She knew what they wanted, of course. Glenda Craft, Rachel’s lawyer, had filed a motion for a protective order. They wanted this set of personal texts to be declared confidential, so they couldn’t be released to the public, couldn’t be used in any other case. But she wanted the argument on the record.
Craft stood up. “We just received supplemental discovery material that contains highly personal and private e-mail exchanges between my client and a couple of male friends of hers. Some of them were messages exchanged on the dating app Tinder. And we are concerned about what the defense is planning to do with them.”
“Which is what?” she said.
“This is a deliberate move to pressure my client into settling.”
“Your Honor—” said Madden.
But Juliana cut him off. “All right. I have your motion to protect.”
“Yes, we—”
“Okay, I’ll hear from the defense.”
Harlan Madden stood up, cleared his throat. He spoke in a bland, guarded tone. “Yes, uh, in response to the discovery request made by the plaintiff, we engaged the services of a computer forensics specialist to recover all deleted files on a laptop used by the plaintiff while working for the Wheelz Corporation. We have provided the plaintiff with those recovered files, as requested.”
“Hold on, Mr. Madden,” Juliana said. “I have looked at the discovery materials, and I saw sexually explicit text messages and nude photos, and I have to say, it made me wonder what you’re planning on doing with all that.”
Madden gave her an even look. “We’re simply complying with the plaintiff’s discovery request.”
Juliana thought: Oh, please. She said, “I recall you were extremely concerned about confidentiality when it came to any past legal settlements of sexual harassment cases.”
“Yes, Your Honor, but these aren’t business records. Also, the plaintiff clearly wasn’t so concerned about keeping her correspondence confidential, because she used a laptop that is the property of the Wheelz Corporation. She should have been under no illusions that what she put on this laptop would remain private to her.”
“So what are you planning to do with these documents?”
“We have no plans to do anything with them.”
“Judge, this is a brazen threat that the defense is holding over my client’s head to compel her to settle and not go to trial. Frankly, they’re trying to embarrass her. We want all of these personal text messages and photographs to be designated as confidential.”
“All right,” Juliana said. She saw no reason to postpone a decision. She didn’t need to take a week to think about it. This was easy. “I am granting the plaintiff’s motion for a protective order. I hereby order the defense not to use or disclose any of these documents and materials produced by the defendant, which are Bates labeled 5539 to 5884, to any parties outside this litigation. I can’t imagine this is a problem for you, is it, Mr. Madden?”
“No, Your Honor,” he replied meekly.
“And one more thing. If any of these private text messages see the light of day, I’m going to hold you and your client accountable for the violation of her privacy. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes, Your Honor,” he said.
Her phone buzzed, and she glanced at it. “Let’s take a recess,” she said.
* * *
—
When she emerged from the courtroom, she saw another WhatsApp text on her phone. She opened it. From Sasha again: Call me.
She tapped on the phone icon on the top right of her screen, then tapped Voice call. They were on an encrypted line now.
He picked right up. “Where is your office? I come over now,” he said.
“No.” She didn’t want to be seen with him, a hacker, someone sketchy and marginal, at the Suffolk County Courthouse. “I’ll come to you.”
“Call and text only on the WhatsApp,” he said. “Or Signal. Only.”
“Okay, but why?”
“Because we are dealing with some kinda bad guys. Some scary players.”
Her throat felt tight. She swallowed. “Scary how?”
“You’ll see what I’m talking about.”
“What do you mean, you think someone’s . . . bugging my phone?”
“At this level anything is possible.”
Hersh had told her that her iPhone was probably secure. Maybe Sasha knew more.
“This level . . . ?”
“Um, do you have my payment?”
“I do.”
“Cash, yes?”
“Yes.”
“It’s not that I distrust you . . . Judge.”
Judge. So much for the Rosalind ruse. “You know who I am,” she said. “Why am I not surprised?”
“Rosalind Brody, formerly Winter, born in Billerica, Mass. The Social Security Administration says she died some years ago. And that she has one living descendant, a judge.”
“Well done,” she said, and she said good-bye and hung up.
Then her phone made a curious little electronic bleat, and a text came up in a different window. The text contained only a link, which she clicked on. She had to trust him; she had no choice.
The link took her to a Gmail home page that looked like her own. There was an inbox that showed a long stack of e-mails, one column showing the name of the sender, next to a subject line. All very familiar. But she didn’t recognize the names of the senders.
She was looking at Noah Miller’s inbox.
47
Your Ukrainian friend did it,” she said.
There was a long silence on the line. Then Philip Hersh said, “That was fast.”
“Are you still okay to help me go through the—”
“I’m going to send you a link and a password,” Hersh interrupted.
“Do you have an app called Signal or WhatsApp installed on your phone?” she asked.
“Uh, yeah,” said Hersh. “You do?”
“Your Ukrainian friend recommended it.”
“He tends to be on the paranoid side. Occupational hazard. But in this instance, I actually think it may be wise.”
She remembered the phrase the hacker had used—“scary players”—and wondered whether that was nothing more than the manifestation of a paranoid mind-set. Or whether there was something to it. It filled her with dread.
And something else: she was in possession of someone’s stolen private e-mail correspondence. She had been party to an illegal act.
It was funny, she reflected: she waited for a Walk sign even when no cars were coming; she’d never cheat on her taxes; and back when she was in private practice, she never rounded up her billable hours. Yet she’d broken her marriage vows, and she’d just broken into someone’s e-mail, and she wasn’t so sure she was in the wrong.
She remembered once reading about a thought experiment: A man’s wife is dying. There’s one drug that can save her life, but it’s prohibitively expensive. The pharmacist won’t lower the price, and the man doesn’t have the money. What should the man do? Should he steal the drug?
To Juliana, the real question was, who wouldn’t?
Sitting every day at that vast judicial bench, a big hunk of oak separating her and the defendants and plaintiffs who came to her courtroom, it was easy to imagine she belonged to a different tribe. But it was a reassuring lie. Because she knew that they were separated only by circumstance, by situation, by a cascade of decisions. The person wielding the gavel, the person in the dock—how hard, really, was it for them to trade places? Martha Connolly liked to quote somebody, Juliana didn’t know who: life is a garden of forking paths.
“I could use your help going through it,” she said to Hersh. “You’ll know what to look for.”
“Understood.”
When they hung up, she launched Signal and was about to send him the link, when
there was a knock on her door.
“Come in,” she called out.
Kaitlyn was holding a thick manila folder. She handed it to Juliana. Inside was a bundle of papers. The top page was titled “Motion for Summary Judgment.”
If she granted the motion, that meant the case was over. She’d be saying there was no case, no cause of action, no material facts at issue. No trial.
Just as Donald Greaves had promised. She had one week, he’d said, to allow it. One week to do the right thing.
48
She had a message on her phone from Hersh.
“We need to talk,” he said. “Come by my office as soon as you can.”
She looked at her watch. If she left now . . .
She found Hersh in his office, hunched over his computer, a yellow pad next to the keyboard. He looked up, held up the yellow pad as she walked in.
“Noah Miller is in even deeper than I thought.”
“What do you mean?”
“He has clients in the People’s Liberation Army in China. Chinese generals. Two Saudi princes, the minister of foreign affairs in Zimbabwe, the president of the Philippines . . . Jesus, it’s an all-star cast of global dictators.”
“I always thought the rumors were just rumors. What about Russians?”
He nodded. “I searched his e-mails for Wheelz and came up with a very interesting exchange.”
“Okay.”
“Let me print you out a set.” He turned back to his computer, tapped at a few keys, and then his laser printer hummed to life. As they fed out of the printer, he reached over and began handing them to her.
“Here,” he said. “Start with this one.”
It was an e-mail dated two years earlier.
Noah
Hope all is well. We understand Wheelz is doing a round of financing. Can you find out who’s representing them? Still Goldman Sachs? We may be interested. I’d like to see the book.
Cheers,
Charles
Charles Finch, Partner
Harrogate Capital Partners
6 Victoria Avenue
Harrogate, United Kingdom
“Okay,” she said, looking up. “Do we know anything about this guy Charles Finch?”
“Cookie-cutter finance guy. Went to Cambridge, then Harvard Business School, worked at a private equity firm in New York, now based in the English town of Harrogate.”
“And ‘the book’ is . . . ?”
“That’s the document they give prospective investors. Keep reading.”
She did. Then came Noah Miller’s response:
Charles,
It’s Joe Quintanilla in Goldman’s Boston office, and they’re looking to raise $500 million, primarily from new investors. I can get you the book as soon as you sign the attached NDA. Sounds like they’re trying to move quickly. It’s on a short fuse.
Noah
“A short fuse means everyone wanted to get this done immediately, I assume,” she said.
Hersh nodded. “Wheelz was in big trouble, I remember. Bleeding cash. People thought they were going to go out of business.”
“Okay.”
She skimmed the next couple of pages. A few back-and-forth volleys about possibly investing in Wheelz. Noah Miller sends Charles Finch a nondisclosure agreement. Finch makes some edits to the agreement, signs it, sends it back. That sort of thing.
“No,” Hersh said, watching her read. “Don’t skip past those. You see where the British banker says, ‘We might be interested in doing the whole round’?”
“Yeah?”
“That means that Harrogate Capital Partners is considering investing the entire five hundred million bucks. The whole enchilada.”
“Okay.”
“Check out how Noah responds.”
She scanned the pages and found an e-mail from Noah Miller to Charles Finch, the next day. She read:
Noah Miller
to Charles Finch
Charles,
Joe Quintanilla at Goldman has said he will make the Wheelz management team available to meet with you and your team at your convenience next week.
But one question: your fund size is $1 billion. Half a billion represents half your fund. We don’t understand how you can do the whole round.
“Okay, got it,” she said. “Reasonable question.”
“Look at how Finch replies.”
She read further.
Noah
One of our LPs in Harrogate Capital Partners is particularly interested in this and he will cover anything, up to half a billion, that our fund does not invest itself.
Charles
Noah Miller
to Charles Finch
Who’s the LP?
Charles Finch
to Noah Miller
Let’s discuss on phone. What’s the best number to reach you on?
“Ah,” she said. “This guy Finch won’t put it in an e-mail.”
“Right. There’s one unnamed investor with some very deep pockets. He uses the word ‘he.’ One person.”
“Is the investor’s name anywhere in these e-mails?”
“Not that I can see. It would take me a while to go through the e-mails and look more closely. But from everything I’ve seen, they never mention his name. They’re really careful about that.”
“Huh. Bizarre.”
“Now take a look at the exchange I printed out between Noah Miller and this guy Joe Quintanilla at Goldman Sachs. Quintanilla is the point man in charge of the Wheelz financing.”
She skimmed the next few pages.
Joe Quintanilla
to Noah Miller
Noah—OK, before I take this to the company, how do I know this is credible? Who are we talking about?
—Joe
Joe—It’s a Caymans-based insurance company, Antilles Windward Insurance.
We’re talking half a billion. Who the hell is Antilles Windward Insurance?
LTL
“‘LTL’?” she said.
“Stands for ‘let’s talk live,’” said Hersh.
“So the investor isn’t a person, it’s some insurance company I’ve never heard of?”
“It’s an insurance company nobody has ever heard of. And there’s no such insurance company. There’s no record of any insurance business it does. It’s based in the Netherlands Antilles, and it’s probably just a front for this one very wealthy investor. A shell company.”
“A shell company that owns half a billion dollars’ worth of Wheelz,” she said.
“No. More. Keep reading. The next bunch of pages. Noah e-mails another lawyer, a partner at Ropes and Gray in Boston named Sidra Evans, because this unnamed client wants to acquire a controlling interest in Wheelz. He wants to sink even more money into it. More than the half-billion dollars.”
“Okay.” She shuffled through the papers until she located the exchange he was talking about.
Noah Miller
to Sidra Evans
([email protected])
Sidra,
To recap the conversation we just had, our Client would like to increase the size of their investment in this Wheelz round to $1 billion. We add the following terms and conditions to the agreement as discussed.
—Agreement sets board of directors at 5, of whom 2 board members will be named by the Investor.
—Company cannot impair the assets in any way—
She skimmed through the rest. Boilerplate language; even she recognized it, from reading contracts. She looked up. “So ‘let’s talk live’ is because no one mentions the big guy’s name in an e-mail, right?”
“Look,” said Hersh, “these are major players in a very big deal. They want to make sure they know where the money’s coming from. And that the money is really there.”
>
“So they want to know actual names. Of people.”
“Right.”
“But the real name, or names, is never written down in an e-mail.”
“Right.”
“So this guy Finch, at Harrogate Capital Partners, is the point of contact for this rich investor. Who uses a bogus insurance company to hide behind.”
“Right.”
“And Finch gets on the phone and tells Noah, and Noah tells the Goldman guy on the phone as well, and it never appears in any paperwork.”
“Except the . . . accredited investor form.”
“Right.”
“But you can’t get access to that form?”
“They belong to the government. The Securities and Exchange Commission, in some locked file, probably.”
“Okay.” She thought. “And still nothing on Mayfair Paragon?”
“Right. The owner of Wheelz is this phony insurance company, Antilles Windward. Which owns fifty-one percent of the company.”
“That’s in the e-mails?”
“Right. And here’s what’s interesting.” He swiveled in his chair to face his computer monitor, tapped at the keys, stared at the screen for a few seconds. Then he swiveled around to face Juliana. “The lead investor for the last couple of rounds—the one before Antilles Windward invested a billion dollars?”
She felt a chill. “Don’t say it.”
“Sorry,” Hersh said, “but it’s true. He’s dead.”
“What do you mean—he died recently?”
“Couple of months ago. A Silicon Valley private equity guy, Kevin Mathers, who would have been the largest investor in Wheelz. Forty-six. Died in a tragic skiing accident in Aspen. In the woods on Ajax.”
“So? Accidents happen,” she said. Though in fact she didn’t know what to think. Could this be true?
“Yeah,” he said. “People die in skiing accidents, it happens.”
“But?”
“But you take Kevin Mathers, and then you factor in Matías Sanchez, and it becomes a coincidence, and I don’t believe in coincidences.”
49
She was silent for a long time. She watched the traffic on the street below, the shadows of dusk settling on St. James Street. Then she went back to the pile of printouts. A few seconds later her eye was snagged by another e-mail thread. An exchange between Noah Miller and someone named Fiona Charteris.
Judgment Page 19