by Tim Green
“And this would cost?”
Graham looked away, studying with appreciation the legs of a young woman in a dark suit who hovered near Jesse Jackson.
“About the same thing it cost me to hire you,” Graham said, grinning, his eyes dancing around the tent now.
“For all of them?”
“For Brad Pitt. Jesse and Al I got two for one.”
Casey nearly choked. In a hissing whisper she said, “You spent two million dollars to have these people here?”
“It’s like an ad in the Super Bowl,” he said, nodding. “Did you see the networks out there? E!? Fox News? These things cost money. Plus, all three of them are now on our board.”
“Swell.”
“You asked how it’s done. Look at Kollar. I bet you didn’t know he had those dimples.”
Judge Kollar stood in his robes, having a picture taken between Brad Pitt and Al Gore, his smile wide as an airplane hangar. Graham looked at his watch and a disturbance at the back corner of the tent marked the arrival of Dwayne Hubbard in a pin-striped suit escorted by two Auburn police officers, each of whom gave wide berth to the man Casey had last seen in shackles. Trailing Dwayne was a thin black woman with white hair wearing a bright blue dress and matching hat, Casey guessed the mother. Another woman stood beside her, tall, overweight, and a black face painted with red rouge and lipstick surrounding a gap-toothed mouth. Casey couldn’t imagine who she might be or what her role was.
Even in the suit, Hubbard’s thin neck and big glasses gave him the air of a character actor playing a bit part on a low-budget cable movie. Jesse Jackson kicked into gear with kisses, solemn hugs, and jive handshakes.
The judge got into the act with Brad Pitt, mugging for the lone photographer who took direction from Abel. Al Gore waited like the statesman until a more dignified moment could be born from the charade and he could pump Hubbard’s hand like a car dealer. It was then Casey heard Dwayne introduce the heavy woman as Naomi Potts, his soul mate and fiancée. Abel raised his voice and began herding the whole group the way only someone fluent in managing big egos and personalities really can.
Atop the courthouse steps, between the towering columns, Casey and the rest positioned themselves on patches of duct tape bearing their names written in black Magic Marker. Casey stood beside Dwayne Hubbard in front of the podium and its herd of microphones while Brad Pitt, Al Gore, and Jesse Jackson, who wouldn’t let go of the mom, flanked them along with Graham, who placed a patronizing hand on Casey’s shoulder as she spoke. When she turned to offer him a weak smile, Casey noticed the judge prowling around in the background, jockeying for some face time.
Casey removed the notes from her briefcase, only to have them deftly snatched up by Abel, who replaced them with a small, three-sentence script. Casey frowned at him, but Abel was too busy handing out scripts to the others to notice her ire.
Casey realized that the crowd had quieted. Graham gave her a hearty thumbs-up. Flashes popped and lenses spun into focus. She cleared her throat and began to read.
“In all my time as a lawyer who loves the law,” she said, looking up from her notes at the narrow-hipped director, “never have I seen such an injustice, an injustice born of malice, racism, and the most heinous form of corruption. In the case of Dwayne Hubbard-who the Freedom Project stands beside today in joyful freedom-the crushing weight of the system acted contrary to the American principles of liberty and freedom. In short, those who swore an oath to uphold the law worked selfishly and cruelly against it.”
Flashes continued to pop and camera motors whirred. Abel, halfway down the steps and off to the side to avoid the cameras, waved frantically for Casey to step aside and she did. Dwayne cleared his own throat, and Casey saw that the sheet of paper he held behind the podium trembled in his shaking hands.
“First, I want to thank my lawyer, Casey Jordan, and the Freedom Project for this historic moment,” Dwayne said, his voice quavering as he held a limp hand up in a gesture to his supporting cast. “And I especially thank Brad Pitt, and Jesse Jackson, and Vice President Gore, along with Robert Graham from the Freedom Project. I also want to say that… that… that while I can’t understand how Judge Patricia Rivers could send an innocent man to jail, even to protect her own son, that I do forgive her, anyway.”
A murmur erupted from the crowd of reporters and the intensity of the flashing and humming built to a crescendo that waned for Al Gore and Jesse Jackson but reached new heights for Brad Pitt and even stayed strong for the bashful billionaire who thanked everyone and asked for the continued support of the American people for this great cause.
Within five minutes, the celebrities had vanished, whisked away in long dark cars sandwiched between flashing lights and sirens. The press broke down their equipment, hot to get into whatever edit space their producers might have found in the larger cities nearby.
“Well,” Graham said, sidling up next to her, wrapping an arm around her shoulders, and giving her a squeeze. “How do you feel?”
Casey looked at him, his dancing hazel eyes, the razor stubble, the rakish dark hair, and said, “Like I need a shower.”
40
CASEY WASN’T PLEASED when Graham asked if she wouldn’t mind waiting until he attended an important and early business dinner in Rochester before they took off. But when he pointed out that the workday would be over by the time they got there either way, she accepted the change in plan. She got on the phone and did her best to give direction to her staff. She always found it harder to be decisive over the phone, suspecting she somehow became overrun with compassion. When Jake called, she couldn’t say no to him, either. She went downstairs and patiently answered his questions, seeing exactly where the interview was heading and not minding to be a part of smacking down the overzealous criminal system of this and other small towns that deserved it.
When they finished, she asked Jake if he had any interest in a cappuccino, but he apologized, explaining that Dora was frantic with their deadline, and headed off to meet Marty in his offices for some background information on Judge Rivers. Casey returned to her room and pushed the curtain aside. She looked at her watch, then the afternoon sunshine outside, and decided to take a walk to mull over several frustrating cases at the clinic. She set off uphill toward the center of town and past the antiquated town hall. She thought about going back to her room to change into something more comfortable than her business suit and heels but decided instead to slow her pace. She circled the Seward House, home of Andrew Jackson’s secretary of state, the man famous for buying Alaska from the Russians for a song.
Shadows had begun to grow long when a dark blue Suburban sped toward her down the side street and came to a shuddering halt. A man wearing jeans and the kind of dark blue windbreaker common to law enforcement slipped out of the driver’s side. The man, who stood over six feet tall, was middle-aged and lean, with dark glossy hair combed back from a sharp narrow face framed by muttonchops. He hurried around the truck, and Casey was curious to see him swing open the passenger side.
Something about him made her uncomfortable. She glanced around at the empty street, and by the time her eyes returned to him, he was upon her.
“Casey Jordan?” he asked. His dark eyes bored into Casey’s under the eaves of thick black eyebrows, and Casey stepped back instinctively.
With expert ease, he gripped her wrist and clamped down on a nerve hard enough for her to stagger. He swept her arm up behind her back, keeping the pressure on the nerve, and propelled her across the small strip of grass and into the truck, slamming the door behind him.
Casey yanked at the handle as he rounded the hood. When she realized it didn’t work, she threw herself across the driver’s side to open that door. He yanked it open. She hooked her fingers into claws, ready to tear into him as best she could, but he removed a big shiny pistol from his coat pocket and put it to her forehead.
41
IN THE CRAMPED confines of his office, Marty explained the deal with judges, their
campaign funds, what they were supposed to do, and what some really did. Jake’s mind zoomed in and out, seeing the cheaply framed diplomas from Buffalo State and Albany Law School and a picture of Marty in a bad suit smiling stupidly and shaking hands with George Bush Sr. in front of a potted plant and an American flag.
“So,” Jake said, angling his chair sideways so he could stretch his legs along the length of Marty’s battered desk, “what you’re saying is that most judges don’t have campaign funds.”
Marty toyed with his paisley yellow tie, shaking his head. “Well, no. Most do.”
Jake squinted.
“But not judges like Judge Rivers,” Marty said. “She’s an appellate judge. They and the court of appeals judges don’t have funds. They shouldn’t have. They don’t need them. They’re appointed. Supreme court judges get elected. New York Supreme Court judges. It’s kind of backward in New York. At the federal level, the Supreme Court is the highest.”
“That I get.”
“Right, but in New York it’s the court of appeals. The appellate is just below them.”
“Where Rivers is?”
“Right, and about to be-or was about to be-moved up to the court of appeals,” Marty said, going for the ear. “It’s a good stepping-stone to the Supreme Court.”
“At the federal level,” Jake said.
“Justices like Holmes,” Marty said, nodding zealously. “Cardozo. Big guns who went through the New York Court of Appeals.”
“Is that where Rivers was headed?”
“Maybe. It’d be in striking distance if she sat on the court of appeals for a couple years.”
“And they get appointed by the president?”
“Well, technically,” Marty said. “But it’s really the party.”
“Using what standards?” Jake asked.
“The usual ones,” Marty said, dropping his tie.
“Judgment. Consistency. Respect.”
“Philosophies,” Marty said. “Affiliations. Contributions.”
“That’s what I’m talking about,” Jake said, snapping his fingers.
“Affiliations?” Marty said.
“Contributions,” Jake said, his voice rising. “It’s part of the game?”
“Well, always. Kind of.”
“Because the party likes that. Even from judges.”
“Sure.”
“So how do we find out?” Jake asked.
Marty leaned toward the window. Jake heard sirens racing past.
“I think that was Brad Pitt,” Marty said, his shoulders sagging.
“Marty, how do we find out?” Jake asked again.
Marty turned to the computer on his desk and tapped at the keyboard. “Board of Elections keeps it all. I think I can get it.”
“Are you shitting me?” Jake said, circling the desk and leaning over Marty’s shoulder.
“Like, here’s Judge Kollar,” Marty said. “Remember the Rotary lunch last week? See, this is his fund. Here’s the money that went in, $5,735.00. Look, I can go to here and see how they got to that number, who all the contributors are. There’s you and Ms. Jordan. Her check for one hundred dollars.”
“And he’s got $77,894 in all?” Jake asked, pointing.
“Right,” Marty said, his fingers dancing. “All these people, see? Legislators. DAs. Supreme Court judges. You don’t see-”
Marty stopped abruptly.
“What? You don’t see what?” Jake said, studying the screen.
“This,” Marty said, pointing. “Judge Rivers never closed her account.”
“What’s that mean? Is that illegal?”
“Not technically,” Marty said, his voice soft. “I’ve never seen it.”
“Songs from the eighties are, like, oldies to you, though, right?” Jake said.
“All politics are local,” Marty said. “When a judge gets a big appointment, he shuts down his campaign fund, he doesn’t need anyone. Same thing with, like, an administrative appointment, head of the DEC or the Thruway Authority or something. You shut it down because you don’t want people to say you were political.”
Jake restrained himself from asking what all that had to do with politics being local and instead focused on the meat of what Marty was saying. He nodded his head to go on.
Marty’s fingers played the keyboard and he clicked his tongue. “Very clever.”
“What is?”
“See this?” Marty said. “She never stopped raising money. Money coming in and, then, here’s the brilliant part of it, money going out.”
“Slush funds?” Jake asked, feeling the thrill surge through his veins.
“Not that.”
“So, what?”
“Campaign contributions. Look,” Marty said, running a long fingernail across the screen. “She’s hedging her bets. Raising money, I don’t know from whom. Probably special interests or trial lawyers or just legal junkies-”
“Legal junkies?”
“This is the cutting edge,” Marty said, his voice rich. “Jurisprudence is the flash point of democracy.”
“Okay,” Jake said slowly, but nodding in agreement.
“See? She’s making contributions to both party’s general funds. That’s how the big boys do it. Guys like Graham. They want to pump a million into Obama’s next campaign? Boom, they write a check to the party. No limits.”
“But the party knows what to do with it,” Jake said, “and when the time is right, she’s got friends in Washington.”
“Dear friends. Both sides.”
“Smart. Oh, this is beautiful,” Jake said. “People love full-figured corruption, and she looks good, too. Not hot, but… handsome, they’d call her. In Victorian times.”
“It’s pretty,” Marty said, running his fingernail down the column of numbers, some going in, others going out. “She gets donations from people who want to help her, and she fuels both parties so she’s got the inside track on an appointment down the road.”
“Why would she do this? Report it all?” Jake asked, still studying them, hungry for the names of the contributors, thinking of an entire investigative series and the tie-ins with the broader sentiment of public distrust.
“Who looks?” Marty asked.
“Us.”
“It’s not illegal,” Marty said. “Technically, it’s not even unethical. That’s why you report it. No one should ever find this, and if they did, they wouldn’t care.”
Jake felt his spirits sink. “No?”
“No, but it’s wrong. That’s the thing. She’s not going to jail for this. She could probably keep her job. The Commission on Judicial Conduct might make a ruling. They might issue a reprimand and tell her to stop, but they can’t do anything because she isn’t breaking any rules. If she didn’t report it and they found out, then she’d be screwed. I know that sounds crazy, but that’s the way these laws work.”
“Wow, great system,” Jake said, still absorbing the numbers, his eyes scrolling down to the bottom of the column, where he pointed. “What’s this?”
Marty squinted his eyes and leaned closer to the screen. “That’s a… that’s a contribution from a PAC that she… she… she gave it back.”
“Which is something people do?”
Marty furrowed his brow and looked up at Jake. “Which is something they never do. Unless…”
“Unless what?”
“Unless it’s from someone they don’t want to be associated with,” Marty said, “someone who could embarrass them and put their appointment in jeopardy.”
“What’s CJD, Citizens for a Just Democracy?” Jake asked, reading the PAC’s name.
Marty’s fingers went to work. The screen flashed and rebuilt itself as he changed Web pages. Jake saw an official banner that announced the New York State Registry of Political Action Committees. He watched as Marty moved the cursor across the page, clicking on a subsection, then the portal to CJD.
“This campaign finance shit is thick,” Jake said.
“Imagine witho
ut computers.”
“Is that all the information? No names? No people? All this leads to nowhere?” Jake asked. “Christ. Campaign finance reform is, like, number twenty on voters’ issues. This is nuts.”
Marty struck a final key with his index finger as if he were conducting a philharmonic. “It ain’t over till it’s over.”
Jake put a hand on Marty’s shoulder, feeling the protruding bones. On the screen was a list of names. A third of them bore the last name of Magaddino. Jake felt his stomach clench when he saw the name Massimo D’Costa. His head went light at the sight of GF Incorporated.
“What’s that?” Jake asked, stabbing his finger at the name of the corporate contributor and its five-thousand-dollar maximum contribution to the PAC.
Marty’s fingers did another dance. Together they waited while the screen went temporarily blank, then rebuilt itself with a dark blue background, Greek columns, pyramids, and the somber face of Robert Graham.
“Graham Funding Incorporated,” Marty said. “Oh, shit. Why did he give her money?”
“I’ve got a better question,” Jake said. “If she’s keeping it from everyone else, why did she give his back?”
42
DON’T BE STUPID,” the man said.
Casey froze, her eyes locked on the gun. He shoved her back to the passenger side with his free hand.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” he said.
She realized she still had her purse slung over her shoulder and she began surreptitiously to fish through it, feeling for the cell phone to punch in a 911 call. The man glanced over and snatched it from her.
“I’ll give it back,” he said, patting the purse in his lap.
“Who are you?” Casey asked, swallowing bile from the back of her throat.
“That’s not important,” he said, throwing the truck into gear and lurching away from the curb.
