for a moment and then said, “I have no interest in going to court. I’m a businessman who does large deals with the federal government. These charges could jeopardize all of that and a conviction would be devastating. The government would never do another deal with me.”

  “Gerald, the federal government would be the least of your worries if you’re convicted. You could be spending the next few years in a cell with a 300 pound guy named Tyrone.”

  “I’ll agree to a divorce. I’ve already got a pre-nup with Wendy that requires me to pay her $5 million if we divorce.”

  “Your wife knows this, I presume.”

  “Sure.”

  “Then why is she bringing these charges against you? Why doesn’t she just file for divorce and take the $5 million?”

  “Maybe she wants more money.”

  “Gerald, I want the truth. Did you just hit your wife a few times, or was it worse than that?”

  Folsom looked out the passenger side window for a beat. When he turned back to look at Rose, he said, “I nearly killed her.”

  “I got a bad feeling about this. I don’t think this is about money —your wife could be on a crusade. If that’s the case, then my job isn’t getting you off; it’s minimizing the pain. Is there any chance she would talk with you?”

  “I don’t think so. Besides, I don’t even know where she is.”

  “What did the search of Folsom’s house turn up?” District Attorney Lincoln Marx asked Detective Anthony Castiglia.

  “Our detectives found blood on a sheet and a pillow case on Wendy Folsom’s bed. There was also a blood-stained bathrobe in her closet. And we took pictures of Folsom’s hands. His knuckles were bruised and cracked open. Of course, there are the photographs of Mrs. Folsom taken within about twenty-four hours of the assault. She looks like her whole body’s been tattooed.”

  “Any other evidence?”

  “There’s a vault in the house. Folsom gave us some trouble about opening it, but he agreed to do so when one of the detectives told him he’d get a locksmith to drill it open. They made him watch as they inventoried the items there. They found a shitload of gold and silver coins, jewels, and two valises with a ton of cash. There was nothing there tying the cash to the assault case, but we inventoried the stuff as best we could and then locked the vault.”

  “How much cash?” Marx asked.

  “Hell, Lincoln, I don’t know. Could have been hundreds of thousands of dollars, maybe even a million or more. We just showed two valises of cash on our inventory list. Why?”

  “No reason. Just wondering why he keeps that much cash around.”

  “It’s not against the law,” Castiglia said. “That’s why we didn’t count it. That would have taken hours.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  The Mother Superior of the St. Francis Convent had given permission for Wendy Folsom to stay with the nuns. At 11 a.m., she and Wendy drove up Germantown Pike, past the Morris Arboretum and high-end homes to the St. Francis College campus.

  “This ought to be interesting,” Wendy said. “Living with a bunch of virgins.”

  Katherine laughed. “You’ll have to be on your best behavior.”

  “In all seriousness, a quiet, safe place is awfully attractive right now. Not that I didn’t feel safe at your home, Katherine, I just think I’ve imposed enough on you.”

  “Don’t you ever worry about imposing on me. I’ve enjoyed your company; I’m just sorry we had to meet under these circumstances.”

  “I hope your son is able to solve his problems. I don’t know exactly what’s going on, but I heard enough to know things must be rough.”

  “I didn’t tell you this before, but the bank that’s causing our problems is the one your husband now owns. They refuse to renew the company’s loan when it matures on July 29. The banking environment is so bad in this recession that refinancing a commercial real estate loan at another bank is nearly impossible. You remember that day Paul and I showed up at your house?”

  “I don’t recall much from that day. Is that how I got Paul’s card?”

  “Paul and I were there to talk with your husband. I had this misguided thought I could reason with him about our loan at the bank. Paul didn’t want me to go there, but he went along to protect me.”

  “So Broad Street National Bank is treating your son’s company badly?”

  “Very badly.”

  Wendy shook her head. “Gerald is such an asshole.” Then a thought came to her and her expression changed as she made an “O” with her mouth.

  “What is it?” Katherine asked.

  Wendy felt her face flush. “Nothing.”

  “Come on, Wendy, I can tell something’s bothering you.”

  “It’s just that . . . you’re helping me . . . and your son’s company, and all.”

  Katherine nodded her head, as though in sudden understanding. “I’d be lying to you if I said I didn’t want to hurt your husband. But if I wanted to use you to help my son with his bank problem, I would have asked Paul to use you as a bargaining chip with Folsom. We would have threatened Folsom with assault charges in return for relieving the pressure the bank has put on my son, not recommended that you actually bring charges against him. And I assure you that, as much as Paul Sanders cares about my family, he will always do what’s right. In this case, what’s right is protecting you and making your abusive husband pay for what he’s done to you.”

  Wendy bowed her head. “I apologize for even thinking what I was thinking. You’ve been—”

  Katherine rubbed Wendy’s arm and said, “It’s okay, honey.”

  After Katherine left the convent, Wendy contemplated what Katherine had said. That lovely woman and her son were going through a very difficult time because of Gerald. She‘d caught snippets of conversations between Katherine and Edward and between Paul and Edward at Katherine’s house, all sounding as though the family was at risk of losing its business. She didn’t understand any of it, but she did understand that Gerald was in a position to harm the Winters.

  She owed Katherine so much. At the same time, she felt awful about what she was about to do. She would be breaking her promise to Detective Castiglia.

  There was no telephone
in her room, so she wandered down the hall until she found an office. A young woman dressed in a St. Francis College tee-shirt and jeans sat at one of the two desks.

  “Hi,” Wendy said. “Would it be okay to use the telephone to make a local call?”

  “Sure,” the young woman said. “Will you watch the office until I get back? I need to go to the ladies room.”

  “Happy to,” Wendy said.

  As soon as the young woman left, Wendy quickly dialed Gerald’s cell number.

  “What!” he barked.

  “Gerald, it’s me.”

  “Jesus, Wendy, where are you?”

  “I’m not going to tell you that.”

  Folsom didn’t immediately respond. Then he said, “What were you thinking, going to the cops? Are you nuts?”

  “You coulda killed me, Gerald. I should have walked out on you months ago.”

  “How much do you want? Ten million?”

  “Screw you, Gerald. This isn’t about money. You think money’s the only thing that motivates people.”

  “You married me for my money, Wendy. Don’t insult me by telling me it was true love.”

  “Gerald, I thought you were a knight in shining armor. You were worldly, gracious and handsome; little did I know you were also a monster.”

  “What do you want, Wendy?”

  “A favor.”

  “You go to the cops and get me thrown in jail, and now you want a favor. What’s it going to cost me?”

  “Not a penny. You can help some friends of mine. You do that and I’ll drop the complaint.”

  “What friends?”

  “The family’s name is Winter. Edward Winter has a loan at your bank. If you take care of Edward’s problem at the bank, I’ll withdraw my complaint and issue a statement that it was all a misunderstanding.”