He also offered to put the banker in touch with Mrs. Weinman. Although she never saw what was in the envelope, she could verify that she did, indeed, give an envelope to Winkler that indicated that it was to be given only to Ricardo Guttmann, a member of his family or a representative of the family. He explained that the Power of Attorney was stolen from him.
He also pointed the banker to the website he’d set up to publicize and solicit information in connection with the search for Guttmann.
Finally, he presented his Canadian passport, which confirmed he was who he said he was.
“Mr. Winkler, I appreciate what you’re saying, and what you’ve provided to verify your authority here. But this is all very problematic. First of all, I want you to understand our discussion today is altogether hypothetical. Due to our strict bank secrecy laws, I’m not acknowledging we even have any account over which you may or may not have authority. Is that clear? We’re only talking about what we might require if someone has a Power of Attorney over an account at our bank. Understood?”
“Absolutely.”
“Next, you don’t even have the Power of Attorney, which you say was stolen from you. Further, even if you did have it, you indicated it doesn’t have the account number and password on it—and you don’t have that information. So right now, you have no authority at all over any account in our bank. Even if we had the Power of Attorney, with your name on it, we’d still need the account number and password. The Power of Attorney is specific to one account, not general as to all bank accounts, is that correct?”
“Yes, so let’s assume the fellows you’re scheduled to meet tomorrow bring the Power of Attorney and have some identification saying one of them is me. You could question that ID, couldn’t you?”
“Yes, and I probably would. But let’s assume they come up with a sub-delegation—another letter that says David Winkler authorized one of them to act on the account. Even if we agreed to take that authority—and under the circumstances, I’m not entirely certain we would—we would still need the account number and password.”
“Let’s deal with that possibility right now. If you don’t mind, I’d like to formally revoke any sub-delegation I may have given, including any false ones they may say I gave to them. That’ll give us one less problem to deal with.”
Winkler pulled out a slip of note paper and scrawled out a statement, reading it aloud as he wrote:
“I hereby revoke any sub-delegation I have ever given, from the beginning of time to the date hereof, to anyone, with regard to any account over which I have any authority at the Commerz Bank of Zurich, Switzerland.”
He signed and dated it at the bottom, then asked, “Will this work for you?”
“I don’t see why not. May I see your passport again so I can verify your signature?”
Winkler readily complied. After comparing the signatures, the banker noted his Canadian passport number at the bottom of the page and took a picture of it with his cell phone.
“But if they somehow got the account number and password, is there any way you’d release the funds to them in these circumstances?” Winkler asked.
“Not likely. But here’s what I can assure you. If they show up for the meeting, I’ll get the original Power of Attorney and tell them we need it to process their request, which is absolutely true. I don’t want to reject it entirely, because it’s a critical document for the disposition of this account —I mean the hypothetical account, of course!
“If we can’t find a way to sort out who’s really authorized to deal with this account—I mean any account over which there’s a dispute as to authority—we may have to file a petition with a Swiss court. It would be something like the ‘interpleader’ action you’re familiar with in the States, to determine the rightful owner of the account.”
“So what’s the next step, Mr. Wehrli?” Winkler asked.
“I would say it would be best, if you want to assert authority over the account, that you come up with the account number and password. At least then we could just deal with the competing claims—yours and those of the ‘other’ Mr. Winkler.
“I don’t want to anticipate how the meeting on Monday will go. You just get your case together, as soon as you can, and I’ll take it from there. If the other gentleman presents a Power of Attorney with your name on it, rest assured that we’ll consider the situation very carefully. My meeting will certainly be monitored by armed security guards. I would say it’s a very good thing that you’ve come all the way to Switzerland to deal with this situation—and I sincerely apologize for putting you through all this trouble.”
“The apology is mine. I’ve interrupted your ski holiday with a business meeting and a very sticky situation —”
“That’s what we’re here for, Mr. Winkler. But I really think it’s best you leave now. I’ve arranged for what you might call a ‘special’ way down. Put your coat on and follow me, please.”
Winkler quickly took the last sip of coffee from his cup, slipped on his parka, and followed the banker to the rear door of the dining room. They exited to a vast area outside the lodge, where dozens of skis and poles were lined up in rows, waiting for their owners to start their day of skiing.
“You’re not expecting me to ski down the mountain, are you?” Winkler gulped. “It’s been years since I’ve done any downhill skiing—”
“Of course not, Mr. Winkler. That would be too cruel. Take off your eyeglasses, put them inside your parka for a minute, and step back, please.”
At that moment, a red and white Swiss Ski Patrol helicopter appeared out of nowhere, rising from the valley just over the rim of the plateau on which the ski lodge was built, its whirring blades blowing snow everywhere. It touched down gently about fifty feet in front of Winkler and the banker, who had to turn their heads to keep the flying snow from hitting them directly in the face.
“Mr. Winkler,” the banker said, shouting to be heard over the roar of the helicopter. “Your ride is here, and you don’t even need a broken leg! You’ll be off just about the time the next cable car reaches this station. Within just a few minutes, you’ll be back in the village, at the helipad next to the train station, and you can catch the next train to Chur, which leaves at 10:48 a.m., if I remember the schedule correctly. From there, you take another train for Zurich. That should put some distance between you and your new friends.”
The banker shook Winkler’s hand, then motioned for the helicopter crew to open the door so Winkler could board. As quickly as it had arrived, the helicopter lifted off, stirring up another snowstorm, then headed down the mountain, with Winkler as its cargo.
As the crowd exited the cable car, those two burly men in their forties, dressed in navy wool pea coats with black ski caps, watched the helicopter as it made its way down the valley. By the time they saw it, the helicopter was already too far away to identify the passenger, but they seemed to know their prey had escaped them. One immediately pulled out his cell phone and made a call.
CHAPTER 28
THOUGH WINKLER HAD THE FEELING he was under surveillance, no one approached him during his train ride back to Zurich, and the two pea-coated men were nowhere to be seen. He spent a peaceful night at the Radisson Blu Hotel at the Zurich Airport, just a short walk from the airport train station. He took the first flight out the next morning for Detroit, with one stop in Amsterdam, arriving back home by early Monday evening.
Tuesday morning, he was back in the office, and the whole place was buzzing. Joshua Green had taken a turn for the worse over the weekend, and hospice had been called. The experimental treatments for his multiple myeloma had just made the disease progress faster. There was nothing more they could do for him except keep him comfortable and hopefully moderate the morphine so he’d be conscious enough to say his last goodbyes to a few close clients and friends. With no wife to care for him, and no children or grandchildren to gather around, he was an icon about to make a lonely departure for another place.
No one from th
e firm was allowed to visit; instead, everyone was encouraged to submit short anecdotes about their firm-related experiences with him, which would be edited down for a memorial booklet the firm would publish after the funeral.
Emma was in tears when Winkler walked in.
“Did you hear, David, about Mr. Green—”
“Yvonne told me when I walked into the lobby. I kind of knew this was going to happen. He told me about his condition after that big blow-up at the Management Committee meeting. He was so private, and not optimistic about the treatment.”
“He was a giant, David, larger than life. Do you remember I worked for him when I first joined the firm?”
“I sure do. He wasn’t too happy when we decided he didn’t need a full-time secretary and you were assigned to me. You were his crown jewel!”
“I wouldn’t go that far, David, but he always treated me with such respect, even after that, and went out of his way with his generosity. Did you know he got us a car when my husband lost his job? And he pulled strings to get my mother admitted to the Executive Suite at St. Anthony’s Hospital after we were turned away because there were no beds. The man had real compassion, and power, and didn’t hesitate to use it if he sensed you were in need.”
“That’s the side most people don’t know, Emma, unless you were the recipient of that generosity. He never talked about those good deeds. I’ll bet there are a hundred stories like that we’ll hear in the coming days.
“For most people, Emma, he was a legal genius, a force to be reckoned with. If he was on your side, that was great. You had a real fighter in your corner. But if you were on the other side, you’d better watch out. He never lost a case. Settled, maybe, but never lost.”
“David, he sent you a note. Here—”
Emma handed him an envelope with Winkler’s name written in big black ink across the front.
“How did this get here? Who saw him?” Winkler asked.
“Mr. Kelly went to see him just before things got real bad. He said Mr. Green had it ready and didn’t say anything about it; just wanted you to get it.”
Winkler swallowed hard, took the letter in his hand, and thought for a moment before reaching into his drawer for a letter opener. In a sense, although Joshua Green was still alive, it was like getting a message from the grave. He took a deep breath, then opened it. He quickly read it, then passed it back to Emma, who shed a tear as she read it to herself. The note was brief but carried great weight, coming from a man who was revered by clients and colleagues, and respected even by his most ardent opponents:
“David—
Been thinking about your new case. Don’t let it go. Whatever pressure you get, keep on digging. There is much, much more here than meets the eye. Get some help if you need it, and consider protection as well. You are walking on the edge of a deep crater, and the stakes are huge. You could be up against governments, maybe even ex-Argentine military, and who knows how many others who lost fortunes when the banker’s banks failed. While you may be leading them to the pot of gold, at one point they will consider you dispensable. Be careful, and God Bless.”
“Emma, I don’t know what to make of that. He doesn’t know even half of what’s gone on since we took the case.”
“Has he ever been wrong?” Emma asked rhetorically. “In all the years I’ve known him, he’s always had an uncanny ability to know what’s really happening, even without the full facts. Who’s lying and who’s getting paid off. He could always tell when it was best to settle a case rather than risk putting the client’s future in the hands of a judge or jury.”
“Any other messages?”
“Do you want the bad news or the good news first?” Emma knew which news Winkler would always want to start with.
“Let’s start with the bad news,” he replied.
“Mrs. Davis called, wondering when you’d have her new trust ready. She said she wasn’t pushing, knows you’re a busy attorney, but she also mentioned you’d met about a month ago, and she thought you had everything you needed. She’s so cute. She said to remind you that although she’s a young eighty-seven and still playing golf, she isn’t getting any younger. The drafts are on your desk for review.”
“Have one of the senior associates review them. My file notes should be sufficient to understand the plan, and please call Mrs. Davis back. Let her know we’ll be in touch in a few days to schedule a meeting next week to sign the documents. We can review everything together then. She’s had a falling out with one of her sons who married a gold digger, and she decided to tie up his share of the estate for his lifetime so the wife won’t get her hands on it.
“Anything else, Emma?”
“Mr. Kelly stopped by, wondering how you’re doing with the Romero case. He thought he would find you in. I told him you were doing some hands-on and it was taking you out of town for a few days. I didn’t volunteer any details, and he didn’t ask. He’s been hearing grumbling from some of the partners. He said he wasn’t concerned himself, just wanted to give you a heads-up that he was getting some pushback.”
“I can live with that. What about the good news? This whole situation really has me wound up. What can you tell me to brighten my day?” Winkler asked.
“Luke was able to get information you asked for on prison breaks within a year prior to the crash. Turns out there were five that matched in terms of approximate age and body type.”
“What did he find out about those five?”
“One couldn’t be your guy. He was never caught. You can also cross off the second. He was caught after the escape but killed in a shoot-out with federal marshals. The third was black, so not your man. Two were Hispanic.”
“Are they both still in prison?”
“Yes, one in Illinois, one in Georgia.”
“Try to set up meetings with those fellows, tomorrow mid-morning in Illinois, the following day in Georgia, if you can. Call J.B. Winston and ask if he was serious about putting one of his executive jets at our disposal. It’ll make him feel like he’s helping, and things are moving too fast to lose time sitting around in airports. And arrange for rental cars at each airport where we’ll be landing.”
“Would you like Luke to go with you?”
“Absolutely, and have him bring his files on these convicts. I’d like to know whatever we can on them, including what got them behind bars. See if the wardens would be available to meet with us, if it comes to that. Maybe we’ll find nothing, but maybe we’ll have something to talk to one of them about.”
CHAPTER 29
THE CESSNA CITATION X TOUCHED DOWN at Joliet Regional Airport in Joliet, Illinois at nine fifteen the next morning. Winkler and Rollins picked up their rental car and arrived at the front gate of the Stateville Correctional Center in Crest Hill, Illinois, about half an hour later. After inspecting their driver’s licenses and business cards, the guard at the entry gate directed them to the visitor parking area, where another guard directed them to the visiting center.
“Do you have your completed Doc 148—the Prospective Visitor’s Information Form?” asked the guard in the center.
“This is a legal visit,” said Rollins, who knew from past experience in prisons the requirement to fill out a long information form would be waived for a lawyer.
“OK, but make sure you leave all your personal items in a locker, including cell phones and wallets, unless you want to go back and lock them in your car,” said the guard.
Winkler and Rollins were then directed to a visitor’s booth behind two inches of solid plexiglass, where they waited for Prisoner 796823, Juan Gutierrez. Five minutes later, a buzzer sounded and a steel entry door on the other side of the plexiglass wall swung open. The guard stepped back to the rear corner of the room. Gutierrez picked up the phone on his side of the plexiglass wall, and Winkler did the same on his side.
“Mr. Gutierrez, my name is David Winkler. I’m a lawyer and just wanted to ask you a couple of questions.” The prisoner listened attentively.
&nbs
p; “I appreciate your taking the time to talk to me and my friend, Luke Rollins, who’s associated with our firm.”
“No problem, señor, I have lots of time, nothing but time. I am here for forty more years, including extra time for attempted escape. Are you going to take my case?”
“What case? I came to ask you some questions. I don’t know anything about your case. Anyhow, you’ve been here for decades, and it would be too late to appeal your conviction.”
“No, not that case. I killed a couple of guys—drug dealers—they deserved it. I know I’m guilty, convicted ‘fair and square,’ as they say. But I’ve been complaining about safety conditions in this place. Over the past five years, six guys have fallen off the top bunk, including me. I messed up my back pretty bad. One guy actually cracked his head open.
“Do you think they would put a rail on the top bunk? Hell no! Maybe they need a Congressional committee to study the problem. A baby gets choked between the rails of a crib, and whammo! You get a recall of millions of cribs. Prisoners wreck their backs or skulls falling off upper bunks without rails, and what do we get? Zip! Nada! Nobody gives a damn!
“So I filed my complaint with the prison. That got me nowhere, but I’ve done whatever I can do under their internal administrative procedures. Next, I filed suit against the prison officials under federal law—a Petition for Deprivation of Rights, to get damages. I got lots of time to read up on this stuff.
“My back is screwed up enough as it is. I don’t need to be tortured by falling off a top bunk. Wanna see?”
In an instant, the prisoner unbuttoned the top half of his orange jumpsuit and turned around so Winkler and Rollins could see his back. He was a hunchback, with a contorted back and shoulder so incredibly twisted, it was hard for them to look. The guard shouted to the prisoner to get himself buttoned up and announced that the meeting would be over in three minutes.
“You been like this your whole life?” Winkler asked.
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