I rose to leave, absolutely dejected. “Thank you for your time.”
“Nope. No operatives,” Father Ford added gratuitously, a smile returning to his face. “But we could always use some extra money to feed the hungry and heal the sick.”
“You know,” I said, turning back to him, “the Catholic Fund says ninety-three percent of their donations go toward their mission.”
“Hah!” he exhaled. “That’s rich. Rich, if you ask me. No charity’s that efficient.”
Fresh air. I needed fresh air. The walk to the Maryknoll parking lot felt like “the last mile” so infamous just around the bend. The walls were closing in, and Father Frederick Ricardo was turning more suspicious all the time. The Patriot Act says, “Know your client.”
Hell, Maryknoll didn’t even know him.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
EN ROUTE TO NEW YORK CITY
Somewhere on Wall Street, there’s a how-to guide for screwing employees.
Firms pay big bucks and extoll their workforces in public. “Our assets take the elevator down every night.” The expression is a tribute to personnel, spoken with reverence.
Percy Phillips, my ex-client and SKC’s CEO, refers to employees as “assets” all the time. I don’t get it. In my opinion, the word “assets” dehumanizes people. I don’t understand how comparing employees to property is some kind of compliment.
Whatever. Companies lay the legal foundation, day in, day out, to crush their “assets.” In theory, litigation is only a matter of time. Sometimes I think our entire industry is bipolar. And the two faces—what senior managers say versus what they do—make me want to gag.
You can see the “bad moon rising.” You can smell trouble all you want. But stockbrokers don’t know how bad things are until we wade knee-deep into a steaming pile of our firm’s advance preparations.
Try getting a lawyer. They all have conflicts.
* * *
It was 4:30 P.M. when I called Ira Popowski from the road. He was an estate attorney, one of the best. I had referred him plenty of business through the years. And although his expertise was not what I needed, Ira was a mensch—as close a friend as billable hours allow.
“Maybe it’s nothing.”
“That bad?” he asked. There was no starting slow with him. He knew me too well.
First I told Ira how SKC had snatched the CEO’s account from me. Then I briefed him on the Palmetto Foundation, our $25 million wire, and the fact that Maryknoll had never heard of Father Frederick Ricardo, Highly Intimate Pleasures, or the Catholic Fund. “I think SKC caught wind of something. But I can’t figure what they know or how they found out. Or if my imagination is getting the best of me.”
“I bet the Feds knocked on their door.”
“The Palmetto Foundation isn’t even a client.”
“No, but Palmer Kincaid was,” Ira explained.
“Why wouldn’t my boss tell me?”
“Her job is to protect the firm, not you. If SKC thinks you’re toxic, they won’t tell you a thing. Especially given the deal with Morgan Stanley.”
Toxic?
“But the FBI should visit me, right?” I had a thousand questions. It took every ounce of self-control to hold back and listen to my friend’s counsel. “I’ll tell them whatever they want to know.”
“Not without a lawyer present.” Ira stopped talking. He was waiting for my affirmation.
“Got it.”
“And it might not be the FBI.”
“What do you mean?”
“It could be the Secret Service.”
“What’s this got to do with the president?”
“I knew you’d say that. The Secret Service protects the president. And they police our financial infrastructure, everything from counterfeit currency—”
“No way that’s the issue,” I interrupted.
“To money laundering,” he finished.
“That’s just fucking peachy.”
“But it sounds to me like you stepped on a pile of tax fraud. And the FBI is building its case.”
“How’d you get there?”
“The Palmetto Foundation received a sixty-five-million-dollar gift. It then wired twenty-five million to an organization related to the original donor. The money’s going around in circles, which sounds like a tax scam if you ask me. Maybe Palmer was providing material assistance.”
I paused a beat and said, “Right.”
“Come on, Grove. You know this stuff.”
“I was so focused on the Patriot Act, I didn’t think about the tax fraud. And what the hell is ‘material assistance’?”
“IRS for ‘You’re screwed.’”
Suddenly, I regretted my phone call to Ira. “Glad you chose law over medicine.”
“Why’s that?”
“Your bedside manner sucks.”
“Sorry. But the facts are the facts. If the FBI visited your boss, we know they went through the U.S. attorney’s office. And the U.S. attorney is the IRS’s lawyer.”
“This makes no sense, Ira. I’ve never even seen Palmer’s tax returns.”
“You’re a trustee of the offending organization. And when it comes to tax evasion, the Feds play one way.”
“Which is how?”
“They hit hard.”
Neither of us said anything. I had turned off the radio. And for a few merciful seconds, the steady hum of my tires rolling against the freeway offered a painless alternative to Ira’s cat-o’-nine-tails. But me being a glutton for punishment, I invited him to continue the flogging. “And I thought the Patriot Act was my problem.”
“Who said it isn’t? But I think tax fraud is more likely, not to mention the best-case scenario.”
“How’s that?”
“The fines are lower, and there’s less jail time.”
“Excuse me if I’m not seeing the sunshine.”
“I’m no expert on the Patriot Act.” Like every other attorney, Ira came fully loaded with disclaimers. “But it empowers the government to freeze your accounts and sentence you to up to twenty years.”
“Do you have a partner who can represent me?”
“No.”
Talk about a dull thud. My friend’s word hit me like an ax. “Your shop has twelve hundred lawyers.”
“Right. And SKC pays us a retainer.”
“For what?”
“Not to take the other side.”
“That’s it?”
“It’s cheaper than facing us in court.” I could almost hear Ira smiling through the phone.
“Can you recommend another law firm?”
“Could be a problem. SKC pays most of the top lawyers in Manhattan, one way or another. They have conflicts too.”
“Great. That’s just great.”
“Look, I’ll talk to my partners and get you some names of lawyers who know how to cut a deal.”
“A deal. What kind of deal? With whom? I haven’t done anything wrong.” I was firing objections left and right. Ira’s answers were going from bad to worse.
“Dealing with the Feds is tricky. First you need to identify the right agency.”
“And tell them what? That my foundation wired twenty-five million to a black-ops Catholic missionary? That Maryknoll doesn’t know a priest who claims to be part of their order? For all I know, Father Ricardo kicked the habit.”
“Your lawyer will go fishing and pose hypothetical questions.”
“I still don’t understand why you can’t represent me. My problem is with the Feds, not SKC.”
“It’s only a matter time until your issues bleed over to SKC.”
“So what?”
“You want one team. Not two law firms sparring over your case.”
“I don’t have a case. I have a hunch.”
“Don’t kid yourself. I need to find you a lawyer.”
“This isn’t right.”
“There’s one other thing.” Ira paused to make sure he had my complete attention. “How long have
you known the other trustees?”
“Claire, since we were kids.” A horn honked, and a guy in a convertible passed on my left, flipping me the New York turn signal. “JoJo, not so long and not so well.”
“Make sure your lawyer advises you how to interact with them.”
“You think they’ve done something wrong?”
“Maybe. Maybe not.” Ira was measuring his words now. “But if you’re in trouble with the Feds, so is the Palmetto Foundation. The other trustees will protect the organization because—”
“Because it’s everything to them in Charleston.”
“Right. Plus, I can’t get one thing out of my head.”
“Okay?”
“You joined the Palmetto Foundation on Tuesday. And you already ferreted out a problem.”
“All I have is a hunch.”
“Whatever. How long have Claire and JoJo known this priest?”
“Eighteen months. Maybe longer.”
“It strikes me as a little strange.”
“Don’t go there.” I could feel my anger returning.
“I’m just saying.”
“The Kincaids are rock-solid reliable. They do great things for Charleston. And Palmer Kincaid left three-quarters of his estate to charity. Don’t even think about dragging his family into the muck.”
Ira heard the anger in my voice. He backpedaled in tone but not conclusion. “I don’t mean to insult your friends. But I’d keep an eye on them. In my experience people take time to go bad. A few white lies, pretty soon they’re cutting corners. And they get sucked into a vicious cycle that feeds on itself. I think white-collar crime is evolutionary. Not revolutionary.”
“No way. They’re worth over ten million each. What’s the play?”
“Too bad you’re not Jewish. We don’t operate on blind faith.”
* * *
“We don’t operate on blind faith.”
I considered Ira’s words all the way back to New York City. I chewed over his comments while playing the blues. Like I said before: in my business, nothing good happens on Friday afternoon. And Billie Holiday set the perfect mood. Her wailing. Her lyrics. Her somber notes are about as depressing an experience as you can find outside the boss’s office of any financial services firm.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
UPPER WEST SIDE
I hate to admit it. But after ten days in Charleston, I could not help but compare Annie to Claire Kincaid. Even with the dozen or so shit buzzards pecking through my thoughts.
Claire dresses in tans and muted blues, subtle shades of gray. Clothes serve as a canvas for porcelain skin and satiny brown hair, her unruly bangs the only hint of imperfection. I look at Palmer’s daughter and think she’s either leaving a polo match or heading to a cocktail party for some charity in desperate need of cash. Her style is controlled, elegant, and vulnerable.
Annie is a different story. She layers on colors—reds, purples, prints—the way I hang ornaments on a Christmas tree. Her clothes buzz with energy, fresh and sassy.
Tonight she had opted for something simple by her standards: blue jeans and wedge sandals. I think that’s what you call the shoes. She wore a lacy camisole that would have been banned in my hometown, her striped blouse carelessly open, double-take style. And the red, yellow, and blue buttons looked happy on her white cardigan.
We had just walked into Shun Lee, not the main dining room, but the small café with the black-and-white floor tiles. Comfort food is usually my first line of defense. That night, in the wake of my conversation with Ira, I was ready for a couple of drinks. Maybe more.
In typical fashion we inspected the room and reached unique conclusions, a man and a woman caroming through life, driven by different hormones and dissimilar observations. I checked out all the faces in the small restaurant to see if I recognized anyone, especially one of my colleagues from SKC. I worried about being overheard.
Clear.
Annie adopted a more holistic approach. She surveyed the couples, who was with whom, what the women were wearing. Had she come to Shun Lee with one of her girlfriends, they would have worried themselves about the woman’s handbag in the corner table. Or wondered why a pretty woman was stuck with such a loser.
We ordered spring rolls and grilled scallops to start. And I ground through my discussion with Ira. Annie listened without speaking. When our Peking duck, crispy beef, and pork fried rice arrived, she asked, “Have you ever heard of Thomas J. Rusk?”
“No.”
“Texas governor during the 1800s.” She topped up our wineglasses. “He’s the one who said, ‘We’re in a hell of a fix. Let’s go to the saloon, have a drink, and shoot our way out.’ Or something thereabouts.”
“Not funny.”
“Not meant to be.”
“And your point is?”
“Lawyers don’t solve problems.” Annie paused a beat. Her eyes locked onto mine. “And SKC doesn’t ask questions. They shoot first and ask questions later.”
“Keep going.”
“You need to fight. Throw some punches.”
“At whom?”
“Father Ricardo.”
“For chrissakes, Annie. He’s a priest.”
“I don’t care if he’s Saint Peter. You wired twenty-five million to his charity. Three days later, you have a problem with SKC and the Feds for all we know. And what was the word Ira used?”
“Toxic?”
“Right. The link seems pretty clear to me. The Palmetto Foundation is the source of all your problems. And I don’t care what you say. Claire Kincaid is dirty.”
“She’s my friend.” I knocked back my wine.
Annie poured more. “Don’t you see it?”
“See what? She runs a community foundation.”
“Who insisted on sending money to this rogue priest?”
“Claire.”
“Who handles the Palmetto Foundation’s relationship with him?”
“Claire.”
“And who makes mistakes with men?” Annie was not asking questions. She was hurling them, one after another, rocks against a window.
“What are you saying?” But I knew where she was headed, that irreverent spot we call “Pagan Place” in our lighter moments.
“Isn’t that what Palmer always said about his daughter?”
“Ricardo’s a priest.”
“He has a penis.”
“Enough!” Several other diners looked in our direction. I swigged wine and lowered my voice. “Claire hasn’t done anything wrong. She can’t.”
Annie eyed me, her expression suddenly curious. “What, she’s too fragile?”
“Yes, she’s too fragile. I’ve known Claire all my life. She doesn’t have the DNA for monkey business.” I paused before adding, “And don’t play the feminist card with me.”
“Whatever.” Annie stopped eating. She stopped drinking. She pulled back and stared through her glass of amber-colored wine. Listless. She saw something other than the wine.
Uh-oh.
“Did I say something?”
“No.”
“Come on, Annie.” Her mood had changed. It went from vine to sour grapes without the rot in between. “What is it?”
“Nothing.”
“I know that ‘nothing.’ What is it?”
“You still have a thing for her, Grove.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“You ever read romance novels?”
“Of course not. What—”
“They’re all the same. The women fake orgasms. And the men fake fidelity.”
“Not fair. Why are you picking a fight?”
“Who’s fighting? I’m trying to save your career.” Annie leaned forward, intense, focused. “And you’re defending Calamity Claire because you can’t get over high school. That sounds like self-immolation to me.”
Annie paused and pulled from her drink, long, slow, and languid. I chugged mine, filled my glass, and signaled for another bottle.
“Whic
h,” she added, “is killing me to watch.” She reached for my hand and stopped me from raising the drink. We held hands for a long, long time, me savoring her strength, loving her more every second.
“Only you,” I finally said. “Only you, okay?”
“Okay.”
Annie stared at me hard, an unsettling look that hinted at the fresh wound in our relationship.
“There’s a lot I don’t understand,” she said. “Your Father Ricardo for one. But somehow, some way, I bet Claire got a piece of that wire transfer.”
“The Palmetto Foundation received a fee.”
“I mean her personally.”
“I’m not defending Claire.” I had to choose my words carefully. “But she’s already rich. What’s she gain from another twenty-five million?”
“Twenty-five million.”
“By that logic, JoJo should be the one on the receiving end. The money means more to her on a percentage basis.”
“Now you’re thinking,” she said. “You should absolutely check out JoJo Kincaid.”
“She’s clean.”
“What makes you so confident?”
“The timeline.”
“How so?” For a moment, Annie’s curiosity took me back to the old days when she was my sales assistant.
“Six weeks ago, the Catholic Fund placed sixty-five million with the Palmetto Foundation. And the two organizations have been working together for eighteen months.”
“Why is that important?”
“Whatever Father Ricardo is cooking up, he started while Palmer was alive.”
“So?”
“So JoJo wasn’t involved. She had no incentive to get more. Because she had everything while Palmer was alive.”
“I’ve got good instincts on these things, Grove. And I’m telling you. Claire’s a different story. She’s dirty.”
“Claire is Palmer’s daughter. She inherited forty million, plus the mother of all houses.”
“I bet,” Annie persisted, “that Palmer kept a tight rein on her?”
“On what basis?”
“She got divorced. She never remarried. And didn’t Palmer call her boyfriend ‘a prenup waiting to happen’? Sounds to me like Daddy controlled the purse strings.”
“Palmer bought sixty-four plots in the graveyard. I think he supports her marriage and place in the family.”
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