Ripoff
Page 1
Table of Contents
Introduction
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
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19
20
21
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44
45
46
47
48
49
EPILOGUE
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
RIPOFF
Prison manufacturing is big business—About
$800,000,000 a year and that is true!
A plan to embezzle millions was going fine until three savvy women were hired
and the red flags went up.
Join Kimberly, Cameron and Kate as they unravel the twists and turns in this clever crime caper and suspicion turns into surprise.
Morgan St. James
Caroline Rowe
Marina Publishing Group
Las Vegas NV
Copyright © 2014 by Morgan St. James and Caroline Rowe
All rights reserved. This story was inspired by true events but is a work of fiction produced from the authors’ imagination. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic or mechanical including photocopying, recording or by any retrieval system without permission from the author and/or publisher except as part of a review or media article. No part of this publication may be sold or hired without written permission from the author or publisher.
Special paperback edition pricing for quantity purchases by book clubs.
E-mail request to marinapublishing@gmail.com
Cover and interior design: Elaine McNeal
Marina Publishing Group
Las Vegas NV 89141
www.marinapublishinggroup.com
marinapublishing@gmail.com
Praise For Books By Morgan St. James
Silver Sisters Mysteries
“Morgan St. James and Phyllice Bradner are as entertaining as Nick & Nora Charles or even better. If you like the late Anne George's Southern Sisters Series you'll love these two crime solving quirky characters who know how to create merry mischief and it's in their blood.”
~Pamela James/Reviewer Mayhem & Magic website
The Mafia Funeral and Other Short Stories
“Morgan St. James has written a garden of stories with some of them being as beautiful as the daisy, some with the beauty of the rose but will stick you with their thorns and some that are as threatening as a weed. The Mafia Funeral is a collection of short stories, some true, some fiction but all well worth reading.”
~Martha A. Cheves, Reviewer
Martha’s Page: http://bit.ly/1c5b4Q1
La Bella Mafia, Bella Capo’s true story
Co-authored with Dennis N. Griffin
“Bella Capo's story is tragic and disturbing, but like the proverbial phoenix, she rose from the ashes of abuse, violence and destruction to tell her story and to help others. Bella's courage and strength of character is evident as she is knocked to the ground again and again, only to stand back up and go forward.”
~Judy Shine Logan, Logan’s Library Review
Visit http://www.morganstjames-author.com
Other Books By Morgan St. James
Confessions of a Cougar
The MAFIA FUNERAL and Other Short Stories
8 Surefire Signs of a Jewish Mother
Two Unforgettable Christmases
Miracles Happen on Horseback
Silver Sisters Mysteries co-authored with Phyllice Bradner
A Corpse in the Soup
Terror in a Teapot
Vanishing Act in Vegas
Books co-authored with Dennis N. Griffin
La Bella Mafia
Izzy and Me (Release date late 2014)
Co-Author and Editor
Can We Come In and Laugh, Too?
For writers at all stages of their career
Writers’ Tricks of the Trade: 39 Things You Need to Know About the ABCs of Writing Fiction
Stories in these anthologies and more
Chicken Soup for the Shopper’s Soup
Chicken Soup for the Soul: Celebrating People Who Make a Difference
The Mystery of the Green Mist
Dreamspell Nightmares
Dreamspell Revenge
The World Outside the Window
Writers Bloc II
Dedication
Although we have used our knowledge to create a believable, clever but fictional crime caper, we wish to dedicate this book to the real prison manufacturing programs, both State and Federal.
Andrew DiDonato, a former Gambino Crime family associate, spent much of his life in Federal prison and worked in the real program. This is what he had to say:
While incarcerated in federal prison, I worked in the prison industry manufacturing program. It was, and remains, a program that helps inmates meet their financial needs and gain self-esteem while behind bars.
But beyond that, it gives them an opportunity to build a nest egg and learn a trade that will help them when they are back on the street. The better equipped a person is financially and in job skills when he is released from prison, the better his chances for not ending up back behind the walls.
Andrew DiDonato,
“Surviving the Mob”
Although this is a work of fiction, it is no secret that scandals appear in the media almost every day, so embezzlement or misappropriation of government funds is not unrealistic. Morgan St. James and Caroline Rowe know from their experience representing furniture manufactured in prisons that it is also a fact that participants in these rehabilitation programs are at least 24% less likely to return to prison. Where applicable, a portion of their earnings are also allocated to victim restitution and child support.
Introduction And Acknowledgments
A great big ‘thank you’ to editor Darrah Whitaker, who painstakingly reviewed every chapter more than once. He not only offered valuable critique, but gave us the benefit of the male point of view.
As writers, we sometimes become too close to the work and don’t see what might be missing. Darrah has a very keen sense of the obvious, and sent comments like, “A strong suggestion would be to toughen up Nathan. Be careful not to make him one of the girls.”
May every author be fortunate enough to have a critique buddy and editor like Darrah.
Our thanks also go to members of Henderson Writers Group, Las Vegas NV, who offered very valuable critique during the development process.
It took several years to get this story just right, and we wish to thank all of the people who encouraged and supported us during those years. The plot and scam we created had to be realistic—something that could actually happen.
So thank you to former FBI undercover agent Joaquin “Jack” Garcia, New York Times bestselling author of Making Jack Falcone, for saying it could have done just that. The details were revised every time we discovered something that wouldn’t have flown. Then we had to go back to square one to figure out what could work.
Thanks to friends with and without law-enforcement backgrounds who came to our rescue with suggestions
when we were stymied. Several of those are found in the book.
~1~
My rolling suitcase hit the marble reception room floor with a solid thwack. Everywhere I looked, employees wept, swore or raced around like hamsters in a wheel.
This couldn’t be the efficient office I’d left only five days ago. It was more like a disaster scene in a movie. What could have created this chaos while I was at the National Software Conference in Portland?
Normally I would have taken a cab from SeaTac Airport to my home, then picked up my car before going to the office, but on this particular day I couldn’t wait to flash my Woman of the Year trophy. All the way to the office I’d pictured a grand welcome from my staff, and saw myself basking in the expected glory.
I managed to suspend my shock long enough to say to the receptionist, “Bonnie, what happened? Has everyone gone nuts?”
She choked out, “Th-the door. Didn’t you see the notice on the door?” She swiped at a river of tears streaming down her cheeks.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t. What notice?”
She pointed toward the entry doors. “Out there.”
I hurried into the hall. How had I missed the bright yellow notice taped to one of the elegant dark mahogany doors?
Under Jurisdiction of
U.S. BANKRUPTCY COURT – WESTERN DISTRICT OF WASHINGTON
Access to Premises Prohibited After
5:00 pm, June 21, 2013
The words “U.S. Bankruptcy Court and Access Prohibited” sent a chill down my spine. June 21? That’s today!
Everything within me went icy cold. How could this possibly be? We were a big company, respected in the industry. I’d just been honored at a trade convention. We couldn’t be bankrupt.
Back in the office Bonnie and our controller Harold Spacklemeyer were in complete meltdown. Harold paced in front of the reception station mumbling obscenities in a manner totally out of character for the mild-mannered little man. He looked like he had aged fifteen years during the five days I’d been gone.
His hands fluttered wildly. “Kimberly, thank goodness you’re back. It’s Armageddon—Armageddon, I tell you! That bastard CEO of ours is gone—vanished—nowhere to be found.” He struggled to take a few shaky breaths.
I patted Harold’s arm. “Of course Steve is gone. He’s on vacation. Remember?”
He shook his head like a sad bobble-head doll. “Some vacation! That light-fingered crook drained the company of every friggin’ dollar and disappeared.” Harold made a few hacking noises in his throat, then tugged at his polka dot bowtie as though loosening it would help him breathe. Finally he yanked it off in a fit of nerves and threw it on the floor.
“Harold, slow down. This can’t be true.” My voice was calm while my heart did a drum solo.
“Oh, but it is. Steve skipped out and left a mountain of debt and unpaid salaries. Oh, and the checks for health insurance and payroll tax? Well, they bounced.”
“That’s simply not possible. We keep those funds separate in a trust account. Pull yourself together, okay?”
Between my spinning head and thumping heart, I was a mess. This bankruptcy nonsense had to be a mistake.
His voice smoothed out. “You’re right. There should have been more than enough to cover everything, so I checked all of our bank accounts. Somehow he managed to drain the trust account and the balance in every other one was a big, fat zero. He—took—every—friggin’—dollar.” Color drained from his face turning it a scary grayish shade.
“Please, Harold, take some deep breaths. You’re beginning to frighten me. Look, everything was fine when I left. You know that. What you’re saying sounds crazy.”
He flopped down on one of the reception room sofas. After a few moments his color returned to normal. “I called and called, but his phone just rang. No answer, no voicemail. The next day I got a recording saying his cell phone was disconnected. So was his home phone. After that I called you over and over, but all I got was voice mail. Why didn’t you call me back?”
Poor Harold looked at me with whipped puppy eyes. “For God’s sake, Kimberly, listen to me. This is very serious. Oh, he knew about this bankruptcy and the pending audit, alright. The—man—is—not—on—vacation!”
His words finally penetrated my addled brain. “Wait a minute. What do you mean audit?”
“A team of them showed up on Thursday. From what one fellow said, I guess the company had been teetering on the edge of bankruptcy for a while. Apparently Mr. Slick has been draining money from all the accounts for the past several months and finally took every remaining dollar before he pulled his disappearing act. I have no idea how Steve managed to do that, and I couldn’t get them to tell me anything else.” He paled again.
I prayed he wasn’t having a heart attack. Of course I’d heard of schemes that involved “cooked” books. Who hasn’t? Apparently Steve knew his way around shady finances a lot better than I’d ever have given him credit for.
A stab of guilt raced through me. Why hadn’t I answered my phone when Harold called while I was at the conference? It came to me in a flash. At the airport I’d reached into my purse to turn off my cell phone before the plane departed, only to discover it wasn’t there. I must have lost it sometime during the conference and didn’t even realize it. How naïve I’d been to think there were no emergencies requiring my attention. I couldn’t even remember the last time I’d had the damned thing.
I would have checked in every day, but with all the excitement about my award, I guess my ego got the best of me. I’d made myself think everything was running smoothly.
He gave me a shaky hug. “Don’t worry. You or I aren’t suspected of helping him. No problem there.”
“What about extradi—”
The flustered little man cut me short. “Look, he’s a clever guy. Wherever that snake is, you can bet it’s a country without extradition. He’ll be living it up while we’re all screwed.”
Harold made a desperate grab at my elbow. “Hurry now, Kimberly. If you don’t pack your things by five o’clock, you can kiss them goodbye.” With that, he rushed off to tend to his own possessions.
Over the past several years I’d earned the education and experience to pass the Certified Public Accountant Exam and worked my way up from accounting clerk to CFO of Solution Technology Corporation, a cutting-edge financial software development company. I figured I’d earned the right to also picture myself as a real hotshot. Damn it. Thanks to Mr. Scumbag I sure didn’t feel like a hotshot right then.
I’d splurged on a new Mercedes convertible and when I referred to it as a status symbol, a good friend had thrown a damper on my excitement. “Quit being so damned cocky,” he’d cautioned. Every silver lining has a cloud, you know. Your ego is getting the best of you.”
Okay, okay, I know that’s not the way the saying really goes, but this guy loved to quote what he called twisted proverbs. At the time, I thought he was just being a jerk. Even if there was a hint of a cloud, as far as I was concerned my personal cloud would always have a glittery silver lining. Now I couldn’t stop thinking of myself as the jerk.
Some silver lining! In the space of no more than five minutes Miss High-Powered Executive with a six-figure salary became a perspiration-drenched desperate woman. The air conditioning ruffled my damp blouse. I shivered from head to toe.
Bonnie held out a carton. “Here’s a box for your stuff.” She tried to wipe a tear from her cheek but instead poked herself in the eye with a long ruby-tipped fingernail. Her eyes fluttered like bird’s wings. I hoped she wouldn’t release another shower of tears.
Arcs of mascara pooled under Bonnie’s eyes made her look like a manic raccoon. I pulled a hankie from my purse and handed it to her. The black mascara stains probably wouldn’t come out, but I’d never liked that handkerchief much, anyway.
I took in the plush burgundy carpet and beautiful artwork that decorated the length of the luxurious corridor to my office for the last time, realizing I was shuffli
ng like one of the living dead. The impressive brass plaque on my door was elegantly etched with my name and Chief Financial Officer. If only I could wake up from what had to be a nightmare, but no sense wishing for that. This was real.
By 4:30 everything had been packed. I balanced the box atop my wheeled suitcase and pressed the P1 button in the elevator. Where was my car?
In all the confusion, I’d actually forgotten about taking a cab right from the airport to the office. Of course. My car was in my garage at home right where I’d left it. On top of everything else, I was forced to find a cab.
During the ride I envisioned my boyfriend Ryan, a gorgeous 25 year old hunk, handing me a drink then serving me one of his gourmet dinners. I needed him to give me a reassuring hug and tell me everything would work out. I’m 35, but look much younger, and so what? These days a 10 year age difference doesn’t mean anything, anyway.
The cab driver scooted in and out of traffic. Before I met Ryan, between savings and checking accounts I had enough of a cushion to last a year and a half. That wasn’t the case now. Ryan had champagne tastes but didn’t earn much money, so after months of picking up all of my own expenses plus Ryan’s, I only had enough reserve for maybe two months. I remember thinking I’m a CPA. Why didn’t I manage my own finances better?
If I didn’t land another job quickly, I’d have to hit the plastic when my reserve ran out. It was like being in a vise with the screw turning tighter and tighter.
The cab screeched to halt in front of my Lake Washington condo. “That will be $15, Ma’am.”
It makes me feel middle-aged when people call me ma’am. I handed him a twenty as though I still had money to burn. “Keep the change and do me a favor. Don’t call women my age ma’am.” He pulled away burning rubber.
Well, you’re not going to believe what happened next, but trust me, it’s true. I keyed the door open, took one look at my empty living room and screamed. “Holy shit!”
When I say it was empty, I don’t mean empty as in Ryan wasn’t home. I mean empty as in every stick of furniture, the big screen TV, artwork—all of it—gone. This day clearly wasn’t going to get any better.