by John Grisham
Exactly one hour later, a police van stopped in front of the hotel. Abdou and Bo crawled out of the back, free from handcuffs, and strolled into the lobby like a couple of tourists. They wept when they saw Zola and Fanta, and the whole family had a good cry. They retired to the café and feasted on eggs and muffins.
Idina Sanga found them there and snapped everyone into action. They hurriedly packed their bags and prepared to leave. Zola settled her account with the front desk as Idina called two taxis. They hustled out of the hotel, without once looking back, and drove away. Forty-five minutes later, they stopped in front of a cluster of modern high-rise buildings. Idina was working her phone and a clerk of some variety met them in the lobby of the tallest building. Their temporary apartment was on the seventh floor. It was sparsely furnished, but who cared? After four months in a detention center and a week in a Dakar jail, Abdou viewed the place as a castle. His family was together, free, and safe.
Idina rattled off instructions. The apartment was leased for ninety days. On Monday, she would begin the task of securing documentation. Their Senegalese citizenship would be restored in short order—after all they had been born there—and Zola would be naturalized as well. Based on the reports from her two law partners, she was in no hurry to return to the U.S.
—
FOR THE SECOND morning in a row, Todd woke up with an aching head and parched mouth. He rallied somewhat with strong coffee by the pool, and by noon was ready to go shopping. He took a taxi to a new development on the northern edge of Bridgetown, a sprawling mess of prefab condos that was far more appealing on the website than on the ground. Websites. For no reason he could discern, he still glanced at the Foggy Bottom website when he was in a foul mood and cursed the smiling faces of the attractive and diverse students who were happily pursuing the challenge of law school. Who can trust a website?
At any rate, he met an agent who walked him through two apartments available for sale or lease at ruinous prices. He chose the smaller of the two, and, after haggling over the earnest money, signed a contract to purchase it, and handed over a Lucero & Frazier check for five grand, a check that would bounce all the way back to Brooklyn. With the contract in hand, he returned to his hotel, checked in with his partners, put on some shorts, and went to the pool, where he bought a frozen daiquiri at a tiki bar and began roasting in the sun.
—
LATE SUNDAY AFTERNOON, Barry Strayhan was summoned to the Fifth Avenue mansion of Hinds Rackley. They opened a bottle of wine and sat in the sun on a terrace with Central Park below them. Doug Broome and his team had indeed tracked down Mark and Todd and were still busy putting together the pieces. The news reports of Gordy’s suicide led them to the Foggy Bottom Law School, where an investigator sat through the dismal commencement service the day before. With a list of graduates from the program, some easy phone work produced the names of Frazier and Lucero, a couple of third-year students who had been close to the deceased and who dropped out back in January. A fellow student even volunteered that they had been arrested for practicing law without a license. A brief story in yesterday’s Post detailed their eventful appearance in court on Friday. Rackley wasn’t the only person looking for them; seems they were leaving a trail of disgruntled clients and people who wanted to sue them. Their Facebook pages had been closed two months earlier, but a hacker hired by Broome managed to retrieve some photos. There was no doubt that Frazier and Lucero were the two boys posing as journalists in the meeting with Rackley and Strayhan five days earlier in Brooklyn.
Rackley looked at a series of photos and compared them with the mug shots from their fake D.C. driver’s licenses. He tossed them on a table and asked, “So what’s their game?”
Strayhan said, “Two and a half months ago Mark Frazier joined the class action in Miami as an aggrieved customer of Swift Bank. He opened an account with a branch in D.C. back in January.”
“Big deal. So he gets a few bucks in the settlement. There has to be more to the story.”
“Todd Lucero joined the class action in New York and their pal Zola Maal joined the one in D.C. Not sure what they were doing but maybe they just wanted to see how the racket worked.”
“There’s more to it. They wouldn’t go to so much trouble for such small settlements. What do we know about the Cohen-Cutler class?”
“The largest of the six. Two hundred and twenty thousand clients referred by dozens of smaller law firms. Most of the plaintiffs can be found online using one of the litigation tracking services, but not all. As you might guess, with that many, and with the settlement happening so fast, things are somewhat chaotic. Cohen-Cutler is not required to list the names of the referring firms. But Broome is still digging.”
“How can we get inside Cohen-Cutler?”
“We can’t. It’s confidential. But the FBI can certainly ask questions.”
“I don’t want the FBI snooping around.”
“Understood. But there are ways to tip them off.”
“Figure out a way and do it fast. When does the money change hands?”
“Soon. This week, by agreement and court order.”
“I’m in a box here, Barry, and I don’t like it. I want the settlement done, and quickly, so the bank can put this nightmare to bed. At the same time, I can’t stand the idea of getting ripped off. You and I know that nobody can trust these class action lawyers, and with a million possible plaintiffs out there, it’s nothing but a frenzy. There’s gonna be fraud, and a lot of it.”
—
MONDAY MORNING, TODD dressed in his best and took a cab to the Second Royal Bank of the Lesser Antilles on Center Street in the business district of Bridgetown. His 10:00 a.m. appointment was with a Mr. Rudolph Richard, a dapper old fellow whose specialty was welcoming foreign clients. Todd’s spiel was that he and his partners back home had knocked a home run in the litigation wars, and, at the ripe age of twenty-seven, he was cashing in his chips and moving to the Caribbean. He was shutting down his law firm and would spend the next few years running his new hedge fund, York & Orange Traders, from the side of a pool with a view of the ocean. He presented his fake passport, his contract for the condo, a place he would never see again, and a rather gushing letter of recommendation from the Citibank account manager in Brooklyn. Mr. Richard wanted $10,000 to properly open a bank account, but Todd would have none of it. The big money was a week or two away, he explained in legalese that Mr. Richard had a difficult time following, and the best he could do was $2,000 in U.S. cash. If that wasn’t enough, he would simply walk down the street, where there were at least a hundred other banks looking for business. After an hour of Todd’s smiling, lying, and cajoling, the account was opened.
He left the bank and found an empty sidewalk café where he texted his partners with the delightful news that they were now in business in Barbados.
Back home, Mark was hammering away at Jenny Valdez and Cohen-Cutler. The Swift settlement had been approved at all levels, so where was the damned money? She wasn’t sure, these things take time, she explained, but they were waiting on the wire transfer. It did not arrive on Monday. Mark roamed the streets of downtown Brooklyn, where the skies were overcast and gloomy, and tried not to think of his partner lying in the sun and pickling his liver. To make matters worse, every hour or so Todd zipped along another photo of another hot babe in a string bikini.
—
LATE TUESDAY AFTERNOON, two FBI agents entered the offices of Cohen-Cutler in downtown Miami and were quickly led to the office of Ian Mayweather, the firm’s managing partner. Special Agent Wynne did most of the talking, and the meeting was tense from the opening bell. The Feds wanted information that was confidential and not to be shared.
“How many law firms referred clients to your class?” Wynne asked.
“Several dozen and that’s all I’m saying,” Mayweather replied, somewhat abruptly.
“We are requesting a list of these firms.”
“Great. Show me a court order and we’ll comply. Y
ou’re asking for confidential information, gentlemen, and absent an order from a court we cannot hand it over.”
“Well, we suspect there may be some fraud involved with your class.”
“That wouldn’t surprise me. Fraud is not that unusual in these massive settlements, as you know. We’ve seen it before and we do our best to prevent it. But we’re dealing with over 200,000 individual plaintiffs and dozens of law firms. We cannot check everything.”
“When will you pay out the money?”
“Our disbursement staff is working around the clock right now. The first tranche arrived from Swift this afternoon. We will start disbursing first thing in the morning. As you might guess, with so much money involved our phones are quite busy. We are instructed by the court to disburse as quickly as possible.”
“Can you delay this for a day or two?” Wynne asked.
“No,” Mayweather answered angrily. “We are under a court order to disburse as soon as possible. From what I gather, gentlemen, the FBI is in the early stage of an investigation, so you are, basically, just fishing right now. You show me a court order and this firm will do as instructed.”
Never stand between a mass tort lawyer and his money from a class action settlement. The FBI knew that Cohen-Cutler’s estimated haul from the Swift litigation was expected to be something close to $80 million.
Wynne stood and said, “Okay, we’ll be back with a court order.” He and his partner left the office without another word.
42
At 9:40 Wednesday morning, Mark received an e-mail from Cohen-Cutler informing him that well over $4 million was being wired from its disbursement office to the Citibank account of Lucero & Frazier, Attorneys-at-Law. The sum represented damages of $3,800 for each of the firm’s 1,311 clients, less the 8 percent cut Cohen-Cutler took off the top to manage the class, so $4,583,256.00 to be exact.
Mark sprinted to Citibank and waited in the offices of his favorite account manager. For one agonizing hour, fifty-six minutes to be exact, he paced around the office, unable to sit still and thoroughly unable to act as though it was just another routine settlement. The account manager was nervous about the situation, but she had spent so much time with Mark she liked him and was excited for the young lawyer. As the minutes dragged by, Mark asked her to prepare six certified checks, three to the loan servicers for the outstanding balances of Todd Lucero, Zola Maal, and Mark Frazier. The total was $652,000. The fourth check was payable to Mr. Joseph Tanner, Gordy’s father, and it was for $276,000. A fifth check in the amount of $100,000 was payable to Mark’s mother, and a sixth, in the same amount, was to Todd’s parents. The checks were prepared but not issued.
The wire landed at 11:01, and Mark immediately signed an authorization to wire $3.4 million of the money to the account of York & Orange Traders at the Second Royal Bank of the Lesser Antilles in Barbados. He left a few bucks in the law firm’s account, took the six certified checks, thanked the account manager profusely, and stepped into the bright Brooklyn sunshine far wealthier than he had ever dreamed. Walking briskly, he called Todd and Zola with the thrilling news.
Mark entered a FedEx office on Atlantic Avenue and asked for six overnight envelopes and four domestic air bills. On a sheet of yellow legal paper he penned a note to Gordy’s father. It read,
Dear Mr. Tanner: Enclosed please find a certified Citibank check in the amount of $276,000. This should cover the balances of Gordy’s student loans. Sincerely, Mark Frazier.
The transaction was far from clean and final. There were tax issues, gift and perhaps income, but those problems now belonged to Mr. Tanner. Mark would not give them another thought. He folded the note, placed the check inside, and put them in an envelope. He addressed air bills to Mr. Tanner in Martinsburg, and to the three loan counselors: Morgana Nash at NowAssist in New Jersey, Rex Wagner at Scholar Support Partners in Philadelphia, and Tildy Carver at LoanAid in Chevy Chase. The paperwork took half an hour, during which Mark managed to calm his nerves and stop looking over his shoulder. He reminded himself that he’d been living on the run for several months now, and the worst thing he could do was to appear nervous. Still, the arrival of the money made him jittery.
He handed the six express envelopes to the clerk, paid for their shipment in cash, and left the office. Outside, he texted Todd and Zola with the news that their student debts had been paid in full. In his hotel suite, he called Jenny Valdez at Cohen-Cutler and inquired about the disbursement for the attorneys’ fees. Lucero & Frazier was due another $1,048,800, or $800 for each client. Ms. Valdez said that money should “go out tomorrow.”
He sent an e-mail to his loan counselor:
Dear Morgana Nash: I’m sure you are aware of my current legal problems here in the District. No worries. A rich uncle died recently and left me a bundle. I have just sent by overnight letter a certified check in the amount of $266,000 to NowAssist as payment in full. It’s been a real pleasure. Mark Frazier.
From Barbados, Todd wrote,
Dear SS Counselor Rex Wagner: Well, I finally took your advice and found a job. And it’s a helluva job, I gotta tell you. I’m making so much money these days I can’t spend it all. I can buy anything, but the one thing I really want is to get you off my back. Tomorrow by FedEx you’ll receive a certified check in the amount of $195,000, as payment in full. Go pester someone else. Your pal, Todd Lucero.
From Dakar, Zola wrote,
Dear Tildy Carver: I just won the lottery so I’m sending you a check for $191,000. It should arrive tomorrow. Best wishes, Zola Maal.
—
TODD SPENT the afternoon hanging around the office of Mr. Rudolph Richard at the Second Royal Bank of the Lesser Antilles. When the wire finally arrived at 4:15, he thanked Mr. Richard and left to call his partners.
Ten minutes later, a team of FBI agents entered the offices of Cohen-Cutler in Miami and met Ian Mayweather and his team of lawyers in the firm’s largest conference room. Special Agent Wynne handed over a search warrant, which Mayweather scrutinized. He then gave it to the firm’s chief criminal lawyer, who read every word. Satisfied that they had no choice, Mayweather nodded at another partner who produced a list of the fifty-two law firms that had referred 220,000 clients to the class. Wynne scanned the list, saw what he was looking for, and asked, “This law firm in New York, Lucero & Frazier, what do you know about it?”
Mayweather looked at his copy of the list and said, “They sent us thirteen hundred cases.”
“Have you dealt with them before?”
“No, but then that’s true for almost all of these firms. There are six class actions against Swift, and these firms shop around. I guess this one chose us.”
“And you don’t check to make sure the law firms are legitimate?”
“We’re not required to, no. We assume the firms are legit, along with their clients. You know something about this firm?”
Wynne deflected the question and said, “We’d like to see the names of the thirteen hundred clients from Lucero & Frazier.”
“They’re posted online in the case file,” Mayweather replied.
“Yes, along with a million others, and they are not grouped by referring attorneys. Makes it rather difficult to investigate each individual. We need to see the Lucero & Frazier clients.”
“Sure, but your court order doesn’t go that far.”
On one side of the room the FBI agents glared at the lawyers, who held their ground and stared right back. This was their turf, not the government’s, and as very rich lawyers they resented the intrusion. The Feds were meddling in their jackpot. But the Feds didn’t care; their job was to investigate and all turf belonged to them. And so both gangs watched each other, waiting to see who would blink.
An agent handed Wynne a file. He removed some paperwork and said, “Here’s another search warrant. The judge says we can examine any suspicious activity involving Mark Frazier and Todd Lucero, a couple of guys who are not really lawyers to begin with.”
“You’re k
idding,” Mayweather said, blinking.
“Do we appear to be kidding?” Wynne asked. “We have cause to believe that these two bogus lawyers have filed a bunch of bogus claims with your class action. We need to verify it.”
Mayweather read the court order, then tossed it on the table. He shrugged in defeat and said, “Very well.”
—
MARK WAS TRYING to eat a sandwich in a Brooklyn deli, though he had no appetite. His emotions were in near-violent conflict. On the one hand, he wanted to gloat over the money. But on the other, he knew it was time to run. He reveled in the knowledge that they had pulled off a beautiful reverse scam against the Great Satan, as Gordy called Rackley, and stolen money from a crook. But he was also terrified at the thought of getting caught.
Todd was sitting on a beach, cold drink in hand, and watching another perfect Caribbean sunset. Safe, at least for the moment, he smiled at the future and tried to imagine what he would do with his share of the fortune. But the thrill was dampened by thoughts of his parents and their embarrassment when he never returned to D.C. Return? Would that ever be possible? Was it worth it? He tried to shake off these thoughts by telling himself that they had committed the perfect crime.
Zola was enjoying life with her family in Dakar. They were dining in an outdoor café not far from the ocean, on a lovely spring night, with their biggest troubles far behind them.
None of the three had the slightest hint that, at that moment, a dozen FBI agents were working the phones and discovering that
