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

by Dennis Carstens

  “I’m sorry I upset you so much,” Carvelli sincerely said.

  “Are you sure about this? Wait, what does this have to do with the deaths of Zach Evans and Lynn McDaniel?”

  Carvelli leaned closer and quietly said, “We believe the people who did this stock scheme are the ones who murdered Evans and McDaniel. They did it to help them manipulate the stock. Evans and McDaniel knew some things that could have caused these people some problems.”

  “Am I in danger?”

  “No, not all. Do you know who Calvin Simpson is? Is he a client of …”

  “Yes, he’s a client of the firm and a friend of Mr. Knutson. Is he involved? Is Knutson? How much money is involved? What the hell is going on?”

  “A lot of money. Under your name alone, they made over fifty million.”

  “What! How much? Am I going to prison? I didn’t get a dime!”

  “Brooke, relax, please. You’re not going to prison. We know you were used. The U.S. attorney we are working with knows you were used. You are not in any trouble. We’re pretty sure Simpson is involved and probably Knutson.”

  “That’s something that arrogant little shit would do,” she said.

  “You don’t like him much,” Carvelli said.

  “No, not really. I mean, he’s not a bad boss. I’ve had worse. And I get paid well. He just creeps me out. He’s always looking at my legs, and whenever I walk away from him, I can feel his eyes on my ass,” she said.

  “File a harassment claim.”

  “He’s never done anything,” she said. “Lucy, his other assistant feels the same thing. He’s just a little creepy.”

  “Lucy Gibson?”

  “Yeah, how did you know?”

  “She’s on the list, too. It seems pretty certain Knutson gave your information to Simpson. But we have no proof,” Carvelli said.

  “How else would he have…”

  “Any number of ways,” Carvelli said. “I need to have a chat with Knutson. What can you tell me about his habits; his routines.”

  “You want me to be a snitch for you?” she asked.

  “Yeah, a little,” Carvelli admitted.

  “Do you have a card? I’ll do it. I’ll find a time and place for you to sit down with him in private.”

  “That’s what I need.”

  “You keep saying, ‘We’. Who are ‘we’? I want to meet them. I want to be sure this isn’t some scam.”

  “You want to call back to the office and tell them you’re going home? That you feel sick? I’ll take you now,” Carvelli said.

  “Okay,” she said. “Let’s go. I’ll call on the way.”

  Fifteen minutes later they were at Marc’s office. Maddy came by, Connie joined in and by the end of the day, Brooke Hartley was satisfied they were legitimate and she agreed to keep an eye on Brody Knutson.

  THIRTY-NINE

  “Do I have a case with you?” Marc heard the man he called ask without even saying hello.

  “No, I mean, I have a couple of cases pending with you guys but not with you personally,” Marc replied.

  Marc had called a lawyer with the Hennepin County attorney’s office. His name was Steve Gondeck. Steve was the chief litigator in the felony division. He and Marc had several cases against each other over the years and were well acquainted. At least respectfully friendly, if not friends.

  Marc had called and asked the receptionist for Steve and identified himself. This was why Gondeck answered the phone the way he did.

  “I have a problem, and I’d like to run it past you, get your opinion on it,” Marc said.

  “On a case we…”

  “No, there is no case, no client even. It’s something you might want to look at. I wouldn’t be involved at all,” Marc said.

  “Okay, now you have my curiosity piqued,” Gondeck said.

  “Piqued? That’s a pretty big word for a prosecutor,” Marc said.

  Gondeck laughed and said, “Coming from a defense lawyer, I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  “Hey, you’re the one that’s on the dark side. We’re on the side of the angels.”

  “Nice try. When was the last time one of you even had a dog that still liked you once he found out what you do for a living?” Gondeck asked.

  Marc paused for a moment before saying, “That’s a good point. I always wondered why every dog I see growls at me.”

  “Now you know,” Gondeck said. “Tell you what. It’s a nice day and I need an excuse to get out of the office. You can buy me lunch. I’ll meet you at that place across the street from your office in a half hour.”

  “That will work. See you then.”

  The two men had a booth in the back by themselves where they could talk. After ordering their lunch, Gondeck looked at Marc to start.

  For the next half-hour, Marc told Gondeck what he knew about Cannon Brothers. He left out the part about stock market manipulation at first and stayed with just the engineer’s memo, its contents, and the number of children killed and injured as a result of the cover-up. When he finished, he waited for Gondeck to reply.

  Gondeck pushed his empty plate aside, wiped his mouth with a napkin, and thought quietly for a moment.

  “These cases are difficult to bring and win,” he began. “At best you’re looking at second-degree manslaughter.”

  “I know,” Marc replied.

  “We have to show that the executives at Cannon Brothers exhibited culpable negligence that created an unreasonable risk to these kids.”

  “I know,” Marc agreed again.

  “We would have to prove that, at least, they read the engineer’s report and went ahead anyway. I don’t think constructive knowledge would be enough in a criminal case. We would have to show actual knowledge. Even then, was the risk unreasonable?” Gondeck said. “Do you know for a fact that they read the memo, ignored it and put a product on the market that was likely to cause death or great bodily harm? Will the guy who wrote it, the chief engineer, testify that…”

  “He’s dead,” Marc said. “Some kind of gay pickup murder. Unsolved. I haven’t seen the memo myself. Maybe it has a list of addressees on it with initials.”

  “That would at least show they read it. Then there’s still the part about was the release of the product unreasonable? Did they know or should they have known that these accidents were likely?”

  “Don’t know. I don’t even know what happened to it. Maybe you can find out…”

  “The feds have it,” Gondeck said.

  “How do you know that?”

  “We’re not complete idiots. We do pay attention to what’s going on around town. We even read the newspapers,” Gondeck said.

  “What if I can give you a huge motive? Something that will help overcome the unreasonable risk part of the statute?”

  “What?” Gondeck asked. He leaned forward halfway across the table and asked, “What are you up to? You looking for a conviction to help you win a civil suit? What’s going on?”

  “We’re, ah, looking into, ah, I’m sorry, Steve, I can’t tell you that yet. It’s not about a civil suit. But I can tell you the motive is insider trading, stock fraud, stock manipulation, stuff like that. We don’t have proof yet. In fact, if you could indict a couple of the Cannon Brothers executives, I think they’d flip on some people. These aren’t guys who will look lightly at possible prison time.”

  Gondeck sat back in his booth seat and looked at Marc for a moment. “I could track down a copy of the memo. Take a look at it and see exactly what’s in it,” he said.

  A look appeared on Marc’s face like the light of remembrance just came on in his head. He snapped his fingers and pointed an index finger at Gondeck.

  “Maddy’s involved,” he said.

  “She is? Why didn’t you say so?” Gondeck replied. “Now I’m in for sure,” he laughed.

  Steve Gondeck had always been a bit smitten with the lovely Ms. Rivers. He was three inches shorter than her, pudgy around the midsection, at least fifteen ye
ars older than Maddy and totally devoted to his wife and family. Marc liked to tease him about it and between them it was a running joke.

  “I’m calling your wife,” Marc said.

  “Who? My what?” Gondeck said with a mock-confused look. “Anyway, I’ll see what I can do about getting a copy of the memo. Soon, before I do anything with this, I’ll need to see something solid about the stock manipulation motive.”

  “We have it,” Marc replied. “I can’t tell you what just yet, but we do have it.”

  “We found a total of five references on the recordings to someone Cal refers to as ‘the lawyer’. Not once does he mention a name,” Conrad said.

  “But three days before the memo was in the Star Tribune, Cal was talking to Albert—the guy we think is Senator Albert Fisher—and he mentioned the package he got from the lawyer. He said he was going to have it sent the next day,” Tommy Craven said.

  The entire group, including all of the ex-cops, were meeting in Vivian’s library. It was time for a complete review of everything they knew and Carvelli had everyone attend. It was also time for a discussion, a brainstorming session.

  Conrad and Tommy had been the last ones to arrive. The others had been at it for over an hour by the time they did. The two of them had been in Vivian’s boathouse listening to every recording and it had taken them almost two days.

  “That’s no coincidence,” Jake Waschke said when Tommy finished.

  A murmur of agreement went through the small crowd. Carvelli said, “Okay, I’m going to have a go at Brody Knutson tomorrow. I got a tip he is having lunch by himself at the Minneapolis Club at 1:00 P.M.”

  “Nice digs,” Marc said. “How are you going to get in?”

  The Minneapolis Club was as close to an “old money” place as there was in Minnesota. An exclusive, private club where old money met new money and politicians to avoid the riff-raff.

  “What? I won’t fit in with the upper crust?” Carvelli asked feigning being offended.

  “Does anybody else want to hit that softball he just tossed up in the air?” Marc asked.

  “Too easy,” Dan Sorenson said among the laughter.

  “All right, very funny. Vivian’s nephew, David Corwin, is going to get me in as a guest. Once inside, I’ll do the rest. Here’s what I have in mind.”

  With that, Carvelli quickly explained how he planned to go after Brody Knutson.

  “And here comes our pigeon,” Carvelli said to his passenger. “Right on schedule.”

  Carvelli and David Corwin were parked on Second Avenue across the street from the vine-covered Minneapolis Club building and its Second Avenue entrance. Having never met Knutson, Carvelli had printed his picture from the law firm’s website. That was how he recognized the lawyer.

  “He’s shorter than I thought he would be,” David said.

  “And balder than his picture,” Carvelli added. “Haven’t you ever met him?”

  “Yeah, I think so,” David said. “Many years ago. I know who is. The word is, he’s a conniving, backstabbing S.O.B. who would run over his own mother for power and money.”

  “That hardly makes him unique for the people in that club,” Carvelli said.

  “Hey! I’m one of those people,” David said then laughed. “But you’re right. Give him a minute to get to his table then we’ll go in.”

  The waiter appeared at their table almost immediately. David ordered coffee and Carvelli did also. As the waiter walked off, Carvelli took a casual look around the dining room. He spotted Knutson at a table for two off by himself across the room in front of a window.

  “I’m glad I wore my best suit,” Carvelli said.

  “You look fine. Right at home,” David replied.

  “I’m not sure that’s a compliment,” Carvelli said. “I’d rather be in jeans and a sweatshirt.”

  “Me, too,” David said. “But it’s a good place to do business. And the food’s good. Are you going to eat? It’s on me.”

  “No, I’m going after him right away,” Carvelli said.

  Their coffee arrived and David gave the waiter his lunch order.

  “I’m starving,” David said. “I’ll eat while you go do your thing. Good luck.”

  Carvelli watched while a man stopped, shook hands with Knutson and spoke to him. Fortunately, Knutson did not offer the man the other chair at his table. As soon as he walked off, Carvelli decided to go.

  “Hi, Brody, how’s lunch?” Carvelli asked as he pulled out the chair at the table for two and quickly sat down.

  “Who are you? What do you want and get lost before I call the maître d’,” Knutson said.

  “Just so you know who you’re dealing with, I’ll throw that gay little maître d’ through a window if he comes over here,” Carvelli said with a sinister smile. “Did you drink any of this?” he asked referring to the glass of water.

  “Ah, um, no,” Knutson stammered.

  “Thanks,” Carvelli said. He picked up the glass, took a large swallow and continued. “Here’s the deal, Brody. I represent some people who will, for now, remain anonymous. Suffice it to say, they are all Italian gentlemen.”

  Carvelli placed his forearms on the table and leaned forward as close to Knutson as possible. Knutson, his eyes wide open, said nothing.

  “We know everything. We know about the murders, the conspiracy, the stock manipulation, the money laundering, everything.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Knutson defiantly said.

  “Shut up. We don’t care about any of it. We also know, within say forty or fifty million, how much you, Cal Simpson and his crooked politicians plan to make off of this. Don’t try arguing with me or denying it.”

  Carvelli paused for a moment then continued. “You’re listening. That’s good. Now, here’s the good news. As I said, we don’t give a damn about how crooked you are. In fact, the more, the better. And despite what you may believe from the TV and movies, we’re not greedy people. What they want is one-third. For that, you and Cal and his pals get to keep the rest. And, again, despite what you may believe, we’re not really prone to violence. It’s usually a big expense. To be used only when necessary.”

  Carvelli leaned forward a little more and said, “One last thing. We know who Cal Simpson really is. I’ll be in touch. Enjoy the rest of your lunch.”

  Knutson put on his best lawyer face, casually wiped his mouth with a linen napkin and calmly, quietly said, “Can I say something now?”

  “I suppose,” Carvelli replied.

  “If I knew this Cal Simpson, attorney/client privilege would preclude me from even admitting it. As far as the rest of this nonsense, I have no idea what you are talking about. Now, may I finish my lunch?”

  “We’ll be in touch,” Carvelli said.

  By prearrangement, Carvelli left the building by himself. He walked past David Corwin who was eating by now and did not look up. Carvelli hurried across the street to his car to wait for Brody to leave and David to finish his lunch and join him. Within thirty seconds after he entered the Camaro, Brody Knutson came out of the building. Before he passed through the brick, ivy-covered entryway, Knutson was on his cell phone.

  “Say hi to Cal Simpson for me,” Carvelli quietly said. Carvelli then made a call on his cell to let his guys know what happened and to make sure the tail on Knutson was all set up and ready to go.

  FORTY

  Brody Knutson was sweating like a marathon runner in ninety-degree heat. As nerve-wracking as the confrontation with the Mafia guy had been, what awaited him was going to be worse. He had placed a quick call to Cal Simpson as soon as he left the club. All he told Cal was he needed to see him right away. Brody could only hope Cal would not blame the messenger.

  While hurrying up Second Avenue dodging through the lunchtime crowd, he called his office. Brooke answered and took the message that he would not be back. Of course, Brooke knew Carvelli was meeting him. When she finished the call, she almost laughed.

  Knutson dro
ve his new Lexus up the ramp of the underground parking garage. The Everson, Reed offices were on Third Avenue and Sixth Street across from the big granite government center. He exited onto Fifth Street and turned left to go west to Minnetonka. Waiting across the street on the sidewalk was Franklin Washington. He watched Knutson turn left onto Second, then called Dan Sorenson. Sorenson knew the route and was waiting for him. Thirty minutes later, Knutson took the left-hand turn for the driveway to Cal’s house. When he did, Tommy Craven drove past then called Conrad Hilton who was standing by the recording equipment.

  “All right, calm down, slow down, and tell me everything he said, again,” Cal told an overwrought Brody Knutson.

  They were in the office in Cal’s house. With them was Aidan Walsh. Cal was seated in his executive chair behind the desk. Knutson was in a chair facing Cal and Aidan, his arms crossed over his chest, was calmly leaning against a window frame to Cal’s right.

  Knutson wiped his forehead with a handkerchief, took a deep breath and began again.

  “He sat down without saying a word. I told him to get lost, but he wasn’t the least bit scared. He told me he represented a group of men with Italian names. He obviously meant the Mafia.

  “He said they knew everything; the murders, the stock manipulation, the conspiracy, the names of everyone involved including the politicians. Everything and everyone.”

  “Did he name them? Did he drop any names of politicians or…”

  “You,” Knutson almost yelled. “He knew your name. Oh, yeah, I almost forgot. He said to tell you they know who you really are. I don’t know what he meant by that.”

  “What did he look like?” Cal asked trying not to show the shock he was feeling.

  “I don’t know. Scary. He looked like someone who you don’t mess with. I was scared shitless,” Knutson replied.

  “What did he look like?” Cal asked again only more slowly this time. “Take a breath, close your eyes and picture him in your mind. Then describe him to us.”