The Rooster Bar

by John Grisham

  Rackley said, “No, we’re tired of talking, especially to a couple of guys who use fake names and fake IDs.”

  Todd ignored him and said, “According to your SEC filings, Shiloh Square Financial owns 4 percent of Swift, making it the second-largest stockholder. We think you own a lot more than that.”

  Rackley blinked and recoiled slightly. Strayhan frowned, as if confused. Mark reached into his attaché case and removed another sheet of paper. He unfolded it once but did not slide it over.

  From the grave, Gordy landed a final blow.

  Todd continued, “We have a list of Swift Bank’s largest shareholders, about forty in all. Most are investment funds that own 1 or 2 percent of the company. Some of these funds are foreign and appear to be legitimate investments. Some, though, are offshore shells, fronts for other fronts that own pieces of Swift. Shady-looking names of companies domiciled in places like Panama, Grand Cayman, the Bahamas. They are almost impossible to penetrate, especially for a couple of non-journalists like us. We can’t issue subpoenas and warrants; we can’t tap phones and make arrests. But the FBI certainly can.”

  Mark slid the second sheet of paper across the table. Rackley took it calmly and studied the chart. It was a continuation of the first one, with all the activity flowing under Swift Bank. After a few seconds, Rackley shrugged again, even smiled, and said, “I don’t recognize any of these companies.”

  Strayhan managed to mumble, “Just garbage.”

  Mark said, “And we’re not alleging you’re involved with them, you understand? We have no way of digging inside offshore companies.”

  “I got it the first time,” Rackley said. “What do you want?”

  “Are you after money?” Strayhan demanded.

  “No, and you’ve already asked that once,” Todd said. “What we want is the truth. We want you and your great law school scam exposed on page 1. We’re victims of it. We signed on at one of your diploma mills, racked up a fortune in federal debt, none of which we can repay because we can’t find jobs, and now we’re a couple of dropouts staring at a pretty dark future. And we’re not alone. There are thousands of us, Mr. Rackley, all victimized by you.”

  Mark said, “The guy who drew those charts was our best friend. He cracked up and killed himself in January. There were several reasons, and plenty of blame all around. And some of it lies with you. He owed a quarter of a million dollars in student loans, money passed along to you. All of us got caught up in the law school scam. I guess he was a little more fragile than we realized.”

  Nothing that registered on the faces of Rackley and Strayhan could even remotely be described as remorse.

  Calmly, Rackley said, “I’ll ask you again. What do you want?”

  Mark said, “A quick settlement of all six Swift Bank class actions, beginning with the one filed by Cohen-Cutler in Miami.”

  Rackley raised both hands, held them in the air as if flabbergasted, and finally said to Strayhan, “I thought we were settling those cases.”

  “We are,” Strayhan said, frowning.

  Mark added helpfully, “Well, according to reports that the bank keeps leaking to the press, it is in the process of negotiating settlements, but that’s been the story for the past ninety days. The truth is that your lawyers are dragging their feet. There are one million customers out there who’ve been screwed by Swift and they deserve to be compensated.”

  “We know that!” Rackley snapped, finally losing his cool. “Believe me, we know all that, and we’re trying to settle, or at least I thought we were.” He turned, glared at Strayhan, and said, “Find out what’s going on.” Then to Mark he said, “What is your interest in the litigation?”

  “It’s confidential,” Mark said smugly.

  “Really can’t talk about it,” Todd added. “Right now it’s almost 10:30 on Tuesday. How long would it take before the bank could announce a settlement for all class actions?”

  “Not so fast,” Rackley said. “What happens to your story about the great law school scam? The front-page sensation?”

  “Here’s the deal,” Todd said. “Tomorrow at 4:00 we meet with a reporter for the Times.”

  “A real reporter?” Rackley asked.

  “Damned right. One who can peel skin. And we’ll give him the story. If he runs it, and we have no reason to think he will not, then you’re the villain of the month. Worse, the story attracts the attention of the FBI, which, as I’m sure you know, is already hot on Swift’s trail anyway. The bit about the offshore ownership will be like throwing gasoline on a fire.”

  “I get all that,” Rackley said. “Cut to the chase.”

  “If Swift announces a full settlement within twenty-four hours, we won’t meet with the reporter.”

  “And you walk away?”

  “We walk away. You ramp up the settlement. Make sure the Miami class gets its money first, and when that cash hits home, we walk away. Not a word. The law school scam story is left for someone else to pursue.”

  Rackley stared at them for a long time. Strayhan knew better than to speak. A minute passed, though it seemed like half an hour. Finally, Rackley stood and said, “The bank has no choice but to settle anyway. It will make the announcement this afternoon. Beyond that, I suppose I’ll have to trust your word.”

  Mark and Todd stood, more than ready to leave. Mark said, “You have our word, for what it’s worth.”

  “You can go now,” Rackley said.

  37

  Idina Sanga made no progress over the weekend. The police refused her access to Abdou, though they claimed he was safe and being properly treated. She called Zola around noon on Monday with the update that little had changed. Idina was leaning on her contacts at various levels of the state bureaucracy, and said repeatedly that these matters take time.

  After four days of waiting around the hotel, Zola was climbing the walls. She sat with Fanta in their suite and talked for hours, something the two had not done in years. She and Bo lounged in the small hotel café and drank tea several times a day. She called her partners for the latest developments in their misadventures.

  The two rooms were costing her the equivalent of about $100 a day. Add in their meals in the café, and Zola was beginning to worry about her finances. She had arrived with roughly $10,000 U.S., and she paid about $3,000 as a retainer to Madame Sanga’s firm for representation and clout. Assuming Abdou would soon be released, the family would need housing, clothing, food, and so on, and her balance would soon be gone. She had $6,000 in her account in D.C., and she knew her partners would help in a pinch, but she was suddenly fretting over money. When they had been seized by ICE, Abdou had $800 in cash. Bo had $200. The family’s savings had been wiped out when they hired an immigration lawyer who did nothing. Whatever future they had in Senegal was dependent upon Zola’s meager savings.

  And the likelihood of bribery had yet to be addressed.

  Late Monday afternoon, their shaky financial condition worsened. Two police cars parked at the curb in front of the hotel and four uniformed officers jumped out. Zola and Bo were drinking tea in the lobby and recognized two of the officers. They were told to stay where they were as the desk clerk handed over keys to their rooms on the fourth floor. One cop stayed with them as the other three took an elevator. Minutes later, Fanta was escorted off the elevator and parked in the lobby with Zola and Bo.

  “They’re searching our rooms,” Fanta whispered to Zola. As terrifying as it was, Zola was relieved to know that her cash and valuables were in the hotel safe behind the front desk.

  They waited for an hour, certain that their rooms were being trashed. When the three cops returned to the lobby, the leader, a sergeant, handed a sheet of paper to the desk clerk, who quickly complied. The sergeant said in English, “We have a search warrant for the hotel safe.”

  “Wait a minute,” Zola demanded as she stepped toward the desk. “You can’t search my stuff.” A cop stopped her.

  Fanta rattled away in French and Bo tried to help her b
ut got shoved in the process. The desk clerk disappeared and returned with a small metal box, identical to the one Zola had rented. She had watched the clerk slide it into the master safe with a dozen others. It was not equipped with a lock.

  The sergeant looked at Zola and said, “Over here.” She stepped to the counter and watched as he opened the box. He opened an envelope and pulled out some U.S. cash. Slowly, he counted twenty $100 bills. He removed a thick stack of West African francs, and counted. At an exchange rate of 600 francs to one U.S. dollar, the counting took some time. Zola watched it carefully, seething at this violation but thoroughly powerless. The combined cash totaled almost $6,000 U.S. Satisfied with the haul so far, the sergeant emptied the metal box. Rubber banded together were three cards—her fake D.C. driver’s license, her Foggy Bottom student ID card, and an expired credit card. Her collection of cell phones was hidden in a bag stuffed under her mattress.

  In her purse, clutched tightly to her side, she had her passport, New Jersey driver’s license, about $500 cash, and two credit cards. If they reached for it, she would not let go without a fight. Her knees buckled when the sergeant said, “Passport?”

  She unzipped her purse, fished around, and produced it. He examined it carefully, stared long and hard at her purse, then handed it back. While this unfolded, another cop was listing the contents of the metal box. Evidently, the contents would be taken away.

  With her purse secure, Zola asked, “Are you taking my stuff?”

  “We have a warrant,” the sergeant said.

  “But for what? I haven’t committed a crime.”

  “We have a warrant,” he said. “Sign here.” He pointed to the crude inventory list.

  “I’m not signing anything,” she said, but she knew she had no choice. At that moment, though, she knew the reality. She took a deep breath and acknowledged the futility of resisting.

  The sergeant placed her cash and cards into a large hotel envelope and handed it to another cop. He looked at Bo and said, in French, “You are coming with us.”

  Bo didn’t understand until the nearest officer whipped out a pair of handcuffs and grabbed his wrist. He instinctively jerked away and this caused another officer to grab his arm.

  “What are you doing?” Zola demanded in English while Fanta protested in French. Bo took a deep breath and relaxed as his hands were cuffed behind him. “It’s okay,” he said to Fanta.

  “What are you doing?” Zola demanded again. The sergeant unclipped his set of handcuffs and dangled them in her face. “Quiet! You want these?”

  “You can’t take him away,” she said.

  “Quiet!” the sergeant snarled. “Or we take your mother too.”

  Bo said, “It’s okay, Zola. It’s okay. I’ll check on Dad.”

  Two of the officers shoved Bo toward the front door, and they left, the sergeant holding the envelope. Zola and Fanta watched in disbelief as Bo was manhandled to the cars and thrown into a rear seat.

  As they drove away, Zola called Idina Sanga.

  —

  AT 4:00 ON Tuesday afternoon, May 13, lawyers for Swift Bank announced the proposed settlement of the six class action lawsuits scattered around the country. Given the rumors and speculation during the past three months, the news was almost anticlimactic. Predictions of a massive settlement by Swift had gone stale.

  Under the terms, Swift would pay into a settlement fund the initial sum of $4.2 billion to cover the anticipated claims of about 1.1 million potential customers. The six class actions included 800,000, leaving 300,000 out there as fair game for the mass tort bar. With 220,000 plaintiffs, the Cohen-Cutler class was the largest, the first to be filed, and the best organized, and it would be at the front of the line to collect its money.

  The settlement covered three levels of plaintiffs. The first were the most aggrieved, those homeowners who had been forced into foreclosure by Swift’s bad behavior. This was by far the smallest group, with an anticipated number of about five thousand. Level two was composed of about eighty thousand Swift customers whose credit had been ruined or severely damaged by the bank’s actions. Level three was everybody else—those Swift customers who had been cheated by hidden fees and reduced interest rates. Each would receive $3,800 for their troubles.

  The attorneys’ fees were negotiated separately and would be paid into another fund. For each individual case, the fee was $800, regardless of actual damages. Cohen-Cutler, as well as the other lead class action firms, would get an additional 8 percent of the gross.

  The business commentators were immediately buzzing with the news, and the general belief was that Swift was doing exactly what it was expected to do. Throw a pile of money at its problem, make it go away, and move on. With windfalls all around, the settlement was expected to be approved by the courts within days.

  By 5:00 p.m., not a single class action lawyer was on record opposing the settlement. They were too busy hustling the unsigned Swift plaintiffs.

  —

  HADLEY CALLED TODD late Tuesday afternoon with some dreadful news. She had been unable to work her magic and bump their case down the road a week or two. Instead, the prosecutor handling their charges was adamant that they show up in court Friday for their initial appearances. Hadley said the case was getting some attention. Everyone was so bored with druggies and DUIs it was rather refreshing to have such an unusual case on the docket. Sorry, boys.

  “We have to hire a lawyer,” Todd said. They were sitting on a park bench at Coney Island, smoking long black cigars and sipping bottled water.

  “Let’s argue,” Mark said. “I say we don’t hire a lawyer.”

  “Okay. We don’t show up in court Friday. What happens then? The judge will probably issue bench warrants and our names go into the system.”

  “So? Big deal. It’s not like we’re narco-traffickers or al-Qaeda. We’re not peddling drugs or plotting terror. Do you really believe that anyone will be serious about tracking us down?”

  “No, but we’ll be wanted, dead or alive.”

  “What’s the big deal if no one is looking for us?”

  “What if we find ourselves in a bind and need to leave the country? We pull out our passports at the airport and a bell goes off somewhere. Outstanding warrants in D.C. The customs guy couldn’t care less what crime we’re charged with. We try to explain that it’s nothing but a couple of clowns pretending to be lawyers, but he’s not impressed. All he sees is a red flag, and suddenly we see the handcuffs again. Gotta tell you, I’d love to avoid any more handcuffs.”

  “And what’s a lawyer going to do?”

  “Delay, delay, delay. Buy us some time, keep the warrants at bay. Negotiate a deal with the prosecutor, keep us out of jail.”

  “I’m not doing jail, Todd. I don’t care what happens.”

  “We’ve had this discussion. What we need is time, and the lawyer can stall this thing for months.”

  Mark pulled on his cigar; got a mouthful; blew a thick cloud. “Got anybody in mind?”

  “Darrell Cromley.”

  “What an ass. I hope he’s still trying to find us.”

  “I’m thinking about Phil Sarrano. He was a third year at Foggy Bottom when we started. Good guy, works with a small criminal firm near Capitol Hill.”

  “I remember him. What’s he gonna charge?”

  “We won’t know until we ask. Five to ten grand, don’t you think?”

  “Let’s haggle, okay? We’re still on a tight budget.”

  “I’ll call him.”

  Phil Sarrano wanted a $10,000 retainer. Todd gasped, choked, stuttered, appeared to be stunned, and explained that he and his co-defendant were just a couple of law school dropouts with no jobs and about half a million in debts between them. Todd assured him the case would not go to trial and would not consume much of his time. Slowly, he chiseled away at the number, and they finally agreed on $6,000, money Todd said he would be forced to borrow from his grandmother.

  An hour later Sarrano called back with the
bad news that the judge assigned to the case, the Honorable Abe Abbott, wanted the two defendants to appear in person at 10:00 a.m. Friday, Division 6, in the District Courthouse. Evidently, Judge Abbott was intrigued by the case and rather eager to get to the bottom of things. Thus, no postponement of the initial appearances.

  “And he wants to know where Zola Maal is these days,” Sarrano said.

  “We’re not in charge of Zola Maal,” Todd said. “Try Africa. Her family just got deported and maybe she went with them.”

  “Africa? Okay, I’ll pass that along.”

  Todd broke the news to Mark that they would be headed back to D.C. a lot sooner than they had expected. Todd had appeared before Judge Abbott on one occasion; same for Mark. The upcoming reunion was not a welcome thought.

  38

  The Frazier home was on York Street in Dover, Delaware. The