The Takeover

by Stephen W. Frey

  “It pushed back from the gate at seven thirty-eight, eight minutes late. That left him eleven minutes to get from that strip mall to the plane because the call lasted three minutes. It doesn’t work. He couldn’t have made the plane from where he made the call in that amount of time. There wasn’t another flight to Dallas until eight o’clock the next morning. But there was a New York flight at eleven-thirty that evening. That would have given him plenty of time to break into Chambers’ office and then get to the airport.”

  “But you said he used the ticket to Dallas.”

  “No, I said the ticket was used. He probably sold it to someone at the airport. Which would also explain why there’s no record of him renting a car or buying a ticket for another flight out of Toledo. Look at it this way. He took only a hundred dollars in cash with him to Toledo for expenses, at least according to NASO’s records. So, after he waves good-bye to the idiot Phil Barksdale, Falcon goes to the counter, buys the ticket to Dallas with his corporate credit card for five hundred thirty-five dollars, and then sells it to someone at the airport for, say, three hundred. The ticket shows up as used, and he’s got cash.”

  “Was his ticket to New York used?”

  “No.”

  “But if he rented a car, wouldn’t he have to use a credit card? Don’t they require that?”

  “Yes. But if you pay the bill with cash, they rip up the credit card slip. Just as they do at hotels.”

  Turner groaned. “Anything else?”

  “Yes. There were only two people on the first leg of the flight from Toledo to New York that night, the Toledo-to-Pittsburgh flight. A Mabel Taylor and a John Richards. Phoenix talked to the stewardess about John Richards. She described Falcon to a tee. Said she could never forget a face like that. She also said that the man seemed distracted. And by the way, the second ticket, the ticket for the Dallas to New York flight, wasn’t used.”

  The pain in Prescott’s chest was subsiding. He took a long gulp of the bourbon he had fixed for himself. He felt better as they talked it through and the liquor began to pervade his system. “You’re right. He’s our man. Do we know where he is now?”

  “He’s back in New York.”

  “How do we know? Maybe he stayed in Pittsburgh.”

  “We know he’s in New York. We have our contacts.”

  “Of course.” Prescott hesitated before asking the next question. “You don’t think Chambers is involved, do you? It’s awfully coincidental that Falcon, if it really was Falcon, would have been able to get to those files like that. How would he even know to look, let alone know where to look?”

  “I thought of that. I’m going to get Rutherford to administer a polygraph test to Devon this evening. Devon has volunteered to go to Boston. I asked him to take it, and he agreed right away. If he doesn’t show up tonight, I’ll have Phoenix pick him up.” Winthrop’s voice softened. “I don’t think Devon would sabotage this project at the last minute. We’ve all worked too hard.”

  “I’m sure you’re right.”

  “Turner, I need you to hold off disclosing that information to the court today.”

  “I can’t do that!” Prescott became agitated again. He slammed his fist on the bar. “This is a multimillion-dollar federal court trial! This isn’t exactly a traffic violation we’re trying here. These federal judges don’t fool around!”

  Winthrop sensed the volcano beginning to erupt again. “You have to delay the trial. We have to find Falcon first. We can’t disclose until we have Falcon. He can link every one of us to the whole thing. Look, Turner, it’s as simple as this. We’ve got to stop Falcon before he can put all this together and ruin us. I mean, as it stands right now, we haven’t done anything wrong. We’ve stretched a few Federal Reserve rules, but Wendell can take care of that problem. But once you disclose the information, Falcon could prove a conspiracy and a whole lot of other things.”

  “We’ve killed Jeremy Case and the other guy at Penn-Mar before him. Then there’s Peter Lane and the little matter of Filipelli’s ‘drowning.’ ”

  “No one can prove those things.”

  “Never assume that.” Prescott was nervous again as he swallowed the rest of the bourbon. “Look, I can’t put off conveying the information to the jury. At some point today, the judge is going to look at me and ask me if we have any more evidence to present. I don’t have anything else.”

  “Can’t you stall for a day or two? Ask for a continuance or something.”

  “I can try. But if the judge says no, I’m up shit’s creek. I’ve got to be able to pull the trigger today!”

  “If you have no choice, if you have to disclose, then do it,” Granville said quietly.

  The men were silent for several moments, staring at each other. It was an impossible situation.

  “What do you think Falcon will do with this stuff? Do you think he’s just waiting until we disclose all of the environmental crap so that he can get us on the conspiracy charge?” Prescott asked.

  “I don’t know. He’s killed a man or is somehow connected with his death, so in a way he’s in as bad a position as we are. I doubt he’s chomping at the bit to deal with the authorities.”

  “He could send it to them anonymously.”

  “He could, but I’m not sure what that would accomplish for him.”

  “Chambers didn’t tell the police it was Falcon, did he?”

  “Of course not. He’s not that stupid.”

  Prescott bit his lip. “But why the hell would Falcon steal the information? Why would he risk everything to break into Chambers’ office? What’s his motive?”

  “I’ve thought a lot about that. I don’t know. I thought for five million he’d sit tight and just get us Penn-Mar, but I guess I was…” Winthrop did not finish the sentence.

  Prescott began to fix himself another drink. “Do you think he found the account and the wire transfer linking him to the purchase of Penn-Mar shares? Do you think somehow he figured out that we were setting him up for an insider-trading charge?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Clearly he intends to use whatever he found. Otherwise he wouldn’t have risked the break-in.”

  “You’re right,” Winthrop said. “So I think it’s safe to say that we are very lucky that guard surprised him and that subsequently the guard was killed.”

  “So what do we do?”

  “We sit tight, stay calm, and let Phoenix Grey go to work.”

  The two men gazed at each other. This was real trouble, and though they both tried to convince themselves otherwise, there was no denying it.

  * * *

  —

  Sharon Cruz stared at the jury. They were bored to tears. The fat man in the second row of the jury box was falling asleep. His head bobbed farther and farther back as he fought the inevitable, until finally it lay still against the dark wood panelling of the courtroom wall. For three or four seconds the fat man sat balanced in this position with his arms folded across his chest and his mouth wide open. Then his head began to roll slowly to one side. He awoke with a start, so that he kicked the tiny Chinese woman in the pink dress sitting directly before him in the front row of the jury box. She squealed, but no one took notice.

  The fat man looked around for a moment, silently pursing his lips, afraid that someone had noticed him dozing. But no one except Sharon had. He coughed twice, took on a very serious face, and attempted to concentrate on what was transpiring. It was a losing battle. Within two minutes his head was bobbing back again. This was bad, Sharon thought. Very bad.

  Prescott was way off today. The steel-trap mind that had so mesmerized Sharon Cruz and the rest of the courtroom since the opening statements of the trial had suddenly taken a holiday. In contrast to his former wizardry, Prescott was now plodding and dull in his interrogation of the University of Maryland toxicologist. At times the questions were irrelevant o
r disconnected. And the sudden slouch and deep bags under his eyes gave him the appearance of a beaten man.

  Sharon glanced at the legion of Penn-Mar attorneys. They were sitting up in their chairs, no doubt taking notice of the legendary attorney’s sudden ineptitude. They smelled an opportunity, though of course they were as baffled as the rest as to what was happening.

  What was wrong with him? The toxicologist was their final witness before they would rest and the defense would begin its case. Besides the truck driver, the toxicologist was Prescott’s star witness. He was the man who would link the poison in the cattle’s blood and the water supply to the poison in the drums marked Penn-Mar recovered from the Parker farm. And here was Prescott, stumbling, rambling, asking all the wrong questions, apparently paying more attention to a manila folder on the plaintiff’s table than he was to the witness.

  Come on, Turner, get it together. We are losing all the ground we gained in the last three weeks. Sharon glanced first at the Bradlees, who seemed agitated and worried, and then again at the Penn-Mar attorneys. They were suddenly sensing a settlement. A very small settlement.

  “Mr. Prescott!” The judge interrupted Prescott’s last question of the little man with the thick glasses.

  “Yes, Your Honor?” Prescott asked.

  “Is this going anywhere? The good people of the jury have real jobs, you know. At some point we need to send them back to those jobs. Preferably before Christmas.”

  “Yes…they do have real jobs. And we do need to send them back before Christmas…” Prescott spoke slowly, mechanically.

  Sharon noticed Prescott glance at his watch. He was stalling. She looked down at hers—eleven o’clock. An hour until lunch.

  Prescott stared at the toxicologist for a few moments, considering whether or not to ask another question. He decided against it and walked slowly toward the bench. He stopped directly before the judge and began in a loud, clear voice. “Judge Thomas, new evidence has just come to light that we believe will significantly impact this case. However, we have not had time—”

  Judge Thomas held up a large, gnarled hand. “Are you through with this witness, Mr. Prescott?”

  Sharon Cruz blinked. What the heck was Prescott talking about? Was there really new information he had not told her about, or was this simply a case of theatrics of the sort Prescott had been famous for in his younger days?

  Prescott considered the question for a moment. “Yes, I am finished with Mr. Koric.”

  “Good.”

  Sharon took a deep breath. Prescott hadn’t gotten through half the questions they had decided to ask Koric today. She fought the urge to stand and ask the questions herself.

  “Mr. Jordan, you may cross.” The judge pointed a long finger at Penn-Mar’s lead attorney.

  Jordan rose. “Um, at this time we have no questions for Mr. Koric, Your Honor.”

  Judge Thomas beamed. “Good! Now we’re getting somewhere. Progress. I just love progress.” He looked down at the witness. “Mr. Koric, thank you for your testimony. You may step down.”

  The toxicologist nodded at the judge, rose from the witness box, and returned quickly to his seat in the courtroom. He and everyone else suddenly sensed that something significant was about to occur. Even the fat man of the jury was wide awake.

  The judge followed the toxicologist until he was seated, then leaned far over the bench and peered down at Prescott from eyes which seemed much too small for his gigantic head. “So, you have new evidence, do you?” The judge used a mocking tone. “You wouldn’t be about to ask me for a continuance, would you?” The judge smiled a sarcastic smile. “Or at least a few days to try to put this evidence together?” The judge knew of Prescott’s theatrics.

  Prescott nodded. Somehow he felt like a man stringing the noose for his own hanging.

  “What was that?” Judge Thomas cupped a hand to his ear. “I didn’t hear you.”

  “Yes. We request two days to put the new evidence together.”

  The judge leaned back in the leather chair, which squeaked beneath his great weight. He shook his huge head slowly. “I can’t do that. I’ve got another trial, which has already been delayed two weeks because of this one. The dockets are overflowing as it is. You know that. I’m sorry. I really am. But you had months to put together your evidence. Two days now isn’t going to make a difference.”

  “It could make a big difference, Your Honor.” Prescott took a step toward the bench so that he and Judge Thomas were very close. Prescott needed time and he needed it badly. They had to find Falcon before Prescott could bring forth the evidence in the manila folder on the plaintiff’s table. There could be no doubt now that it was indeed Falcon who had broken into Chambers’ office at Penn-Mar and taken the files. Falcon hadn’t shown up for work at NASO yesterday or this morning. He hadn’t gone back to his apartment either. And Phoenix Grey hadn’t found him. “Please give us just a two-day recess. Please…”

  Sharon stared at Prescott. He was begging. Her senior partner was begging. It couldn’t be. Prescott wouldn’t beg for anything.

  “No!” The judge was becoming irritated. “Get on with this thing.”

  The Penn-Mar attorneys smiled at one another. Judge Thomas was suddenly on their side. Thomas could have easily given Prescott two days. It wasn’t an outrageous request.

  Prescott turned and stared at the folder on the table where Sharon Cruz sat. With Falcon running around out there in possession of all that information, to present this evidence now might be tantamount to signing his own death warrant. If the authorities could link the Sevens to the deaths of Case, Filipelli, or Peter Lane, they might all be prosecuted for murder. If they got to Phoenix Grey and were able to get Grey to talk, they would be able to prove anything they wanted.

  They would never get to Phoenix. That was Rutherford’s claim. He was too clever. But even if, by some stroke of dumb luck, the police or the FBI did detain Grey, they would get nothing out of him. Rutherford had assured them of that at the beginning of this thing. Over and over.

  But how the hell could he be sure? He didn’t know Phoenix Grey. Prescott felt perspiration pouring from his forehead.

  Prescott moved to the table on which the file lay. His steps on the hardwood floor echoed heavily in the hushed courtroom. The only other sound in the room was Jordan rustling papers as he prepared to begin the defense of his client in the case of Bradlee Company v. Penn-Mar.

  If he didn’t present the evidence now, the Pleiade Project was dead. The window of opportunity was here. Now. It was wide open. But it would slam shut in seconds. Forever. Prescott stared down at Sharon Cruz. It was now or never.

  Sharon gazed back at Prescott. There was a sadness to his face. The face of a condemned man. What the hell was wrong with him?

  Prescott shifted his gaze to the file. Everything the Sevens had worked for hung in the balance. It was a mammoth decision. Prescott took a deep breath. No wonder he had babbled on all morning. He picked up the file and began to put it into his briefcase standing open atop the long table.

  “Have you any more evidence, Mr. Prescott?” the judge asked.

  Prescott did not answer as he put the file in his case.

  “Mr. Prescott!”

  “No.” Prescott whispered the word into his bow tie.

  “I couldn’t hear you!”

  “No!” Prescott said the word loudly over his shoulder.

  “All right then.” Judge Thomas seemed very satisfied. “Attorneys for Penn-Mar. Mr. Jordan, have you any motions for me to consider at this time before you present your defense?”

  “Yes, Your Honor.”

  “Please proceed.”

  Prescott glanced into the crowd toward the back of the courtroom. He knew exactly where Granville was sitting. He had glanced back there a hundred times this morning, so that if this moment came, he would know exactly where to lo
ok. Prescott stared at Winthrop. Finally, Winthrop nodded solemnly.

  “Wait!” Prescott pulled the file from the briefcase.

  Judge Thomas glanced at Prescott for a moment and then rolled his eyes. “Approach the bench, Mr. Prescott!” Thomas could see something coming, and he wanted to head it off.

  Prescott ignored Judge Thomas. He lifted the file high above his head for all in the courtroom to see. “In this file is irrefutable proof of a conspiracy at the highest level of management at Penn-Mar Chemicals!”

  “Mr. Prescott!” Thomas began to scream. He rose from his chair and towered over the courtroom. “I’ll hit you with contempt, so help me God, Prescott!”

  “A conspiracy to cover up a pattern of illegal dumping of toxic chemicals! Illegal dumping that has been going on for years and years!” Prescott used the most dramatic voice he could find.

  “Approach the bench, Mr. Prescott!” Veins in the judge’s forehead bulged as he yelled above the growing din of the courtroom.

  “Dumping from seventeen plants in this country and Europe, including the Wilmington plant!” Prescott turned to gaze at the audience as he shouted. He continued to hold the file aloft. “This file will destroy Penn-Mar Chemicals. The amount of damage to the environment from Penn-Mar’s illegal disposal of toxic waste is staggering. When the cleanup is over and the fines have been tallied, Penn-Mar will be insolvent. Therefore, we fully intend to go after the company’s secured lenders under Section 2-a3, paragraph four of the Federal Environmental Responsibility Act of 1995. People, after this is over, the company, its management, and its banks will be in ruin. I guarantee it!”

  The courtroom exploded.

  Chairs crashed to the floor.

  Reporters streamed for the exits, pushing past the guards, who attempted in vain to keep the doors closed to maintain order. But order could not be maintained. It was too late.

  The Penn-Mar attorneys, all five of them, stood and gaped at the chaos. Jordan rushed to the judge’s bench, arms flailing. He screamed at the judge, but his shouting was drowned out by the bedlam of the courtroom. Judge Thomas simply stared at Jordan and shook his head. There was nothing he could do. Turner Prescott had played the courtroom perfectly. He was the master.