Insider Justice: A Financial Thriller (Marc Kadella Legal Mysteries Book 8)

by Dennis Carstens

  A few minutes later the program started. The emcee was the head of the Republican Party in Minnesota. He went through the usual blather of thanking everyone and making a couple of bad jokes. He introduced the first speaker, a U.S. Senator who was rumored to be a potential presidential candidate. Senator Cristian Howell of Pennsylvania was a descendant of East Coast old money. Tony also recognized his name as being on the guest list of Cal’s Fourth of July bash.

  When the Senator finished, Tony was instantly on his feet. He left for the exit to find a bathroom. As casually as she could, Maddy excused herself from the table and went to the bar. As she strolled past Cal, she could practically feel his eyes undressing her. Coming from him, it made her shiver slightly. Despite that, she deliberately made eye contact with him and politely smiled.

  The next speaker was being introduced while she stood in line. Maddy had barely arrived there when she heard a voice from behind.

  “Your boyfriend must be a fool to leave you alone,” Cal said.

  Maddy turned and replied, “How do you know he’s not my husband?”

  “A woman like you, and I mean this as a compliment, would wear a ring.”

  “Very good,” Maddy said and flashed him a bright smile. As she did, she moved a little closer to the bar. At the same time, out of the corner of her eye, she noticed movement to her left. She looked and saw the large frame of Franklin Washington watching the crowd, barely ten feet from her.

  They introduced themselves, Maddy gave her first name only, then Cal said, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you at one of these political gatherings before and I would have noticed.”

  “Well,” Maddy said, “I don’t usually hang out with such lowlife crowds as politicians. I prefer a classier bunch, like biker gangs.”

  Cal got a hearty laugh from this and Maddy looked over his shoulder to see Mrs. Simpson glaring at them.

  By the time they reached the bar, Cal was already asking her to dinner. They ordered drinks, white wine for Maddy, a scotch and soda for Tony.

  “I’ll tell you what,” Maddy said as they slowly walked away toward their tables, “you give me your number and let me think about it. I’ll admit, I find you to be one of those handsome, older-men types and interesting. Will your wife be joining us?”

  Cal handed his drink to a nearby Franklin Washington and wrote out his private number for Maddy. He gave it to her, thanked Franklin who could barely contain his laughter and said, “My wife is just about out the door.”

  “Does she know that?” Maddy laughed.

  “Well, I’m sure she suspects it. Call me…” he said. “It’s just dinner. You do eat, don’t you?”

  “Just about every day,” she replied.

  Across the ballroom, standing in the entrance, Carvelli and Dan Sorenson were watching Maddy’s play.

  “She’s reeling him in like a mackerel,” Sorenson said. “Kind of amusing to watch.”

  “Yeah, but let’s not forget, this guy is a long-time gangster who has had people killed. Maybe even done the deed himself,” Carvelli solemnly said.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Cal Simpson had just finished reading the article on page three of The Wall Street Journal. He folded the paper and placed it on the table. Cal watched one of the household staff, a poorly paid undocumented from Mexico, walk away with his breakfast dishes. Cal smiled as he sipped his coffee then decided to go onto the patio. The news in the Journal deserved a celebratory cigar.

  While he lit the cigar, the same housekeeper brought a fresh pot and filled his cup. He thanked her and she again walked off. It was a warm, sunny, beautiful late July morning and Lake Minnetonka was already filling up with leisure craft. A gorgeous, sunny day was impending. While he watched the boats cruise by, he reminisced about the news story.

  For the past two weeks, a PR campaign had been waged on behalf of Cannon Brothers Toys. Stories had been planted through the financial world that Cannon Brothers was about to resolve the class action suit it was fighting. After almost three years the discovery phase was complete. Everson, Reed, the lawyers defending Cannon Brothers, had brought a motion for summary judgment in court the day before. They were trying to convince the judge that the plaintiffs had failed to provide any evidence of Cannon Brothers’ liability.

  Of course, this was nonsense. Cannon Brothers manufactured and sold motorized skateboards that had a defect. Even though Cannon Brothers did not manufacture the defective part, the batteries, they could not completely escape liability.

  What they were really after was a ruling by the judge that there was no evidence Cannon Brothers knew or could have known about the problems with the batteries. If she ruled that, then Cannon Brothers would not be hit with punitive damages. If they had no knowledge, there was no reason to punish them and punitive damages were where the big bucks were in a case like this. Good luck to the plaintiffs collecting them from a Chinese company.

  Cal had received a phone call from Brody Knutson, the managing partner at Everson, Reed. The word was already out that Judge Susan Holcomb appeared to be on Cannon Brothers’ side. She had flat-out said that the plaintiffs had failed to find actual or constructive knowledge Cannon Brothers knew about the defective batteries. With that news alone, Cannon Brothers stock had opened a full four points higher this morning. It was now barely 10:00 A.M. and the stock was still rising.

  Cal took a large hit on the Monte Cristo, blew the smoke out and quietly said, “Things are coming along quite nicely.”

  Without bothering with a calculator, he knew he had made many millions today. Given his personal wealth, more money than he could possibly spend, more money wasn’t his aphrodisiac. More money wasn’t what turned Cal Simpson’s crank. What Cal was truly after, as it is with almost all of the ego-driven rich, was more power. What really made him smile was the thought of his friends and partners. There were going to be a lot of very happy people this morning due to Calvin Simpson’s manipulations. Along with that would come their gratitude. At least for a while until Cal’s real plan came to fruition.

  While puffing his cigar, he thought back to the fundraiser of the previous Saturday evening and the woman he met. There was something different about this one. Cal Simpson had bedded his share of beautiful women. Almost all of whom were in it for his money. A little bell in the back of his head was very lightly sounding telling him this one was not motivated by that. The realization, if it was true, made her all the more interesting and he hoped she would call soon.

  Cal thought of a question he forgot to ask Brody Knutson. He picked up his phone, scrolled through the numbers and dialed it. Brody answered on the first ring.

  “I meant to ask,” Cal said. “When do you think the judge will rule?”

  “She has thirty days. Most of them are procrastinators…”

  “Because they’re ex-lawyers,” Cal interjected.

  “…and she’ll probably take most of it,” Brody said ignoring the comment.

  “Let me ask you this: if she rules for us, can she change her mind?”

  “Up to a certain point, yes. I’m not sure when that would be. Sometime before trial. But, yeah, she can rescind her own order. Plus, we or the other side can bring an appeal. The appeals court could overturn it and tell her what she has to do to fix it.”

  “How likely is that?” Cal asked.

  “Hard to say. Usually not very. Judges are normally given a lot of discretion. But an appeals court could say the judge overstepped her authority, that punitive damages are a matter for a jury to decide. Relax. I don’t think it will happen.”

  “Why?”

  “This would be a finding of fact, not a matter of law. If the judge finds there is no factual basis for punitive damages and then applies the law correctly, we’ll be okay. What about the others and the big one?” Brody asked.

  “Coming along,” Cal said then ended the call.

  Two weeks from when that conversation took place, Cannon Brothers Toys, as prearranged, would release preliminary rev
enue and profit statements for the third quarter. By then the initial jump in the stock price resulting from the court hearing, and the PR campaign that followed it, had cooled off. The stock price needed another boost before the judge ruled in their favor to disallow punitive damages.

  While the class action suit hung over Cannon Brothers, investors were not overly thrilled with the company’s stock. A year ago, fueled by rumors of significant losses coming from the lawsuit, the share price had dropped from a historic high of sixty-eight and a quarter to twenty-four. That was the point when Cal had bought in.

  He quietly acquired a twenty percent stake. To avoid even the insignificant and minimal oversight of the SEC, Cal had used a long list of cutouts for the purchases. Small holding companies and unknown individuals were used to avoid scrutiny. He was able to increase his holdings to two and a half million of the twelve and a half million shares at an excellent price. Of course, it was a price he manipulated with a lot of rumors reporting doom and gloom for Cannon Brothers.

  At the same time, he knew Cannon Brothers had weathered the worst of the storm. Last September, the price began to gradually climb. The share price now was almost back to its high-water mark. Before the court hearing, the shares were trading at forty-eight and a quarter. Over the past two weeks, they had jumped up ten points.

  Cal’s shares and the shares he held for various political friends had gone from a value of sixty million to over one-hundred-forty-five million in barely a year. When the revenue and earnings report was leaked out, the share price would jump another seven and a half points to sixty-five and three-quarters, not far from the company’s historic high.

  At sixty-five and three-quarters Cal’s pals, even the cranky communist of the U.S. Senate, would be smiling. And they wouldn’t be done yet.

  Following that, over the course of the next three weeks, Cal would quietly, without bringing attention to himself or anyone else, sell off all of it.

  TWENTY-SIX

  The man in the windowless, brown, older Ford E-Series van was enjoying himself immensely. He was parked in an apartment complex lot on a hill overlooking three other apartment buildings. He was seated on a small, uncomfortable padded stool with no back support. He didn’t mind the discomfort. A fan was blowing over him keeping him cool and jobs like this one not only paid the bills but were a source of voyeuristic amusement.

  Along the left-hand wall in the cargo area was almost twenty thousand dollars’ worth of sophisticated equipment. The man sitting on the stool, leaning forward between the front seats, was an electronic surveillance wiz.

  Plugged into his sound equipment were the Bose headphones he was listening through. He used his left hand to occasionally fine-tune the 500mm lens attached to the camera recording the action. In his right- hand was a six-inch ham and salami sub he munched on while he watched through the camera’s lens. A 500mm lens at this distance put him right inside the bedroom. It helped that the young woman intentionally left her drapes open.

  His assignment was dirt gathering on a cheating husband. His employer, a sleaze-ball, feminist, woman divorce lawyer, was preparing the wife’s divorce pleadings. Normally, a cheating spouse would not matter much in a no-fault divorce state. This one was different for a couple of reasons. One, he was an up and coming Republican politician with money and ambition. The other, they lived in Hennepin County. Under the best of circumstances, judges in Hennepin County always blamed the husband and made him pay. Bouncing around on a bed with a twenty-year-old stripper would not help the husband's position politically or judicially.

  The wayward politician, in his forties, was losing his hair and growing a spare tire. The girl was why the man watched. Smoking-hot with an outstanding boob job. Why this idiot thought she was attracted to him was anyone’s guess. Politician’s ego. Even after he was told, the fool would not believe the stripper was a honey-trap in the employ of the same sleaze-ball, feminist lawyer.

  The man in the van finished his sandwich then leaned forward into the camera to watch. Three seconds later the door on the right crashed open and a man jumped in. Scared out of his wits, the van’s occupant jumped four inches off of his chair and slammed backward into the metal rack that held his equipment.

  While the intruder slid the door close, the man recovered his composure, placed a hand on his chest and said, “Jesus Christ, Carvelli, you just took ten years off my life. Sonofobitch…”

  “How are you, Conrad?” Tony Carvelli asked.

  He duck-walked a couple of steps and found a folding chair in the back of the van. Tony opened it and sat down while Conrad straightened himself out.

  Conrad’s full name was Conrad Hilton. After losing employment with several police departments for extra-curricular surveillance activities—fired from both Minneapolis, St. Paul and the FBI—Conrad had gone freelance. Financially, it had worked out even better for him. And he was still employed by quite a few law enforcement types who, on occasion, needed some off-the-books, extralegal work done. Despite the intentions of no-fault divorce advocates, there was still plenty of work done in that area as well. Conrad was professional, capable and discreet.

  A few years back, while working with Carvelli, Conrad had run afoul of a local gangster. A man Conrad didn’t want to cross. Conrad took the sensible way out. He ran. The gangster disappeared, but Conrad stayed away for a couple of years just to be on the safe side.

  “What do you want, Carvelli?”

  “I’ve been meaning to stop by and welcome you back. I heard where you were and so….” Tony said with a smile.

  “Great, fine, thanks. Hello and goodbye,” Conrad said.

  “Conrad,” Tony continued feigning hurt feelings, “is that any way to greet an old pal.”

  “Old pal! The last time I saw you Leo Balkus swore he’d cut my balls off and feed them to me!”

  “Leo is, well,” Tony quietly said, “let’s just say he’s gone on to a better place. Or, in his case, maybe not better.

  “Stop your whining,” Tony said turning serious. He gently pushed Conrad aside, leaned forward and looked into the camera while asking, “What do you have here?”

  While he continued to watch the scene in the bedroom, Tony said, “Conrad, I’m ashamed of you. Looking at such private, intimate behavior. I think they’re done. The chubby guy is getting dressed. You ought to check this out, though. The chick is lying buck-ass naked on the bed. I can see why you were watching.”

  “Let me look,” Conrad said.

  “Ah, sorry. She got up and put on a robe. Nice ass on her,” Carvelli said as he sat back.

  “Thanks…” Conrad sullenly said.

  “You can watch the movie till your heart’s content. You should have enough film for the Castration Queen of divorce lawyers, Lizzie Boyer. That’s who this is for isn’t it?”

  “How did you know?”

  “I’ve been around a while,” Carvelli said. “What were you listening to? Do you have her bedroom wired? You do, don’t you? Shame on you.”

  “Hey, gumshoe, it’s a living.”

  “I have work for you. Serious work,” Carvelli told him.

  “Not interested. Go away.”

  “Yes, you are,” Tony said.

  “No! I’m not, now go…”

  Tony leaned forward and Conrad leaned back. Tony said with authority, “Yes, you are.” He leaned back then softly said, “Maddy’s involved.”

  “She is?” a now interested Conrad asked.

  “Yes, and she misses you,” Tony said.

  “Really?” Conrad hopefully asked.

  “Well, I wouldn’t say she necessarily misses you. It’s more like, she’s willing to put up with you. As long as you keep your hands to yourself. You can look but don’t touch and no pictures.”

  “Okay, I’m in. Who’s paying?”

  “Don’t worry about it. You’ll get paid. Give me your address and phone number and I’ll call in a couple of days.”

  “I’ve never done anything like that,” Paul B
aker said to Tony Carvelli.

  The two of them were in Paul’s living room. Carvelli had stopped by to discuss a project he had in mind for the hacker. He told Baker what he wanted, and Baker was not sure he could do it.

  “I’m not NSA,” Baker continued. “Tapping into someone’s phone call isn’t like the old days. Before satellites and cell phones, you could put a physical tap on someone’s physical phone line. To do what you want, I’d have to be able to hack NSA’s satellite system and listen in.”

  “Well, if it’s too hard for you,” Carvelli said trying to prick his ego.

  “I’m not going there, Carvelli,” Baker replied. “Even if I could hack into NSA, and I probably could, they would have to be listening in on your guy’s calls, too. Are they?”

  “I don’t know,” Carvelli said. “Who knows what they’re up to? But I do see the problem.”

  “Maybe I could do it through his service provider. Do you know who that is?”

  “No,” Carvelli said. “I have the phone number for the phone he uses. At least one of them.”

  “I could find the provider with that. And I could tap them and get his metadata…” Paul said almost absentmindedly.

  “What’s that?” Carvelli asked.

  “The phone numbers he’s calling. With that we could find out who he is talking to and the time.”

  Carvelli thought about this for a minute then said, “You know, that could be useful. Especially if we could get a bug in his house to record his end of the conversation.”

  “You got that number? Let me have it and I’ll get started,” Baker said.

  Carvelli removed a folded slip of paper from his shirt pocket and handed it to him.

  “Here it is. Go ahead and start gathering whatever you said…”

  “Metadata,” Baker said.

  “…and I’ll be in touch. I’m sure he has more phones.”

  “Get me as many numbers as you can.”

  “Will do. Thanks, Paul. I’ll be in touch.”