by Jeff Nania
“Looks like you have your work cut out for you, Counselor.”
“It’s not as bad as it looks. Many of Anderson’s transgressions involved the diversion of funds from clients’ accounts to his own. For each of those I have forwarded the amount due the client to the insurance company. They are none too pleased, but this is preferable to having to answer each issue in a separate court action. So far they have agreed to pay what I have recommended but are not disbursing any funds until the total recompense is known. There’s a good chance it will exceed the policy limit after all is said and done. We’ll have to wait and see. They’ve expedited some payments. Two clients who are in assisted living facilities and covering the expense with their savings have been paid. No damages, but at least they are back where they started.
“I asked you to come in with the hope that you may be able to shed some light on a couple of things. Do you have some time?”
“I am all yours, Counselor. Go for it.”
“After our conversation I did some further investigation. I found four cases that have unexplained common connections. Homer and Irma Jones, Myles Turner, Nick Cabrelli, and you.”
“How so?”
“It involves an international corporation registered in Wisconsin—Superior Container and Shipping. SCS was the purchaser of the Myles Turner property. Within hours of the purchase, the property was transferred to another corporation, Chequamegon Bay Holding Company. Days later, it was sold to Ford Development Group out of Portland, Oregon. The selling price was a little more than twice what Myles Turner sold it for only days before. After an in-depth review of Mr. Turner’s files, it’s clear that you are correct—he was no fool. Jonas McMann represented him until he passed away, then Derek Anderson took over. He carefully added to his property over the years, always paying market price. His loan application for the property purchase included detailed plans for how the property would be used and what he expected to see in increased revenues. In each case his projections must have been accurate because he paid off the loans before the due date by accelerating the principal payments. The point here is that Myles Turner was anything but a foolish businessman. There is no way that he sold his property for half its value. No way,” Wheeler paused for a long moment. “That is, unless…”
“Unless what, Jack?”
“Well, unless he was somehow coerced.”
I started to ask a question when Jack stopped me, “John, let me finish here, and then we can discuss it.”
“Sure. Go ahead,”
“I contacted the Minnesota and Wisconsin Secretaries of State and asked them to do a search of registered corporations that were affiliated with Superior Container and Shipping, Chequamegon Bay Holding Company, or Ford Development Group. Through other sources I was able to get information on the Ford Development Group. They don’t show up anyplace except for the property transfer in Namekagon County. They appear to be a legitimate business enterprise that builds high-end lake properties. They took out a significant mortgage on the property, putting 20 percent down. I followed up with a colleague who practices in Portland where they are located. He says they are a small third-generation family-owned company founded by the grandfather. He and the son expanded their operation into building for themselves instead of others. The grandfather is semi-retired, and his son and grandson operate the company. They have about a half-dozen full-time employees. Wherever they are working, they hire local subcontractors.
“However, Superior Container and Shipping and the Chequamegon Bay Holding Company are two of a number of corporations that seem to be tied together in some way. Through some public records work and assistance from offices of record, I was able to find over a dozen corporate entities that have some ties to one another. The property belonging to Homer and Irma Jones followed a similar path to that of Myles Turner. The property was sold to a company called Northern Pines Holding Corp. It was transferred two days later to another entity, ST Trust, then sold to what appears to be a development company out of the Twin Cities for twice what the Joneses sold it for. ST Trust was a pass-through company affiliated with Superior Container and Shipping. If I’m not mistaken, that’s the same company that tried to buy your uncle’s property, and it’s the name filled in on an offer to purchase drawn up by Derek Anderson to present to you. You, the Joneses, and Myles Turner all have two things in common: Superior Container and Shipping and Derek Anderson.”
I jumped in. “ST Trust was the company that the deceased former Musky Falls chief of police, Don Timmy, was involved in. It was some kind of partnership with David Stone, a big shot local entrepreneur. With Timmy dead, there was no one left to refute his claim that he was simply a businessman in partnership with a local that knew the lay of the land and could help him secure the purchase of a property he was interested in to open an open pit ore mine. The only other possible link to Stone was the man whose desk you now occupy. Right after this whole thing came out, he hung himself.”
“Are they certain it was suicide?” Jack asked.
“I never looked into it myself. I heard rumors that the death was somewhat suspicious, but when something like this happens, conspiracy theories are as thick as summer flies. He was a desperate man who had trashed his life and seemed to be the kind who would do himself in. He was also universally despised in the community, and I don’t think anyone cared much whether he killed himself or was murdered. Dead was good enough for folks.”
“That certainly seems to be the general opinion I’ve gotten from his former clients. In my experience, John, when I come across a group of corporations tied to each other in this way with questionable business dealings, I always find it best to advise my clients to steer clear. Limiting your liability with a corporate shield is one thing. It’s another thing completely to be involved in a corporate shell game. I suspect that most often this is a cover for suspicious activity of a sort, hiding income from the IRS or dispersing ill-gotten gain—something along that line.”
“What do you think the deal is with the Joneses or Turner? They sure didn’t sell out for half price. Have you spoken with them?”
“They have not responded to my phone calls or correspondence, with one exception. I called the Joneses number and Irma Jones answered. As soon as I introduced myself, she asked me to please leave her and her husband alone. They had nothing to say. They never answered after that.”
The surveillance photos of the Joneses and Myles Turner each receiving a suitcase full of cash would have gone a long way toward helping Wheeler understand these property transactions. I would bet that if you could do a quick count, it would show that it added up to the missing half of the value. I wished I could share, but I had given Len Bork my word, and I would keep it.
“How were they paid for their properties?”
“Bank draft in each case—certified funds,” Jack replied. “One drawn on a Minneapolis bank, the other from Community Bank of Musky Falls.”
“So the funds would have been transferred from some other bank to these banks, right?”
“That’s the way it would work.”
“Can we find out what bank the deposits came from?”
“We could but privacy laws kick in, and based on the myriad of corporations involved, it could be a fruitless undertaking. Funds were probably transferred from one entity to another, then to another, and so on. It might even lead to an offshore account, which is a dead end.”
That was when it hit me. I had heard this story before, and I remembered where.
“Jack, let me do some thinking, and I’ll get back to you.”
“Okay, John, that would be fine. Part of the responsibility bestowed on me by the court is that I make every effort to resolve issues that appear to have been linked to some sort of impropriety. For now, I’m going to put the Joneses and Turner at the top of my list.”
“I’ll get back to you, Counselor.”
“I would appreciate that, John.”
I stepped out onto the street and dialed a famili
ar number. JJ Malone growled hello at the other end. He is affectionately called “Bear” by his friends, a sonofabitch by his enemies.
“Hey, Bear. It is your old buddy, John, calling to say hello. How is that wonderful wife of yours doing? I haven’t forgotten about taking her musky fishing. I have some good spots. It’ll be great fun. You’ll love my place—peace and quiet, plenty of room, right on the lake, boat ready to go.”
“What do you want, John?”
“I know you meant to get back to me, but you were probably too busy.”
“If you want to talk fishing, I am all ears. Anything else will be evaluated on a case-by-case basis.”
“I remembered something you told me about when you were on the taskforce working in Florida. It had to do with drug dealers laundering money, buying legitimate businesses, and paying part of it under the table. You remember that?”
“Sure I do. It was a big deal. Millions of dollars got laundered.”
“Bear, tell me how that all worked again.”
“Well, a guy would approach someone that had a business or property for sale, almost always someone who was getting older and selling out to retire. They send some clean-cut all-American boy or couple to meet with the owner. They tell the owner that they are interested in buying the property.
“They meet with the owner several times, build a relationship, and convince the seller that what they have to sell is a dream come true for them. They get him or her all pumped up, and they tell the seller they would pay asking price and could close quickly.
“Then comes the bite. The clean-cut boy tells the property owner they have a problem. It seems that the money they are going to use to purchase the property was left to them by their grandfather, and he had lived through the great depression. Some of his money was in the bank, but when they opened the safe in his house, they found a pile of cash. The cash wasn’t listed in the will, and if they had to declare it, most would go for taxes.
“Of course, they are playing to the seller who has a bunch of equity in what they are trying to sell, and the buyer is facing getting the shit taxed out of him or her. Anyway, Clean-Cut says that they need to think about things and get back to the seller. They let the seller sit a couple of days, and then they call and invite him or her out to dinner. Clean-Cut gives an Oscar winning speech about how his grandfather worked so hard all his life and was proud to leave something for his grandson only to have it stolen by the federal government and wasted on $500 toilet seats.
“By this time, they’ve become friends with the sympathetic seller. They’ve worked their ass off, and when they sell the property, they think they will give a good chunk to the government to support toilet seat acquisition. They get it. Clean-Cut puts out the bait, telling the seller that he can come up with half the funds to buy the property on the record. He could pay the seller the other half with the cash, and nobody needs to know. Nobody gets screwed by the government.
“Then Clean-Cut says, ‘No, forget it. I was just thinking out loud. As much as I would like to, after taxes we would not have enough to buy your property. I am so sorry and disappointed.’ Clean-Cut waits to see if the seller rises to the bait. If he does, Clean-Cut sets the hook. The deal goes down, and the official selling price is half the value of the property. The seller gets the other half in a duffle bag full of cash. No robbery, no nothing. The seller and buyer are both happy and go on their way. Thing is, Clean-Cut is actually representing a drug cartel. The biggest problem these cartels have is laundering their ill-gotten gains and funding legit investments. IRS estimates that it’s gotten to the point where if they can launder one buck for every three they make, that’s as good as it gets,” Bear finished.
“Is this kind of scheme still going on?” I asked.
“This and probably a hundred more like it. The cartels are bringing in bales of cash, and I do mean bales. In one raid the Feds got 300 pounds of cash. Every time the cartels convert that cash, they are good to go. They could care less about paying taxes. Matter of fact, they’re happy to do it. They want to become legitimate business people, and some make it. Most of them get whacked somewhere along the way or can’t resist a life of crime. A few though go on to live to a ripe old age.”
“Any of this kind of stuff going on in Wisconsin, Bear?”
“Why don’t you tell me, John. Anything like this going on in Wisconsin?”
“Gotta go. Say hi to Tanya. Let me know when you are coming to visit.”
I hung up before he replied.
Next, I called Len Bork. He answered damn near before it rang.
“Hey, Len, can you meet me at Crossroads Coffee?”
“In about an hour, John. We picked up two wanted felons from Illinois who decided to vacation here. I’ve got to make some calls to arrange a transfer. We only have misdemeanor charges against them enough to hold them until we get them shipped out of here. But an hour should work.”
I walked into Crossroads and was lost in my own thoughts when I approached the counter. I quickly returned to the moment when Shelley came from behind the counter and gave me a big hug.
“I am really excited about our date Saturday night, John. The band is going to be terrific. Tickets for the show include the buffet and two tap beers. Now that’s a deal.”
I was so excited about the date that I had forgotten about it completely. I had even blanked on her name. Shelley … I was pretty sure it was Shelley.
I regrouped quickly, “So am I. It sounds like a really good time. Pick you up at 7:00, right?”
“Actually, 6:30 would be better.”
“Okay, 6:30 then.”
“Do you want the usual today? Large coffee of the day with cream?”
“That would be great. Thanks, Shelley.”
She locked eyes with me and said, “Mindy, John. My name is Mindy.”
I was completely mortified. “Oh man, I am sorry. I don’t know where my mind is.”
Then she burst out laughing. “Naw, just kidding. My name is Shelley. I’m just giving you a hard time. Here is your coffee. I’ll see you at 6:30 on Saturday.”
I parked myself at a sidewalk table. I picked up an unattended local newspaper and was cruising the news when Len showed up.
“Did you get yourself some new undershorts, John? I know I did and even picked up a couple of extra pairs. Probably need them if I continue to travel with you.”
“That was definitely a moment, Len. I think Doc O’Malley is coming out tonight to start on the jeep. It looks to me like there’s a pile of damage. Maybe it’s better than it looks, but that’s likely wishful thinking. I do have some news, Chief. The Joneses and Turner were likely unsuspecting partners in a money-laundering scam, probably drug money.”
“Oh man. I should have figured that out before now. I knew there was something, but I never thought that.”
“Yeah, well I didn’t see it either. I got some help from a friend. A whole pile of questions still lingers, but we are making progress,” I said. “Someone hooked in with the old chief and Derek Anderson was laundering money. These are only two cases we know about. Most likely there are more we don’t. Jack Wheeler, the lawyer who was asked by the court to take over Anderson’s cases, has done some snooping on his own. The purchases of the Joneses and Turner properties are tied in with dummy corporations and questionable circumstances.”
“Did you tell him about the pictures?” Len asked.
“No, I didn’t. Figured I should talk to you first.”
“Should we tell him?”
“Well, I thought about it a lot. I guess I wouldn’t yet. We still have some things to work out. I think this guy Jack Wheeler is a straight shooter, but I don’t know how he would react. He would be curious about the origin of the photos, and my guess is he would put on his white hat and go to the aid of his clients. For right now, let’s keep doing what we’re doing.”
“Speaking of that. What are we doing?” Len asked. “As I see it, we’ve accomplished getting your jeep shot up by
an unknown subject and found what looks like a money-laundering scheme. Of course, there is also the withholding of evidence. We mustn’t forget that. So now what?”
“I’m going back to the cabin to search every square inch.”
“What!? Are you crazy? This time he won’t miss. We don’t need you getting killed. One close call is enough for both of us.”
“Len, settle down. He won’t be there.”
“How do you know that?”
“I don’t know who this guy is, but I think he’s a pro. Weapons are right, travels light, and takes off when he suspects we are on to him. He makes a simple but practiced move when we are following, and that gives him the advantage. Instead of leaving two dead bodies, he leaves a jeep full of holes—a warning that is as effective as taking one of us out without the mess. He left himself an escape route. How did he know where that logging road was? You can’t see it from the road. No, this guy had surveyed the area and figured out several escape routes. He’s not going back to the cabin. He might be gone altogether or maybe not. If he’s a pro then he’s working for someone, and that means he has a job to do. Pros always finish.”
“Holy Mother Mary. Let’s go. Two of us can search it better and faster than one.”
“I appreciate the offer, but I’m going to go it alone. Besides, I need you to do something else while I’m gone.”
“What do you need?”
“You said the cabin and property was an inholding in the national forest and that someone recently bought it. Find out who it belongs to. My guess is that it will be some dummy business entity. Once you get the name, work with your friends at the courthouse and see what records you can find regarding this cabin—tax payments, billing addresses, anything significant or insignificant you can find. Get it all.”
“Okay, I can sure do that. I know everyone down there. I’ll pretend I’m curious. They will be nosey but I won’t say anything. What should I do when I’m done?”
“Call me when you know something, and be careful, Len. I mean it. Be really careful.”
