by Martin Clark
Williams smiled. “I needed to ask. I’ll check the security entrance to the building, but unless we see Seth Garrison or Edwin Nicholson rolling through, I can’t see where it’ll do us much good.”
“So from what I’m piecing together,” Helms said, “you think someone stole the original and then hacked the system to put a forgery online?”
“Exactly,” Lisa replied.
“But I read the scanned copy,” Helms said. “Joe still inherits. Why go to that kind of trouble and not change anything?”
“Believe me,” Joe said, “they’ve changed a whole lot.” He looked directly at her. “Are you sure the scan image is the same as the will I gave you, Vicky? Identical?”
“I didn’t study every jot and tittle. The scan looks very similar. But I’m a hundred percent certain that the paper you brought me is the one I entered into the system, and we had three independent witnesses confirm the writing—Delegate Armstrong, Debbie Hall at the newspaper and LuAnne from the bank. That’s all I can tell you. I’m no expert on Lettie’s handwriting—if it’s fake, then it’s fake, but I can’t say I see anything obviously different.”
“I understand,” Joe said solicitously. “Like Robert mentioned, this isn’t your mistake. You did your job perfectly. You always do.”
“Well, thanks,” Helms answered. “I hope this doesn’t cause you any grief, Joe. I know you wouldn’t do anything dishonest. You’d be the last person to steal from a court file. Not you. Never. That I could swear to from a witness stand.”
—
Two weeks later, on a Thursday near the end of July, Lisa and Joe sat in her office and talked to Phil Anderson over the speakerphone.
“So I’m back, and here’s the report from the Bahamas,” he said with mock cheerfulness. “Rasta Phil. Mind you, I did turn down the hair braids at the straw market. I—”
“Wait,” Lisa interrupted. “You actually went to Nassau? Robert told us you were investigating the bank; we didn’t realize you were there.”
“Tough gig, but somebody had to make the sacrifice,” Anderson deadpanned. “My boy was home from college, and I used your case as an excuse to take him bonefishing. Hot as hell and not the best month to fish, but we still had an excellent trip.”
“You shouldn’t have done that, Phil,” Joe said. “We absolutely need to reimburse you.”
“If we make it to the finish of this mess and you’re not in jail and still have a law license, we’ll discuss it. In the meantime, we’ll consider it a much-deserved vacation with my son. Hey, we won a couple hundred bucks playing cards, so there you go. An offset.”
“Please send us your costs,” Lisa insisted.
“Here’s what I found,” he said, ignoring her. “The bank is legitimate. It’s not Fort Knox or the Federal Reserve—it’s the Caribbean and all that comes with it, but it isn’t a complete front or a depository for hoodlums and dope smugglers. I hired a local attorney to hold my hand and make the introductions, and—”
“More we owe you for,” Joe interjected.
“And he arranged for me to meet with the bank manager there in Nassau, an interesting fellow named LaMarr Pinder. I got the impression these people are accustomed to discreetly moving and parking some serious cash. They also make it a point to promote their confidentiality and offshore advantages, if you catch my drift.”
“We do,” Joe said.
“Since I already had the documents from the counterclaim and convinced him they were public record, he didn’t have much problem confirming they were accurate and had been generated by his bank. Unfortunately, that means Garrison has a bank employee who will testify to the $750,000 deposit and the withdrawal on March fifth.”
“No surprise there,” Lisa said. “They’d never plead something so flamboyant and not have all their fake ducks in a row.”
“The question is who really wound up with the $750,000,” Joe noted.
“Exactly. The woman who allegedly withdrew the money had what appears to be your passport, Lisa. Pinder claims they checked it and made a photocopy. We’ll compare the copy to your actual passport, but I won’t be surprised if it’s a basic match. Of course, when you Xerox only the main page of the passport with a black-and-white machine, darned if you don’t lose most of the subtleties and built-in protections that could flag a counterfeit. Item next: They have your Virginia driver’s license on file. Same story. A black-and-white copy. I’ll fax you all this in a moment.”
“If you’re Seth Garrison,” Lisa said, “coming up with quality counterfeit documents wouldn’t be too difficult.”
“Oh,” Anderson said, “the lady who withdrew the money also had to provide them with a numerical password, which she did. The number came from Benecorp, so that’s a nonissue in my book. Window dressing.”
“What do we know about this woman?” Lisa asked. “I didn’t sign anything there, so what about the signature?”
“Well,” Anderson said, “we have the pleadings copy, and the name Lisa Stone appears on the signature line. Pinder refused to let me see his original. It is what it is. We’ll need our own handwriting expert.”
“It’s forged,” Lisa replied. “I didn’t sign it. I never set foot in that bank. Never. But my signature is on literally thousands of documents in the court system. Twenty years of practice will do that. Anybody could locate an example and transfer it onto whatever they pleased.”
“Sure,” Anderson agreed. “The final piece of the puzzle is a security video. As you can imagine, if you’ve seen them on TV or during a trial, the tape from the bank is herky-jerky and blurred. Well, not blurred, but fuzzy. No resolution. My paralegal calls them Blair Witches. I often wonder why businesses even bother, given the poor quality. We see a dark-haired white woman with sunglasses and a hat enter and visit a teller, then she goes off camera to meet with Pinder. It could be Lisa. The video woman has the right size and build and hair color. It could just as easily be a thousand other women. I showed Pinder Lisa’s photo, and he said, yeah, it was most probably Lisa who met with him. It happened months ago and they process a lot of transactions, so he claims he has no particular recollection. The clever answer. It’s suspicious if he’s too positive.”
“If it was Lisa,” Joe stated, “he wouldn’t forget her.”
Anderson chuckled. “True. I say that as her attorney and your loyal friend and a happily married man, and for no other reason.”
“So it’s very simple, isn’t it?” Lisa declared. “Benecorp discovers the date I was in the Bahamas and films a look-alike pretending to collect the cash. They could’ve engineered this two weeks ago so long as the bank’s in on the deal. The whole scheme requires a couple fake documents and a few banana-republic types and doesn’t cost them a penny of the $750,000. More important, I’m sure our friends at the bank didn’t do this for nothing; no doubt they received a handsome fee for their help.”
“Alas, Mr. Pinder wasn’t very forthcoming on those details,” Anderson said. “And unfortunately it’s a safe bet that a state court in Henry County, Virginia, will never manage to shake that information loose.”
Joe made a whistling sound. “Wow. These fuckers can see into the future, can’t they? There’s another reason they didn’t remove the suit—the feds might be able to lean on Pinder. Damn. An easy boat ride from Florida, but the Bahamas is another country. We’ll see Pinder at trial, but we’ll never see his bank’s actual records.”
“For me,” Anderson said, “the most curious twist is the date the money hit Nassau—almost a month before Lisa arrived. Pinder confirmed that, seemed way too eager to talk about it, and Nicholson was happy to fax documentation of the transfer from Benecorp’s U.S. bank. The money really and truly did go to the Bahamas, but well before Lisa got there. $750,000 was transferred while you were allegedly negotiating, but why send it so early?”
“It’s simple, then,” Joe said. “Lisa’s right—they forge a few papers, film a lady no one can positively identify and claim she took money that Ben
ecorp had already sent for some other reason. Most likely to conceal or launder. Or a tax dodge. Hell, I’ll bet Garrison has money squirreled away on every island in the Caribbean. Lucky for him, Lisa happened to visit Nassau.”
“Here’s the problem,” Anderson said, his tone constrained, worried. “I don’t have to tell you this—you’re both probably better trial lawyers than I am—but we’re going to face a helluva job explaining away so many coincidences. We’re stuck with some inconvenient facts—Lisa and the cash in Nassau simultaneously. Bank records from Pinder, even if they’re fake.”
Lisa spoke up. “If you’re a crook, you think, act and plan like a crook. If the first deal’s iffy and tainted, you naturally build in a safety net. He kept an eye on us in case this started unraveling—just like it in fact did. Having met him, I’d say he probably loved diagramming all the intrigue and monkeying around with his plans. He’s a bit of a dork.”
Anderson was quiet for a moment. A jag of static popped in the phone’s antiquated speaker. “I hope you’re correct,” he said. “This won’t be a cakewalk for us.”
Joe bowed closer to the phone. “So we’re clear, Phil, you’re still on board with this? I need my lawyer to believe us.”
Anderson answered quickly. “We both realize I don’t have to believe you to be effective—we’re lawyers, not priests. But, yeah, absolutely, I think you’re telling the truth. You’re the most ethical, honest lawyer I’ve ever met.” He paused, laughed. “Of course most people would say that’s not much of a compliment.”
As soon as the call ended, Joe stared at Lisa, barely blinking. “I’m sorry I fucked up with the trust thing. It was a bad idea and played right into their hands. The one time in my career I skirt the rules, and look at the mess I’ve made.”
“It was a reasonable strategy at the time. We had no idea. None. We’ve never been involved with something on this scale, with this kind of person, a man with this kind of power and influence.”
“This is totally my doing too, my little red wagon. Thanks for sticking with me and supporting me; we’ve now officially got everything at risk.” He sounded dispirited. “You’re a good wife. I hope I haven’t screwed us both.”
Pained to see him so low and anguished, Lisa considered what she ought to say. “I…” was all she could muster before choking on spit and emotion and nerves. “I need to…”
“To what?” he asked.
“To…”
“I’m waiting,” he said.
She came around her desk and stood behind him, leaned down and wrapped her arms around his neck, her cheek against his hair. “I need to make sure you know how much I love you and how hard it is for me to see you suffer and fret.” She was close to his ear, so her voice was tame and subdued. She swallowed two quick times to push space in her throat. “You listen to me: I am positive, one hundred percent positive, that we will win this. We won’t lose. Please don’t worry. We’re a good team, you and me.”
Joe didn’t move, answered without twisting toward her or changing his position, sat there punctured and listless. He was facing the empty chair behind her desk, staring at where she’d been. “You want to tell me whatever it is that’s really on your mind?”
“I just did,” she said. She tightened her arms and leaned more of her weight into him.
—
That night, a few minutes after nine, Lisa printed out a series of posts from #1 Chat Avenue and brought them to Joe:
ROBERTO100: what’s it do, del?
DELLA STREET: Know soon! Pls. stay in touch.
ROBERTO100: danjerous.
DELLA STREET: Are you real?
ROBERTO100: u a dumass lk always.
DELLA STREET: Test. Who is Lee Orr?
ROBERTO100: dog warthen. test, y u not doing sh*t?
“There was no hesitation,” Lisa told Joe. “She came right back with the ID on Lee.”
“That’s hardly the best security question,” Joe said, still studying the paper.
“Actually it’s not too bad, and it was the first thing that came to mind. It’s her, Joe. We just need to find her.”
“Next go-round, ask her whose cat she had last time she was in the office. Or her sister’s address.”
“She has a sister? I didn’t know that.”
“It’s a trick question,” Joe said. “And why the hell is she contacting you and not me?”
“Still no word on the prints from the cardboard you gave Toliver?” Lisa asked.
“We should hear soon. Usually takes around sixty days.”
“It would flat erase our problems if we can locate her,” Lisa said. “Most of our worries would disappear. The court case would be moot, and Garrison would have to surrender the VV 108. I’m still checking by her place, and I’ve started scanning the Token Rock site too.”
“True. And if frogs had wings…”
M.J. met Lisa inside the front entrance to the Village Tavern, a Winston-Salem restaurant they both fancied because of its grouper Hemingway and leather-bound wine list. They hugged and separated, and then M.J. blithely caught Lisa’s wrist and led her away from the door, M.J. bubbly and chatty and merry, as if she were a twenties jazz darling showing her ingenue friend to a Prohibition powder room for gossip and a nip of flask gin. “Okay,” she said, “I know you didn’t call me completely worried and wrung out and use our Agent Ninety-Nine secret codes and drive nearly an hour to hear my happy news and zany reports, but we both realize I can be a selfish bitch occasionally, so there you go, but before we dive into your dilemma du jour, let me tell you about my recent good fortune, and while I’m blabbing, please act like you’re thrilled for me and throw in a couple wows and reallys at the right spots, even though you’re just marking time until we arrive at your issue which, truthfully, I’m sure is important and more pressing than what’s on my agenda.”
M.J.’s chatterbox greeting was still in progress as they walked past the hostess stand and three men wearing conservative suits and into the main dining room. They sat in a booth that connected to a wall, the bench seats, high backs and sturdy table all made of the same shellacked, dark brown wood.
“I can’t wait,” Lisa said as she was sliding across the smooth bench. “Let me guess: They’ve finally taught the royal stallions to ice skate, hired Yanni to compose the soundtrack and the touring version’s coming to North Carolina?”
M.J. laughed. “Wouldn’t that be spectacular.”
A waitress brought water and silverware and menus and politely interrupted them by announcing her name—Alicia—and telling them she’d be taking care of their table. Lisa had no interest in alcohol but asked for a glass of chardonnay, the first choice that came to mind.
“I’ll try a mojito,” M.J. said. “No food right now, thanks.” She smiled at the girl and returned to the conversation with Lisa while the waitress was still writing the drink order. “Okay, so a week ago I’m leaving the office and a red Mercedes SLK pulls beside me, right there in the parking lot, and this beautiful man, who claims he’s never done anything like this, informs me he saw me walking to my car, random as random can be, pure luck of the draw, and he introduces himself and after I Google him on my cell phone and confirm who he is, I follow him to this happy-go-lucky bar in Chapel Hill called the Crunkleton and we hit it off. Amazing. As a bonus, I experienced my first mint julep.”
“Wow. Seriously.”
“His name is Craig Wilkins. He’s a lawyer from Durham, a litigator. He’s divorced. He has a kid starting college this fall, so I’m not potentially subject to any significant stepmoming chores. He was at our building interviewing a witness for a case, some woman down on the sixth floor. And believe it or not, he’s a year older than I am. Actually, seventeen months older. So far, and it’s only been three dates if you count the initial trip to the bar, he seems to be my kind of man. I understand it’s still early and this could turn into Bear Brian, but I’m incredibly optimistic about Lawyer Wilkins. I’ve been in the best freakin’ mood.”
“I’m happy for you,” Lisa said sincerely. “I am. Really. Really.” She grinned. “You absolutely deserve it.”
The waitress delivered the wine and mojito and reminded them she’d be glad to bring food if they decided to eat.
M.J. tasted her drink. “Not bad,” she said. “Thanks for letting me monopolize the conversation. I wish the timing were different for you—it’s always hard to appreciate somebody else’s jackpot when you’re under a black cloud yourself.”
“Actually, it makes me feel better. Lets me believe that karma or kismet or providence or whatever else will eventually do right by the people who deserve it.”
“Tell me about your lawsuit,” M.J. said. “I read the fax you sent. Can you do that in court—just completely make up shit?”
“What a gobsmack. Who the hell could’ve seen this coming? I never thought they’d go on offense. It’s crazy. It’s as if Seth Garrison can conjure up facts and a plausible case out of thin air. It’s suddenly an absolute mess and tar pit.”
“Thanks to my shiny new communications director, I learned last week we’re not supposed to say ‘tar baby.’ This was totally surprising information for me. Every year, there’s a new faux pas word. She gave me an avoid list to remember when I’m in public: pussy willow, pussycat, titter, Oriental and niggardly—meaning cheap, a word I’d never even heard of—are also definite no-no’s in the corporate world. There’re more on the list too. Some I’m supposed to skip because of the guffaws, others because I’d seem insensitive.”
“Lord, you are giddy,” Lisa said. “Were you at the bar before I got here?”
“Sorry. I’m just trying to be amusing and cheer you up. Lighten your load.”
“We never could’ve imagined Garrison’s counterclaim,” Lisa continued. She kept her voice low, always concerned about eavesdropping. “I’m scared to death about what they might find in the Bahamas. I don’t think Benecorp was following me while I was there—they didn’t have any reason to, and I’m assuming they discovered my trip after the fact. But it’ll be a legal and marital nightmare if Garrison’s aware I wasn’t with you twenty-four-seven, and you can bet your butt they’ve been busy in Nassau since the suit was filed.”
