by Kenneth Eade
“What do you do for an encore?” Angela asked, her forest-green eyes sparkling as she put her hands behind her back and swayed from side to side like a little girl.
Brent extended the flowers, which she took in her hands as she inhaled the aroma with eyes closed.
“They say making up is the best part,” he said.
“Do they?”
“Yes, they do.”
“Well then, you’d better come in.”
Brent braved the threshold and took her in his arms as Angela closed the door to Mrs. Friedland’s adoring gaze.
CHAPTER THREE
Bekker’s credit case was tedious, but the money was good and regular. It came down to a matter of negotiation with each of his creditors. Want to get paid? Take 10% and agree to clear the credit or get nothing. People who didn’t take the deal ended up with a tiger by the tail in a lawsuit. “Money is no object Brent, my friend. I want perfect crredit.”
The credit bureaus – Equifax, Trans Union and Experian – didn’t want to enforce the deals. They were too “honest” to change the payment histories. Tell that to the young doctor who couldn’t qualify for a home loan because his credit profile was mixed with that of a deceased deadbeat, or the guy whose ex-wife ruined his credit before he even got wind of it, thought Brent.
“Sue them! Isn’t there a Fair Credit, what do you call it?” Bekker had asked.
“Fair Credit Reporting Act.”
So the lawsuits rolled out and the money rolled in. In fact, over the next six months, Bekker became Brent’s best client. To Allen Bekker, the result was the only thing that mattered. But Brent had to consider the ethics. He never filed a case that he couldn’t win. There always had to be an evaluation of the merits before hauling someone into court.
“You can’t just file a lawsuit whenever something doesn’t go your way, Allen. You have to have grounds to sue.”
“You’re the lawyer, Brrent. I don’t want to break the law.”
“And I can’t.”
“Then don’t.”
It was the perfect symbiotic relationship. Bekker would get himself into trouble and Brent would sue him out of it. Before long, Brent was also drafting contracts and documents for Bekker’s business transactions.
But Brent’s buddies at Attorneys.net were expanding. They now hosted a new site called, Hotstocks.co, and their customers had not forgotten about Brent. The now-legalized libel was burning a hole in his computer screen every day. It was as if he was a hobby of theirs.
Looks like that crook, Brent Marks, has teamed up with stock fraudster Allen Bekker. Ought to be interesting.
Whatever you do, don’t buy ALBD. Your money’s going right into crooked Allen Bekker’s pocket (which also means Brent Marks’s pocket.)
Allen Bekker screwed me on TNLV. Buyer beware!
Bekker belongs in jail.
Bekker took my life savings. He ruined my life.
Lawyer Brent Marks is just as much a thief as his buddy, Allen Bekker. Why isn’t he disbarred by now?
Several of the posters claimed to be “sleuthing,” looking into Bekker’s background. Every failed deal for them was grounds for a complaint to the SEC or the FBI – every acronymic agency in the federal government.
***
Brent could swear he could hear Allen Bekker’s voice screaming when he read the email “Call me nowwwwwwwwww!” Of course, he picked up the phone right away.
Bekker was outraged. He wanted to sue everybody, including Google, for putting the posts on the first page of his search results. Brent explained the dangers of California’s anti-SLAAP law and how it had already bit him in the butt when he had tried to sue for libel.
“Brrent, I don’t care. I want you to sue those mother fuckerrs.”
“Sometimes it’s better to ignore them. If you fuss about it, it just gets worse.”
“Are you saying we don’t have a case?”
Brent knew he was right the first time. Bekker had a case; it just wasn’t a good judicial atmosphere for it.
“No, I think you have a case. I’m just saying the likelihood of winning it isn’t that great.”
“Why not?”
“Because the individuals are anonymous and hiding behind the website, which has immunity. We don’t know who they are.”
“Don’t you have an investigator?”
“Well, yes, but…”
“Is he any good?”
“He’s the best.”
“Then find out who they are. This is top priority, Brrent. I want to see the hounds of hell raise their ferrocious wrrrath." Bekker hung on the “r” of 'wrath' so long, the phone throbbed.
***
Jack Ruder was late for his meeting with Brent, which was not his usual modus operandi. But, he had called Melinda and told her to let Brent know he was running a little behind. Jack arrived about half an hour tardy, suited up in his usual “detective uniform” of 90s era slacks, an oversized jacket, and a white shirt and grey tie. Brent wasn’t surprised. Jack had looked like a cop when he served for the LAPD, he had looked like a cop when he was with the FBI, and he would look like a cop at his own funeral. And the cop in Jack couldn’t believe what he was hearing.
“So, you want to sue the same group of people who just handed you your ass in court; the same group who’s suing you now for malicious prosecution?”
“Well, some of the same.”
“I thought you only filed lawsuits you thought you could win. Changed your mind to only filing ones you can get your ass kicked on?”
Brent smiled. Humor was not one of Jack’s strong points, but he was doing rather well today.
“The client thought he could even the playing field by outspending the defense.”
“Now, that’s my kind of client.”
“Mine, too. All you have to do is identify the potential defendants here.”
Jack looked at the file, then looked back up at Brent with a blank look on his face, then back at the file.
“Got screwed, The Terminator, 007, The Flusher… You’re kidding, right? How am I supposed to do that?”
“I don’t know, Jack. That’s why you’re the investigator. Investigate.”
CHAPTER FOUR
“Brent, Jeffrey Kelley’s on one,” Melinda called from the reception desk.
“It’s Gee-offrey, Melinda. Like the ‘Toys R Us’ giraffe.”
Melinda chuckled. “I think it’s pronounced the same.”
“Not here. From now on, we will only say ‘Gee-offrey.’”
“Have it your way, boss. Anyway, he’s waiting.”
“Brent Marks,” said Brent as he held the receiver to his ear.
“You have a death wish or something, Marks?”
“That’s an interesting choice of words, Gee-offrey. Why do you say that?”
“Because your guy’s been poking around my client’s place of business, asking all kinds of questions about their users.”
“Haven’t you read the In re Anonymous Online Speakers case, Gee-offrey?”
“It’s Geoffrey - and of course I have. But my client’s users have the right to speak anonymously.”
“Yes, they do, but they don’t have the right to libel my client. Maybe you didn’t notice, Gee-offrey, but your client hasn’t been named in this lawsuit.”
“Nevertheless, we’re going to make a motion for a protective order to block your subpoenas.”
“Knock yourself out.”
***
The subpoenas were just to shake them up. Brent knew that he needed more evidence to connect up the Internet defamation with Bekker’s injuries. That was Jack’s task, and he trusted him to come through. At the end of the day, Jack called Brent to fill him in.
“Hey, Jack, any luck on our mystery buddies?”
“Actually, yes.”
“Tell me, tell me!”
“It’s a little involved. Why don’t we meet and I’ll go over the whole thing with you.”
“Sonny’s?”
> “Sounds good. After work?”
“It’s after work now, Jack. How about in half an hour?”
Brent called Angela to tell her that he was heading straight for a meeting after work, so she shouldn't plan on him for dinner, and headed off on foot for Sonny’s, a brisk walk toward the ocean from the office.
It was still early, but Brent could see that the after-work crowd had already been arriving, meeting friends, and letting off steam, still wearing minimal portions of their office attire. The music was blazing, but he noticed that Jack had grabbed a “quiet” corner table away from the speakers. Jack was munching on nachos, drinking a draught, and looking over his notes when Brent arrived.
“Hey, Jack: you know, those aren’t very nutritious.”
Jack crunched, swallowed, smiled, looked up at Brent, and shook his hand as Brent slid into the chair next to him. Brent nodded to waitress, who came over immediately.
“Could I have a Corona, please?”
“Sure, Anything to eat?”
“Maybe later.”
Brent turned to Jack. “So, tell me what you found out that was so earth shattering.”
“Well, I logged in to the Hotstocks.co website.”
“You didn’t engage anyone, did you? We don’t want to say that you were pretexting.”
“No, no, this was completely straight up. I discovered a statistics counter from the web service menu that was provided by a third party. The counter creates a “cookie” for each user.”
“Oatmeal or chocolate chip?”
“Very funny. A web cookie – bits of information from a website that’s stored in your browser. They record your browsing activity and other information so the website can access it when you visit them again.”
“I know what a cookie is, Jack.”
“Alright. Then I matched up each thread of defamatory content and, from the cookies, I was able to identify the ISP of each poster.”
“Jack, that’s great! Now we can subpoena the ISP!”
“And we don’t have to worry about Hotstocks and their motions to quash our subpoenas.”
“We’ll still let Gee-offrey do his thing. Can’t go with just one course of action. I’ll have the subpoenas for the ISPs ready for you tomorrow morning.”
“Great. Anything else you want me to do on this one?”
“Yes. Follow up on those so-called slanderous sleuths. See if anyone is taking them seriously.”
“Got it.”
CHAPTER FIVE
As promised, Gee-offrey filed his motion to quash the subpoenas that Jack had served on Hotstocks and Attorneys.net; but what he didn’t know was that, in the San Jose headquarters of Trackit Corp., clerks were busy gathering data to deliver to Brent.
Jack Ruder had less luck in official circles, trying to see whether Tensun was under some kind of federal investigation. FBI and SEC investigations are not public, so unless they walk right up to you and tell you that you’re a target, you have to find out the hard way – usually from somebody else who tells you that they’re snooping around. He was able to verify that the SEC was investigating Tensun, Inc., a tech company that Bekker had been involved with, and followed up with Tensun executives. After that, it was just a matter of talking to key employees before Jack realized that an FBI investigation was, in fact, in progress.
***
“The FBI is investigating Tensun, which means Bekker’s probably also a target,” Jack told Brent.
Brent sat back in his chair and pondered. “He says he hasn’t heard from them.”
“That doesn’t mean he’s not a person of interest to them.”
“You’re right.”
“There’s a guy from Arizona who claims that Bekker got him to invest all his life savings in the Tensun deal, and now he’s completely broke. Says it was a scam all along.”
“That’s what happens in these start-ups, Jack. Nine out of ten of them fail, and those are all called 'fraud'. The tenth one hits the jackpot, investors get rich, and Allen is a king.”
“I’m just telling you that this is probably the basis of the SEC and FBI investigation. That, and other similar complaints.”
“I’ll talk to Allen about it. What’s this guy’s name?”
“Gerald Finegan.”
***
After Jack left, Brent placed a call to Allen Bekker. Bekker was in the middle of a meeting, as he usually was, but he stepped out of the conference room to take the call.
“Allen, do you know a Gerald Finegan?”
“That bastard! He accused me of stealing his money. Is he one of the cyber-stalkers?”
“He could be, but this is about an FBI investigation.”
“The FBI is investigating me?”
“They’re investigating Tensun, but I think you should be proactive. I need to meet with you as soon as possible to discuss this.”
“Can you meet me for lunch tomorrow, in Los Angelease?
CHAPTER SIX
Allen Bekker woke to see the Stranger sitting at the foot of his bed. At first he rubbed his eyes to ascertain if he was dreaming. Then his heart pumped wildly as he sat up straight in bed. He felt the arteries in his neck pulsating and the adrenaline tingled his nerves.
“Hello, Allen,” said the Stranger, a shadow in the darkness illuminated by the sliver of light from the moon through the window. Allen reached under his pillow.
“It’s not there,” said the Stranger. “I have it,” he said, holding up a snub-nosed .38 revolver, which gleamed in the moonlight. “You know, it’s dangerous to keep a loaded gun in your bed.”
“What do you want?” asked Allen frantically.
“Nothing.”
“Do you want money? I can give you money.”
“Tsk, Tsk, Allen. Must it always be about money with you? Money is what got you into this situation, after all. No, Allen, I don’t want your money.”
“Then what?”
“I’m happy you asked! I’m going to give you a series of tasks to do, and you are going to do them.”
“And if I don’t?”
“Then I’ll kill you.”
Bekker looked around the room. A bead of sweat had formed on his eyebrows and he was all stiffened up and ready to run.
“It’s no use, Allen. You can’t escape. You’re going to follow my instructions, unless you want this to be as painful as it possibly can be.”
The stranger stood, gun trained on Bekker’s head, and turned on the light with his left hand. He was balding, of average height, and appeared to be in good physical shape.
“Now, Allen, I want you to get up and sit down there at your desk.”
Bekker got out of bed and sat down at the mahogany desk, where he noticed that his personal stationery had been laid out for him, as well as a pen.
“Pick up the pen, Allen.”
Bekker hesitated. Suddenly the Stranger locked his gloved left hand around Bekker’s throat, lifted him several inches off the chair, and held the gun to his temple. Bekker choked and gasped for air.
“Maybe you didn’t hear me, Allen,” he said calmly. “I said, pick up the pen.”
Bekker felt around the desk below him until he found the pen. The Stranger let go, and Bekker fell back into his seat.
“That’s better. Now, please don’t make me repeat myself. We have a lot of work to do.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Brent waited over an hour for Allen Bekker at a table behind the white picket fence at The Ivy restaurant on Robertson, but he never showed up, and he wasn’t answering his cell phone. That’s odd. He always answers his phone, or at least sends a text or email. The Ivy was overflowing with patrons, much like the vines that were its name sake, all of them lunching on fresh Maine lobster or Kobe steak at $50 to $100 a pop. Brent munched on some appetizers and a small, made-to-order Cesar Salad before deciding to give up on Allen. He sent him an email that he was leaving and would catch up with him another time.
Since it was such a long drive back to Santa Barb
ara, Brent decided to hang around west L.A. for a couple of hours and head home before the afternoon rush hour. Beverly Hills was an oasis in the sprawling desert that was Los Angeles. Its manicured streets, enormous mansions, and perfectly-kept gardens were in stark contrast to the urban jungle that lay just outside its borders, buffered, of course, by Brentwood on the West and West Hollywood on the East. Brent dropped into Wally’s on Canon Drive to have a look at the wines that were on sale.
***
Allen Bekker had been found by his housekeeper in the morning, hanging by the neck, in his bathrobe. She immediately called the police, who located a suicide note signed and dated the day before, and apparently in his own handwriting.
I sincerely regret all the harm I have caused to all the people I have stolen from. This is why I am establishing a special trust for victims of my schemes, and I direct the Executor of my estate to pay, pro-rata, every claim of loss made by anyone who can prove any loss in any of my business deals, from the date of my death until one year after.
***
Brent was just leaving Wally’s, having found two cabernets which were on sale for less money than his lunch, when he got the call.
“Brent, it’s Jack. Allen Bekker’s dead.”
