“Sure,” said Dana. “We’ll just assume that episode in court three days ago never happened. Now just a few more questions.”
With further probing, Dana was able to show that a second payment of $25 million was made to Dan’s Antigua account on February 22, 2018.
“Now what happened between November 21, 2017, and February 22 of 2018?”
“I dunno. Christmas?”
“For you, maybe. But didn’t Calvin Jones’ inquiry into the Colorado dam disaster start on November 27, 2017, and wasn’t his report delivered on February 21, 2018?”
“I guess so.”
“And weren’t you one of the key witnesses at that inquiry?” continued Dana.
“I have no idea,” said Dan, “and I will tell you right now that every document you’ve got has been faked up by my political opponents. All of this is a hoax, and you should have your law license revoked for using such fraudulent evidence in a courtroom. This is an outrage. This would never be tolerated in an American courtroom.”
“Mr. Alexander, shut up,” ordered Judge Mordecai. “Shut up with your editorials and just answer the questions. Are we about done here, Ms. Wittenberg?”
“A few more questions, Judge,” said Dana. “Mr. Alexander, I have been able to check the bank accounts that were opened at the same time that your account number 5611092 was opened. Account 5611090 was opened, it would appear, at the same time. Twenty-five million dollars appears to have been deposited in that account on November 21, 2017, and a further $25 million was deposited on February 21, 2018. Can you tell the court what name appears on the top of that document?”
“Tyra Baylor,” said Dan, through gritted teeth.
“Would that be the same Tyra Baylor that came into my home at 2 a.m.
last night with a gun in an attempt to kill me, and probably my fiancé, and my dog? That Tyra Baylor?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Let’s have a look at the account that was opened right after Tyra Baylor’s and right before yours. Account 5611091. What name appears there?” “Calvin Jones.” Dan spit out the syllables.
“That would be Calvin Jones, the American secretary of defense, and the chairman of the Colorado inquiry. That Calvin Jones?”
“This is all fake evidence. This is appalling,” Dan sputtered.
“And in account 5611093, $100 million dollars was deposited on those days. Whose name is on the top of that document?”
Dan refused to answer, despite multiple prompts.
“That’s fine,” said Judge Mordecai. “I will just read that into the record. It says Matthew Finnegan.”
“Can you tell the court who Matthew Finnegan is, please?” asked Dana with a smile. Dan refused to answer.
Next, Dana placed a thick, multi-tabbed booklet before Dan and handed multiple copies to the jury and to the other counsel gathered in the courtroom. In the course of an hour of cross-examination, she was able to demonstrate, convincingly, that through a series of nested holding companies and trusts CJ, Tyra Baylor, Dan Alexander, and the president, Matthew Finnegan, owned 100 percent of Erbium166, which owned 49 percent of the Afghanistan Development Corporation, a company that held rights to huge concessions of oil, gas, and various minerals in Afghanistan.
There was one final question. “With all of these accounts and companies and trusts, and all of this money passing back and forth by people who were intimately involved in the terrorist attack, does the name of my client, Leon Lestage, appear even once?”
“No,” croaked Dan. “Not once.”
The court called for an adjournment, and Dana, having turned around, saw in the rear of the gallery a distinguished-looking Asian man, mid-sixties, with a high forehead and greying, longish, swept-back hair. He nodded imperceptibly in Dana’s direction. No one other than Dana caught it.
When Dana sat down, Dan Alexander stood up, mopped his forehead with another piece of Kleenex that he promptly threw on the floor, took a slurp of water, opened the door of the witness box, and stepped out. “Where are you going, Mr. Alexander?” asked Judge Mordecai.
“Am I not done testifying?”
“Yes, you’re done testifying.”
“Then I’m getting the hell out of the little piece of bullshit courtroom, never to return. Now where is that scurrilous, traitorous little bastard, Hamilton Turbee?”
The instant Turbee heard those words, he ducked behind Richard and Zak. Judge Mordecai saw it. “Don’t worry, Mr. Turbee, I will take care of that little problem. Mr. Alexander is not going anywhere.” “You think that, do you?” snapped Dan.
“I know so, Mr. Alexander,” said the judge with a wry smile.
“Fuck you, you dumb asshole. I am leaving here and never coming back. Other than maybe in a B-2 bomber.”
The judge nodded toward the sheriffs, four of whom rose and stepped into the well of the courtroom. “Do you really think you’re just going to walk out of here? You have intimidated witnesses. You have likely conspired to attempt to kill witnesses. You have perjured yourself I don’t know how many times. You have accepted bribes, but I suppose that is going to be a problem for you when you get out of here, in maybe ten or twenty years. Then you can spend your final years in Leavenworth.”
“You bastard, you can’t do that,” he screamed. “I am the director of TTIC. I have a diplomatic passport.”
“You have standing behind you four of the finest lawyers in the country. I’m sure they can help you out.”
“But, but, my lord, you can’t—”
“But nothing. Take him to cells, gentlemen. And McSheffrey, have your friends in the prosecutor’s office quickly draft a series of charges against Mr. Alexander. Tell them I said that if there aren’t at least thirty charges, they’re not doing their jobs.” With that, the sheriffs did as they were ordered and hauled a scrapping, spitting, cursing, screaming Dan out the side door of the courtroom.
65
Sheff’s closing address was a day-long tirade, full of phrases like “drugpushing, gun-running, scurrilous piece of filth” and “murderer of tens of thousands,” leading to a thunderous conclusion: “Do not let this murderous pile of garbage back on the streets. No one is safe with this drug- and gun-running international terrorist on the loose.”
The following day came Dana’s one-hour closing. “Look, you need to establish that Leon knew about the conspiracy. You’ve heard all about the conspiracy to destroy the Glen Canyon Dam, and there is not one word of evidence tying him to it. All that the Crown has, after this incredible production, are a series of emails that in all likelihood are fake. Mr. Hamilton Turbee was eminently qualified to say so . . .”
When she was done, Judge Mordecai read his instructions to the jury, which took until 3:00 p.m. Finally the jury was permitted to discuss the evidence.
When a jury goes out, all purposeful activity ceases. Dana walked up and down the foyer, peeked in some other courtrooms, bought a cup of undrinkable coffee from a machine, and paced and paced and paced.
After one hour and fifteen minutes, a message came over the building sound system: “All counsel please return to Courtroom 401. All counsel to Room 401 please.” An hour and fifteen minutes? A verdict? Indeed, after an eight-week trial, seventy-five minutes to deliberate? But a verdict was on the way.
Much lawyer folklore has developed around reading a jury when they return a verdict. If they’re smiling and looking at the accused, it will be not guilty. If they’re smiling and looking at the prosecutor’s table, the verdict will be guilty. If they’re frowning, etc., etc. The twelve men and women walked into court from a side door, led and followed by sheriffs. They were grim and angry looking. None looked at Leon.
“Look at ’em, Archambault,” said Sheff. “None of them are looking at Leon. Look at their expression. They want to hang him.”
“She’s in the bag, Sheff,” Archambault replied. “In. The. Bag.”
Dana knew the folklore, too. The jury never looked at her; they had downturned mo
uths and a few of them had a beat-up look about them. They assembled in their usual places.
“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, have you reached a decision in this case?”
“Yes, my lord, we have,” said the foreman.
“And on Count One of the indictment, how do you find?”
“Not guilty.”
Judge Mordecai went through each charge in the nineteen-count indictment. In each and every case, the foreman came back with a “not guilty” verdict.
Sheff was astounded and demanded the jury be polled. Dana could not believe what she was hearing. Leon not guilty. Who would have thought?
There was a general uproar in the room as reporters and politicians reached for their cell phones, completely ignoring the court’s injunction about the use of such devices while in session. Seven or eight reporters went running for the door to give the word via the satellite uplink stations.
“Can I go now?” Leon stood and asked the obvious question.
“Order in the court. Order in the court!” yelled Judge Mordecai, whacking his gavel hard against the bench. “I can’t hear a word the accused is saying.”
The noise dropped a few decibels, and Leon repeated his question: “Can I go now?”
Mordecai looked at McSheffrey, who was a little dazed by the result. “Is he free to go, Mr. McSheffrey?”
“No, he isn’t. He is currently working a seven-year sentence for possession and importing and exporting drugs and guns. He has four and a half years to go.”
“But surely—if he has served more than one-third of his sentence, and a good bit of the last year on remand time—surely he is now eligible for parole?” asked the judge.
“He probably is, m’lord, but that is for the parole board to decide, and not me.” McSheffrey paused for a few seconds and then added, “We, of course, will be appealing the result, and that will take some time.”
“McSheffrey, you are such an ass. We’re adjourned.”
Later that night, one of the sheriffs walked through cells to do a count, something protocol required every four hours. He stopped and momentarily panicked when he came to Kumar’s cell. Kumar’s feet were dangling a few inches above the floor. A bedsheet had been tied to an upper crossbar, and a noose, formed out of the other end, was wrapped around his neck. It was estimated that he had been dead for more than an hour when the guard did the count.
Dan Alexander was sitting, a sly expression on his face, in a cell a few doors down. When asked what happened, he simply replied that he didn’t think it was a crime to talk someone into taking his own life. “I mean, if he can’t live with himself, that’s his problem, isn’t it?”
66
The day of the not guilty verdict went by like a blur. Dana gave a few interviews, and smiled to see that Old Man deFijter was busy gladhanding and sugar-feeding the press about the brilliant job his lawfirm had done in winning an unwinnable case. Dana choked at the hypocrisy and decided she would be best off degowning, changing into a pair of jeans, and heading home.
Chris and Bam-Bam were glued to CNN as various aspects of the story came out.
“Hon, you probably took out the president of the United States. That’s pretty big bragging rights,” Chris proclaimed proudly.
“It wasn’t really me, Chris. Somehow or other, witnesses kept parachuting in. I had no idea what they were going to testify to. I mean, where do these people come from? Turbee? Kumar? Dan Alexander? I broke every good practice rule in the book. You’re never supposed to ask a question if you don’t already know the answer. Honestly, I had no idea what they were going to say next. I was flying completely blind.”
“The conspiracy theorists saw their chance, Dana,” Chris replied. “All they needed was a forum in which to give their evidence, and the trial provided that. And as an incidental effect, it got Leon off the hook.”
“Yeah, the creep will get parole anytime now.”
They were motoring their way through a huge apple pie covered in whipped cream that Chris had slapped together while Dana was still in court. He had also put a bottle of chilled Dom Perignon on the table, which they were rapidly consuming. Suddenly, a deep, throaty murmur came rumbling out of Bam-Bam, and he ran toward the door. Chris got up and followed the Saint Bernard.
“Who’s there?” Chris asked defensively. The sting of Tyra’s attack was still fresh.
“Delivery for Ms. Dana Wittenberg,” came the voice on the other side of the door.
“Okay. We’ve had some trouble with people delivering things here lately. Slide some ID under the door.”
“What you say, man?”
“ID. Shove it under the door, please. What company are you with?”
“DHL.”
“Okay. Shove your driver’s license and the weigh bill under the door.”
“Say what, man?”
“Just do it,” shouted Chris. “People have been shooting at us and we’re a little nervous, okay?”
The DHL driver did as he was ordered. Chris reviewed the material and nodded to Dana. “Looks okay to me. I’m opening the door.”
Getting a solid grip on Bam-Bam’s collar, Chris opened the door. A short man handed him two large, heavy boxes and asked Chris to sign the delivery slip. He asked for his driver’s license and was gone.
Chris brought the boxes back to the sitting room and the two of them ripped them open. On top was a short, poorly written note in an envelope. It said, “U did a heluva job, kid, and u dserve this. LL.”
Dana swept the newspapers out of the way and gasped at what was there.
Money. Thousands of clips of hundreds.
“Holy shit, Chris,” said Dana, counting rapidly. “I think it’s cash!”
“I think it’s a million in cash.”
“It’s from Leon Lestage. It has to be drug money,” Dana said.
“What do we do with it?”
“Maybe it should go to the police,” Dana replied. “Maybe it belongs to Blankstein deFijter.”
“You don’t know those things,” Chris argued. “You don’t know it’s drug money.”
“I guess I don’t.”
“And, Dana, baby, who says it belongs to Blankstein deFijter? Those assholes hung you out to dry. They pigged out on the ten mil retainer, and when that was done, they threw you in front of one of the toughest, meanest judges that there was and did not lift a finger to help you.”
“You think we should keep it?”
“Of course I do, Dana. It’s a gift. It’s a tip for a job magnificently done.”
“But we can’t deposit more than $10,000 at once without all kinds of complications.”
“Let’s do what the Hallett/Lestages did. We’ll each open a bunch of bank accounts. We’ll deposit $9,000 in each account each week. That means we can deposit $100,000 per month. In each account. In a year we’ll have it stashed away and you can start a law firm with it.” Bam-Bam was wagging his tail ferociously.
Dana’s eyes opened wide. “What if the police find out? This is wrong, isn’t it?”
“No, it isn’t,” said Chris. “Maybe it is drug money, but that’s just kind of speculating, isn’t it?”
“I agree. This is a gift, and we’re just speculating that it’s coming from evil deeds.” Dana became convinced. She unclipped a bundle of hundreds and counted them. “Total of a hundred. Here’s $10,000 for you.” She threw the bills at Chris, some of which drifted onto him and onto the apple pie he’d been eating.
“Why you cow!” he said, grabbing a bunch of hundreds. He unclipped them and threw the bills at Dana. The fight was on. Soon the air was thick with hundreds, fluttering throughout the small basement suite.
Dana took it to the next level. She grabbed her plate of apple pie and whipped cream and, with a surprisingly rapid move, rubbed Chris’s face into it. Chris, of course, did likewise, and in another minute there was pie, whipped cream, and hundred dollar bills raining down like a tropical storm.
Somehow in the middle of it all, clothin
g started to come off, and they ended up making love in the pie, the cream, and the thousands and thousands of hundreds. Bam-Bam was in the middle of the action until the last scene unfolded. Not knowing what to do, he entered the small bedroom, wondering what it was about his masters that led them to screaming, howling, laughing, and rolling around on the floor stark naked.
People sometimes are rather odd, he thought as he curled up and promptly fell asleep.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
RICHARD AARON is an experienced trial attorney and brings his years in the courtroom to life in his writing. He lives in Vancouver, British Columbia, with his four children and various dogs and cats. He has university degrees in mathematics and law, and a Masters in Law from the London School of Economics.
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