Brent Marks Legal Thriller Series: Box Set One

by Kenneth Eade

  “Put your hands on your head!” commanded the officer, and Suskind obeyed. The second officer arrived and drew his weapon also, covering his partner. It was over for Suskind. The first officer approached him with his gun trained on him at every second, felt his pockets, disarmed him of his .38, then handcuffed him.

  “29 CHP, Highway 101, unit 9, I have WMA suspect in custody, requesting backup,” said the officer into his shoulder mic.

  ***

  Brent ran into the emergency room in a panic, and was directed to a room where Angela lay, hooked up to an IV. When he entered the room, she smiled.

  “Thank God you’re alive!”

  “I’m fine, just bruises. But look at the vest,” she said, pointing to the chair beside her. Brent pulled up Angela’s flak jacket by its straps, and could see the bullet holes.

  “Five shots, two of them hit me in the chest,” she said. Brent hugged Angela.

  “You’re not going to make me cry,” she said, wiping a forming tear from her eye.

  “No more playing super cop,” he said. She nodded, and squeezed him, wincing from the pain in her ribs.

  “They caught the guy,” she said. “Now get back to court and fry them!”

  53

  Back in the courtroom, Steven Bernstein resumed his place in the witness box when court came to order. Judge Masters would not waste a minute of the carefully allocated court time.

  “Mr. Bernstein, do you know a Kevin Suskind?”

  “Objection, Your Honor, assumes facts not in evidence,” said Black, finally chiming in.

  At the bench, Black argued, “Your Honor, the name Kevin Suskind has never come up in discovery.”

  “That’s because he’s an impeachment witness, Your Honor. I’m filing this amended witness list,” said Brent, handing a copy to Stein and Black.

  “Your Honor, this is unfair surprise! We were never advised of this witness before,” said Stein.

  “Mr. Marks says he’s an impeachment witness. To impeach whom, Mr. Marks?”

  “The testimony of Mr. Bernstein, Your Honor. I’m just laying the foundation for it.”

  “And you intend to call this witness next?”

  “Yes, Your Honor. I have him on subpoena. He’s in custody, right next door in the holding cell.”

  “Then proceed, Mr. Marks, but, since this is only foundational, keep it short.”

  “Mr. Bernstein, do you know a Kevin Suskind?”

  “I need to talk to my lawyer.”

  “Move to strike as non-responsive.”

  “Granted. You will answer the question, Mr. Bernstein.”

  “I need to talk to my lawyer.”

  “Your Honor, please instruct the witness to answer the question.”

  “Your Honor,” said Black, I would like a word with my client.

  “Mr. Black, your client has been testifying all morning. If he needs your counsel, he can have it on the breaks. Now, Mr. Bernstein, please answer the question. Do you know a Kevin Suskind?”

  “I refuse to answer that question on Fifth Amendment grounds,” said Bernstein.

  The collective sigh of shock came like a wave over the courtroom.

  “Your Honor, my client claims his privilege against self-incrimination and will not answer any further questions,” said Black.

  “Your Honor, Mr. Bernstein has waived his privilege against self-incrimination,” argued Brent. The argument did not go far at the bench. Bernstein would not be testifying anymore, and Brent wouldn’t get a peep out of Suskind, but the implication to the jury was clear – Bernstein was guilty.

  At the bench, Stein and Black made an unusual request. “Your Honor, in light of this development, the defense requests a recess,” said Stein.

  “And the purpose of that recess?”

  “To discuss settlement with my client.”

  “Very well, Mr. Stein, we will queue up the next witness for the plaintiff, but all of the time you use will be coming out of your trial time if there turns out to be no settlement.”

  “Understood, Your Honor.”

  “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, the defendant has refused to further testify on the grounds that it may incriminate him. He has a constitutional privilege not to further testify and you may not infer from his exercise of the privilege or his silence that he is guilty of any crime or use it as proof of any issue in this proceeding,” said Masters.

  Jack London said, “Life is not always a matter of holding good cards, but playing a poor hand well.” Brent was likely holding a losing hand, but he had a hell of a bluff going.

  54

  Brent used the time to prepare April, in the small cafeteria of the courthouse. Since her assessment of the case and Brent’s were, most likely, drastically different, even if they were to get an excellent offer, she could reject it, the case would go to the jury, and Brent was not confident that they had presented enough evidence to win. Not only that, the potentially deadly threat of “Mike the Cleaner” still lingered in his mind.

  “Can you explain to me what’s going on?” she asked.

  “Kevin Suskind was just arrested, after a high speed chase and a shootout with the police, where he shot an FBI agent.”

  “Oh my God! Who is he?”

  “Agent Wollard matched a hair sample taken from Suskind to one found at your parent’s house.”

  April started to cry. “So he’s the one who murdered my parents. And Bernstein doesn’t want to testify because he’s in on it. I knew it!”

  “Now, don’t go so fast.”

  “Are they going to prosecute him for the murder?”

  “It’s too soon to tell. Right now, Suskind has been arrested in connection with Rick Penn’s disappearance.”

  “Then this is good for us, isn’t it? I mean, good for the case.”

  “Yes and no.”

  “What do you mean ‘yes and no’?”

  “Yes, it points to Bernstein’s guilt, but no, I don’t think it’s enough to establish the predicate act for RICO.”

  “The jury heard him.”

  “And they were instructed to ignore it.”

  “But they heard it.”

  “Yes, they heard it, but that doesn’t mean that they’ll vote in our favor. We have to establish that predicate act, and you know it’s always been the weakest link of our case.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying that their offer before was to walk away from the home loan. Now I think they will come back with some serious money. They can’t afford to have this get out in the press, win or lose.”

  “Well good then, let’s go for it!”

  “And if we lose?”

  “Then we lose.”

  “April, you’ve lost your mother, and your father. This is a chance to punish the bank and make them pay. The money won’t bring them back, or ease your pain, but you will be able to keep their house, mortgage free, and have some money to give to their future grandchildren. I’m sure they would have wanted this for you.”

  “Do what you need to do Brent, but you know my answer.”

  55

  Charles Stinson used to say that “a good compromise is one where both parties walk away disappointed.” He also said, “Whoever gives the first number loses.” That phrase stuck in Brent’s mind when a smiling Joe Stein approached him, swinging his briefcase.

  “Counselor, let’s talk turkey,” Stein said.

  “We’re on your dime, talk away.”

  “My client realizes that your client has suffered great losses. Of course, in my estimation, they could never be held responsible for these losses.”

  “Of course.”

  “But, nevertheless, Bernstein’s taking the Fifth is a fuck up. I don’t think you have enough evidence to win this case, but it’s worth it to the bank to cover your client’s fees and incidental costs, if we can get a confidential settlement.”

  “It would take a lot more than incidental costs to settle this case,” said Brent.

&
nbsp; “You’ve discussed it with your client. How much will it take to settle the case?”

  Smiling slyly, Brent said, “You tell me. You’re the one who asked for the time away from the trial to talk settlement. You can’t be coming to me just now after the past hour just to get to a starting point.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “Somebody’s got to give a number, Joe, and it’s not going to be me. My client wants this case to go to the jury, win or lose.”

  “That’s not a very wise decision.”

  “So we’re at a Mexican standoff? Let’s go back to the courtroom.” Brent starting walking toward the courtroom like a tourist bargaining for a sombrero in Tijuana.

  “Wait.”

  Brent stopped, but paused before turning, so as not to appear too anxious.

  “Yes?”

  “Quiet title to the house, plus $1 million in costs, that’s our final offer.”

  Smiling from the inside, because he realized that Stein had already lost the upper hand of negotiation, but with a stern look of disappointment on his face, Brent said, “Joe, like you said, I’ve talked with my client. This is not going to cut it. You’ve got to go back to the bank because I know she’s going to reject it. But I’ve got an obligation to communicate it to her, so I will.”

  ***

  “A million? Forget it!” said April, defiantly.

  “I knew you would say that,” said Brent.

  “These are my parents, Brent, I can’t put a price on them. Three hundred million would not be enough.”

  “You can’t ever get them back either.”

  “I know,” April sobbed. “This whole case has been a disaster, and I feel like those bastards are winning and just laughing at us.”

  “April, you came to the court for justice. Unfortunately, you’re not going to find it here. I feel very strongly that we’re likely to lose on the RICO count. You’re basically asking the jury to convict Prudent Bank of not only bank fraud, but murder.”

  “Bernstein killed her.”

  “That may be true, but that doesn’t mean the bank is responsible. If he did it, as opposed to doing them a favor, he probably created even more of a mess for them.”

  “I just don’t see how I can reduce my parents’ lives to dollars and cents.”

  “You can’t. Nobody who sues because they lost a child, or a wife or husband, or anyone close to them can ever be compensated for that loss with money. But it’s the only way the law has to force the guilty party to make amends.”

  “What about the death penalty, or life in prison?”

  “April, you know this is not a criminal case. But, after Bernstein took the Fifth, I wouldn’t be surprised if a criminal prosecution is around the corner.”

  “I could use the money to establish a fund in their name to help victims of bank fraud.”

  “That’s an idea.”

  “Now I just need to get your bottom line. What’s the least amount of money, plus my fees, plus the house, that will settle this case? I won’t tell them that; I just need that number to negotiate.”

  April thought long and hard. “I wouldn’t settle for less than $3 million,” she finally said.

  Now April had lost her advantage in the negotiation, because Brent had her number. It would not bring George Marsh or Rick Penn back, but it would keep Brent and April from joining them, and it would be a victory as well as an end to the case which had taken so much away from both of them.

  “I’ll see what I can do,” he said.

  56

  A stern and impatient looking Virginia Masters took the bench, outside the jury’s presence.

  “In the matter of Marsh v. Prudent Bank, we are outside the presence of the jury. What is happening gentlemen, do we have a settlement or not?”

  “We’re working on it, Your Honor,” said Stein.

  “Well, that’s not good enough, Mr. Stein. You have half an hour more. I suggest you call your client and do your best to settle this case if that’s what you want to do because in half an hour, I expect to see the jury in the box and the next witness in that chair.”

  “Yes, Your Honor.”

  ***

  “You’ve gotta do better than $1 million, Joe,” said Brent, in the corridor outside the courtroom.

  “Look, Brent, just give me your client’s number. I’ll take it to mine and see if we can get this done.”

  “I don’t have a number.”

  “You don’t know what your client will take?”

  “I know what she won’t take.”

  “Look kid, don’t bullshit me. I’m a bigger bullshitter than you, and I can smell it a mile away.”

  “My client’s not hearing anything that would compel her not to go forward. We’ve already put on our case.”

  “Which sucks.”

  “Your opinion. If you think the jury shares that opinion, fair enough. But I don’t think either one of us has a crystal ball.”

  “Alright. We’ve got less than 20 minutes now. Let me make a phone call.”

  “Do what you have to do.”

  ***

  It took Stein no more than five minutes to come back, which told Brent that he already had his bottom line; the maximum amount that he had authority to settle for. Brent knew the minimum his client would go for. Now it was just a matter of who cracked first.

  “1.5 and not a penny more.”

  “Sorry, that won’t do it.”

  “For Christ’s sake man, what does she want?”

  “Justice.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “Joe, if I take that figure to my client, we’re done. She won’t take it, period. So if it’s your bottom line, let’s get on with the trial.” Brent turned to walk away again.

  “Don’t walk away from me. I know that’s a bullshit move.”

  Brent turned, smiling. “Let’s go Joe, our time’s almost up.”

  “Two million.”

  “Four.”

  “Are you crazy?”

  “Four million, Joe, that’s our bottom line.”

  “Let me make a phone call.”

  Stein came back faster than the last time. “Three and not a penny more.” Hearing the magic words, Brent said, “We have a deal.” Stein looked relieved.

  57

  Judge Masters thanked the jury for their service, and excused them, and took the settlement on the record. April, relieved that she had some kind of closure, thanked Brent, and left the courtroom. That left Brent alone with Stein.

  “Are you going to talk to the jury?” he asked. After a trial is over, the admonition of not talking about the case is lifted and lawyers always have a chance to talk to the jury if they want.

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t want to know,” said Brent. “What I do want to know is how close I got to your bottom line.”

  “It was $5 million. Never bullshit a bullshitter, son.”

  Brent felt instantly deflated. Up until then, he thought he had made the best deal he could make for his client.

  “Don’t be disappointed. You fought a good fight,” said Stein, slapping Brent on the shoulder. Brent shook Stein’s hand.

  “See you around, Joe.”

  “Better hope you don’t,” said Stein, laughing, as he packed up his briefcase.

  58

  Kevin Suskind trudged to the mess hall with his group to have his first taste of jail food. He needed to get out; needed to get high more than anything else. The meeting with his lawyer had gone well. He had the best legal defense that money could buy. And once his bail was posted, he would be out of this shit hole. The food was crappy, but he was famished, so he ate well.

  As Suskind shuffled back to his cell block, he stopped to watch two inmates going at it.

  “What the fuck you lookin’ at?” said the fat one.

  “You, lard ass!” said the skinny one.

  Suskind laughed. What a couple of idiots.

  “Keep moving,” said
the Deputy, about the time that the two unlikely warriors went at it, brawling. The Deputy’s attention was called to the fight, and radioed it in, as two other deputies descended on the fighters to break them up.

  Suskind felt a pain under his chin as a warm slush of blood covered his jump suit from the red fountain flowing form his carotid artery. He covered the wound with his hand, but it was no use. The heart pumps blood at five liters per minute. Suskind fell to his knees as the crowd around him disbursed and two deputies came to his aid, but it was too late.

  59

  William Conlan got behind the wheel of his BMW Z4 and floored it. The one thing he loved most in life was speed. Whether it was flying down the road at 90 miles per hour or doing the same flying in his head, fast was the only way to go.

  The long drive to San Francisco on Highway One was treacherous, but that’s what made it so much fun. Many people traveled this road for the beautiful coastline. Conlan did it for the thrills. Every twisting turn was a new rush of adrenaline; especially when you tweaked it with his drug of choice – crystal methamphetamine; the poor man’s cocaine. His buddy Kevin Suskind had an expensive cocaine habit. Crystal meth gave Conlan the same bump, and saved him money for fast cars and fast women.

  Conlan jumped over the solid double yellow line, passing every car at will. Every curve was an exhilarating rush. The fog hovered over the hills of the coast, peppered with pines. Conlan passed a bunch on motorcycles like they were standing still; provoking a memory of the bar fight at the Cold Spring Tavern.

  The fog burned away to a powder blue sky as Conlan pushed the Z4 to its limits, but felt himself losing control going into the hairpin curve. He pushed the brakes gently to correct the shift, but the lifeless brake pedal just hit the floor. Panicked, Conlan hit the brake pedal again, then tried to gear down, but the momentum propelled the Z4 through the metal guard rail and over the cliff. That flight was the last fulfillment of Conlan’s need for speed.