“Wassup, player?” said the Israeli.
“Is Avram here?”
Ohad sat back down. “Yeah, yeah, go,” he said, seeming sad that Youssouf wasn’t there for him.
Youssouf proceeded forward and the next door was buzzed open. He entered a second room, brightly lit, where six additional men sat repairing phones. A few of them glanced up and nodded. Techno music played from a small speaker in the middle of the room. Youssouf continued to the back, where another door buzzed open.
This room had a window and was nicer than the other two. Seated behind a desk cluttered with paper was Avram Lessing. He wore a blue oversized New York Giants hoodie. The top of his bald head was partially covered by a yarmulke. His face, despite the baldness and his age, was chubby and youthful. He wore glasses.
He was talking on the phone. “Mommy, I have to go now,” he said, gesturing to Youssouf to sit. “No, no, tell Aba I’ll call him back.” He ended the call, and with a cocky expression looked over. “So?”
“I got six,” said Youssouf.
Avram picked up a bag of toffee candies and offered them to his guest; Youssouf took a small handful, opened a toffee, put it in his mouth, and put the others in his pants pocket.
“Six 7s, any 8s?” asked Avram.
“Man, they iPhones, that’s all I know.”
“So, break ’em out, fam.”
Youssouf smiled; he liked Avram.
He was about to get up when he remembered the instructions Malik had given him. He opened the bag, dug around in the phones, and pulled out the one with the inch of Scotch Tape on the back. After holding it up and showing Avram, he spoke in a whisper: “This one—you don’t want to hold on to this one.”
Elizabeth Carlyle sat at her desk and considered the calls she could make. For starters, she could try Edwin Kerins, the most reasonable of Calcott Corporation’s in-house counsel. She’d explain to him that one of her junior associates had taken a copy of the documents out of the office. He had them on his phone, she’d say. Yes, the phone was stolen.
Then she’d have to call Charles Bloom, Calcott’s CEO. She pictured him for a second, saw his saggy-skinned face, and felt sick. She’d call all the partners of her firm, of course, even the ones who were out of town. She’d tell them all what had happened. The calls would be miserable. There would be yelling, confusion, and long, predictable silences as people tried to understand exactly what she was saying. Recriminations, finger pointing.
Worst of all, though, someone would try to soothe her, someone would try to minimize the damage, tell her it wasn’t her fault. Fucking idiots. A Rolodex of idiots played through her mind. All of them. Every single one.
The fact of the matter was that after thirty-one years of practicing law, Elizabeth Carlyle was burnt out. Her twelve-hour days should have become shorter long ago. She was a named partner; she didn’t have to work the hours she did. But that wasn’t how she operated. She needed to touch every facet.
Elizabeth had known she was going to be a lawyer since the sixth grade. Her father had been an attorney, but he wasn’t her inspiration. It was another classmate’s father, a man called Mr. Holland, who made a presentation on constitutional law to Elizabeth’s sixth grade class.
“If you know the rules,” he said, standing in front of the class, and looking right at little Lizzie Ording, “and you prepare, and you come to court, you will win the case.”
The theory, of course, turned out to be false. Still, something about it stood out. If she prepared more than anyone else, she would win. If she knew the law better, she would win. If she learned how to act and carry herself in the courtroom, if she learned how to charm judges and juries, she would win.
In other words, there was a way to bring order to the universe. She started, right there and then, to think of herself as a lawyer, and told her mother and father that night that she would study the law.
She went to Georgetown, graduated summa cum laude, and headed straight to law school at Yale. From there she jumped into a clerkship with the honorable Edward R. Monroe at the Third Circuit Court of Appeals. A year later she was scooped up by Heller, Bromwell, Burgess, Drake—which, at the time, was the most prestigious law firm in New York City.
She specialized in Chapter 11 reorganization, and then shifted to white-collar crime, and then finally settled in civil litigation. After six years she was poached by a rival firm, Mooney, Driscoll, Hathaway, Evans, Miller. A decade and a half later, in the midst of the 2008 meltdown, that firm dissolved and reorganized as Carlyle, Driscoll, and Hathaway. She’d made it.
It didn’t feel that way now. She looked at her hands. They looked suddenly older than they had the day before. The veins seemed more pronounced, the skin more scaly. They reminded her of her grandmother’s hands. A tiny sliver of unpainted nail could be seen peeking from the bottom of her sensible red polish. Not my fault, she said in her mind. Not my fault.
Her thoughts shifted to the Calcott case. The thing was like a cancer that kept spreading. The case had started after a failed merger between the two banks. During the due diligence period, Emerson’s accountants had discovered an irregularity in Calcott’s records. Elizabeth had been tasked with looking into it. She discovered that a small group inside the bank’s special opportunities fund had been funneling large sums of money to a shell company in Oman. It was a mind-boggling violation of FCPA rules.
When she reported it to the CEO, Charles Bloom, he told her that the fund was experimental. He frowned. “Bury it,” he said. “Just bury it.”
“Excuse me?” she asked.
“Bury it,” he repeated. “Tell the fund they’re gonna have to gas up at the Middle East Section from now on. Tell them to make this right.”
“I’m not telling them anything,” she said.
“I’ll do it,” he said, smiling as if she were making a big deal out of nothing—like she was some kind of prude.
The question of the irregularities in the fund’s books wasn’t going to just go away. A week later, Elizabeth convinced Calcott’s in-house attorneys that the best way out was to walk away from the merger. She warned them that Emerson would sue for breach of contract, but the claims involved in that lawsuit would be far less toxic than this Oman bullshit.
Elizabeth outlined their response: They would countersue with enough claims that Emerson would be forced to back down. Emerson wouldn’t want to have a nuclear war over this. Nobody did. They would back down. The board took Elizabeth’s advice. They walked away from the merger.
Elizabeth ended up being right about everything—except Emerson backing down.
Chris Cowley was glad to have a moment to himself. He’d been in the front seat of Valencia’s SUV for the past ten minutes. They’d told him to wait there. He didn’t have his iPhone, so he sat rubbing his forehead and watching pedestrians come and go. A mellow, post-adrenalized feeling had settled over him; it reminded him of how he’d felt as a child, after a good cry. The worst was over.
Time would wash the details of this memory away. Temporary problems, he told himself. In ten or fifteen years, he would have a hard time describing the vehicle he was sitting in right then. His eyes moved around the front of the SUV and settled on the glove compartment. Did the woman keep a gun in there?
He studied it for a moment, then leaned forward and tried to open it. It was locked. He was just beginning to wonder how hard it would be to pick the lock when someone banged on the passenger window right next to his head. When he looked out, he saw a thin-haired, white guy looking down at him. The man was dressed in an ill-fitting suit; he had cop written all over him, head to toe.
“NYPD, kid—open up.”
Chris, upset about being startled, didn’t roll down the window. “Can I help you?”
“Open the door.”
Chris dug in deeper. “They said they’ll be right back. It’s not my car. I can’t move it, Officer.”
The two men locked eyes.
“Come on kid, open up. Valencia ca
lled me. She wants me to sit here with you.” The cop smiled halfheartedly. The whole thing seemed like some kind of game. Chris opened the door and stepped out.
The cop coughed into his left hand and then held out his right. “Wally Philpott,” he said.
“Chris Cowley,” said Chris. They shook hands.
Even during this simple exchange, the cop seemed to be measuring him in some way. He seemed to believe he could read a man’s mind by looking at his face. It almost made Chris want to laugh.
The cop gestured at the vehicle. “Let’s wait in the car,” he said.
“I can’t let you in there, I’m sorry,” said Chris. “It’s not mine.” He took another step away from the car.
“Gotta be careful these days,” said the cop, shifting his head inquisitively from one side to the other. “Thieves everywhere, right?” He tapped at what must’ve been his gun under his coat. “They pay all right, though,” he added, nodding back at Grand Central, almost as if he were speaking to himself.
Chris turned his gaze past him, hoping he’d see Valencia and her associates. He was getting impatient.
“This guy get you with a bump and brush?” asked the cop.
Chris knew what he was asking, but he still wasn’t sure he should be talking to him. “You work for Valencia?” he asked.
“She hires me sometimes,” said the cop, looking away for a moment as though he shouldn’t be admitting so much. He coughed again, looked back and continued, “Lawyer?”
“Look,” said Chris, raising his hands apologetically, “I’m sure you’re a good guy, but until Valencia gets here, I’d rather not talk about anything. You understand, right?”
“Yeah, I got you kid. I’m just shooting the shit, don’t worry about it.” He reached forward and slapped Chris on the shoulder, a gesture that was both friendly and not. The cop’s eyes continued to search Chris’s face.
Remembering that he’d snorted a little cocaine the previous night, Chris gave his nose a quick rub with his right index finger. He sniffled. The idea of sex passed through his mind. He looked at the cop and imagined being fucked by him. It brought a small level of comfort.
“You watch the playoffs?” asked the cop.
Chris rubbed his nose again. “I’m afraid not.”
The cop exhaled. A moment passed. “There she is,” he said, nodding toward Forty-Second Street.
Chris saw Valencia walking in their direction, her eyes directly on him as she approached. It took effort not to look away or drop his gaze down to the ground like a man with a guilty conscience; instead, Chris scratched at his head and then rubbed his eyes.
“Good, you met Wally,” Valencia said when she arrived. Chris watched her shake hands with the cop and pat him on the back.
The cop then quickly shook hands with the other two men, and Chris watched Milton pass the cop a white envelope. The cop put the envelope in his inside jacket pocket without looking at it and Chris assumed that it contained money.
Valencia moved closer to Chris and held her phone up for him. He had to lean in, but when he did, he saw an image of the pickpocket grabbed from a surveillance camera.
“Is that him?” asked Valencia.
Chris squinted at the image. “I think so.”
“Okay, good,” said Valencia. She took the phone and squinted down at it, just as Chris had. For a moment he wondered if she was making fun of him. “Good,” she repeated.
Her phone rang. She plugged one ear and answered. “Yeah, Danny?” She listened. “Okay, Bleecker Street. Six train”—she nodded and lifted her eyebrows at Milton—“8:26 a.m., northwest exit onto Bleecker.”
Phone to her ear, she turned and nodded at her companions. She looked happy. “Very nice work, Danny. No, thank you. Okay call me then.” She ended the call. “Bleecker Street,” she said.
After wasting almost an hour and a half on Facebook, Avi Lessing was feeling frustrated with his lack of workplace discipline. He placed all six of the phones he’d purchased from Youssouf Wolde in a canvas tote bag, pushed himself up from his seat, pulled out his set of keys, and unlocked a door in the back of his office.
Behind the door was a fairly large walk-in closet. Avi had repurposed it by lining the walls, floor, and ceiling with copper sheeting. Inside what he called the Gold Room—his employees called it the Wank Room—was a desk, a chair, a desktop computer, a fan, and a lamp. The copper sheeting prevented Wi-Fi or cellular signals from leaving or entering. No GPS, no remote cameras, no calls. No Find My Phone: Avi could snoop as much as he wanted.
After turning on the lamp, he closed the door, locked it, and sat down. He turned on the computer, and then, one by one powered up each of the six iPhones. I’m tired, he thought, while he waited for the phones to boot up. I need to stop eating that bullshit for breakfast. Can’t eat sugar cereal, gotta eat fruit and lean proteins.
When the first phone was ready, he grabbed it, pressed the home button, and saw the prompt for a passcode. He turned the phone off and set it aside. The same thing happened with the second and third phones.
The fourth phone was Chris Cowley’s. Avi pressed the button and saw a home screen, with some kind of painting of a pool. It looked like Miami. White water splashed up where someone had just dived in. He saw the time and date in white. He turned the phone over and saw the piece of tape on the back. This was the phone Youssouf had said not to hold on to.
The battery icon showed three-quarters of a charge. He pressed the home button again, and quickly scanned the apps and programs. There were no social media apps, and no bank apps. He thumbed around for a few moments, wondering where to look first.
Credit bitch, gimme that credit shit, he said in his mind, thinking, like he sometimes did, in the voice of a rapper. Wassup mommy? Wassup mommy? You wanna ride on my Ducati? You wanna ride in my Bugatti? I’m about that passcode shit.
He pressed the phone’s photo icon and looked at the pictures. Nada. A few selfies; a dinner; a long-haired man; a sunset; a shot of Manhattan taken from Brooklyn; a group of drunk men laughing in front of a bar. No girls. Nothing good. He made little clicking noises with his tongue while he looked.
Next he tapped the documents folder. Inside was a single file, titled Calcott Hot Docs_1_36. He squinted at it for a moment, and then tapped on it. A trove of hundreds of files appeared. He felt himself frown, and leaning forward in his seat, he began fingering around in these files.
The first few batches seemed to be financial records of some sort. Spreadsheets, they didn’t mean anything to him. Next, he came across what seemed to be an archive of old emails. What is this shit? he wondered. He skimmed and skimmed: Calcott. Calcott. VP. Todd. Careful. Breadth. Magic. Disclosures.
A quiet, euphoric feeling came over him. Oh yeah, bitch. The clicking noises he made with his tongue and mouth increased in volume. These were not normal emails. This was juicy. Some of them were marked Confidential. Some were brief, some were long. Some were corporate-sounding, some sounded casual. He didn’t know what exactly they were about, but he knew they seemed important.
“Mmm-hmm,” he said, nodding and leaning forward.
Over the next few days and weeks, he’d think about that moment. He’d play it over in his head again and again. He had a chance to act differently. There had been a brief amount of time—not more than ten seconds, really—between when he stopped skimming the emails and when he began copying them. Later, he’d look back and wonder whether he had felt any kind of apprehension.
Maybe a small amount of reluctance—a quiet warning, something like, No, it’s too much work. It wasn’t enough to stop him. He plugged his USB cord into the phone. He clicked with his mouse, and a prompt asked him if he wanted to save the files to his hard drive. He clicked Yes. He would come to regret that decision more than anything he’d ever done in his life.
When he finished copying the files onto his computer, he stepped back out to his office and googled: “Calcott Corporation” + “New York.” One of the first results that
popped up was an article in the New York Times from a few months ago that mentioned a lawsuit between two banks.
He skimmed through a few paragraphs: The specter of a trial has Wall Street on pins and needles. Farther down: What once seemed unlikely, now seems inevitable. In the middle of the story was a picture of one of Calcott’s attorneys, Elizabeth Carlyle.
He looked at her for a moment, zooming in on the image. She looked powerful, like a senator or something. A quick search and he was on her Wikipedia page. She was definitely a big-time player. This was big. This was the real deal. This wasn’t for his homey in Queens. This was way above old Mick the Mook’s pay grade. These weren’t small-time matters. These documents were valuable. This was real shit. He knew just the person for this.
He’d sell them to Yuri Rabinowitz.
Yuri Rabinowitz, Yuri’s brother Isaac, and a third man, their friend Moishe Groysman, were riding motorcycles back from Manhattan when the call came in. Yuri was thirty-one years old. His brother was twenty-eight. Moishe, at thirty-eight, was the oldest of the three. Their bikes were dark and loud. All three men wore black leather jackets; their helmets had mirrored visors. They looked macho and futuristic.
They had just visited a club in Chelsea. One of their associates—another Russian—had wanted them to invest in it. They had not been impressed. The place needed repairs. The walls in the kitchen were rotted. The ceiling in the main room hung low. There would be no investment. They could say as much to each other without words—a look was enough.
Still, they said no. They told their friend the place was a dump, and they asked him what the fuck he was wasting their time for.
Their friend, in an effort to seem important, had brought along an American real estate agent. The agent, a woman in her thirties, seemed a little nervous around the men. She held a paper file over her chest and kept her eyebrows lifted the entire time, as though her face had frozen in shock.
“What kind of club are you going to make here?” Yuri asked his friend in English.
Clean Hands Page 3