Saving Jason

by Michael Sears

  “I can’t get a judge to sign off on that just on my say-so,” Blackmore said.

  Larry smiled. He had forced Blackmore into telling an obvious lie. Even members of his own team winced at this feeble excuse. One point for the good guys.

  “Sure you can, Wally.” He looked at his Rolex. “We’ve got a table reserved for one o’clock at Forlini’s. You do what you need to do, and we’ll meet back here at, what? Two-thirty? Three?”

  Blackmore looked around his group. Finally, one of the women spoke up. “O’Rourke’s clerk owes me one.”

  “Do it.” He practically spat when he said it.

  Larry stood up. I joined him. We walked out together. Larry had just finagled me a Get Out of Jail Free card and, so far, it had cost me nothing. Whatever happened after lunch, I wasn’t going back to prison.

  21

  I had the sole stuffed with shrimp and crab meat in a white wine sauce. Larry had kale sautéed in olive oil. No carbs. No protein. I didn’t question it. If he was on some power diet, it was working. He looked like he was twenty years younger than his age.

  “So what happens when we get back there and Blackmore finds out I’ve got nothing to offer?”

  “But you do. He knows some things, but if he really had a case, he’d know you were innocent. And he’d know a lot more than he’s saying. He lost the only witness willing to talk to him. Just give him everything you’ve found and everything you guess. I think you’re already miles ahead of him.”

  I thought it through. Aimee Devane had assured me the firm was in the clear. I couldn’t imagine a way in which anything I had to offer would undermine that. The question for me then was going to be whether I could protect Virgil as well.

  “Suppose it’s not enough? The guy’s a pit bull.”

  “You’ve got immunity. Worst case, he rants a bit. He’ll get over it.”

  A gray suit with a lawyer inside appeared next to our table. AUSA John Martin.

  “Mr. Blackmore wants you two back now. The papers are ready.”

  “Signed?” Larry asked.

  “Judge O’Rourke was feeling magnanimous today, I guess.”

  “Have you eaten?”

  “Uh, no.” Martin was grinning.

  “Then sit.” Larry looked around and a waiter hurried over. “What can we get for our friend that’s quick?”

  “You want I get him a plate of the linguini alle vongole? The staff lunch. It’s all made.”

  “You eat clams?” Larry asked the young lawyer.

  Martin sat. “Blackmore’s going to have a cow.”

  “And you’ll blame it on me. Just don’t breathe garlic on him when you’re making excuses.”

  The pasta arrived and the Assistant U.S. Attorney ate while Larry told a story about his first mob defense case, where he’d gotten his client off by proving that the feds had manufactured evidence. “The jury had to acquit, but I learned something. They all hated me. I could feel them turn the minute I made that FBI agent look like a bigger crook than my man. The public doesn’t want to know what goes on. They want their G-men to be like in the movies. I made him look bad and they didn’t like it. Like I say, I won the case, but it wasn’t pretty. You two finished? We should head over before your boss gives himself a stroke.”

  22

  Blackmore had ordered a court steno to join us and Larry had a digital recorder delivered. Both sides wanted a clear record of the proceedings. They pushed papers around the conference table for five minutes while everyone ignored me. Finally, Blackmore looked up and spoke to Larry.

  “It’s time for Mr. Stafford to perform for us. What’s he got?”

  I had full immunity for anything I admitted to in the interview. I took immediate advantage of it.

  “Nineteen months ago, I extorted ten million dollars from a major criminal named Neil Wilkinson in exchange for waiting a few days before I ratted him out. I knew the money was dirty, but I took it anyway. Neil is currently living in Venezuela, where he has been able to fend off all attempts at extradition.”

  I kept talking even though Blackmore was screaming at me before I had completed the first sentence. If it was on the record, I was clear.

  “What the fuck is this, Larry? This is clearly bullshit. Stop the goddamn recording! You! You! Stop recording!”

  The steno looked up, surprised to find that the U.S. Attorney was speaking to her. She swallowed a silly smile and stopped typing.

  “Larry, your guy can’t do this. O’Rourke won’t stand for it and neither will I. I’ll bury him and have your goddamn license.”

  “Wally, I had no idea my client was going to talk about anything other than your case.” Which was both true and irrelevant, as there was no way that Blackmore would ever be able to prove any kind of collusion. “Can we just calm down and let him tell you what he knows?”

  Blackmore settled back in his seat, but he was still pissed. “What is he talking about, anyway? What case is this?”

  “Ancient history,” Larry said in a soft coo. “Let’s stay in the moment.”

  “When this is over, I’m going after you for the ten mil, Stafford. I may not be able to get you for abetting a fugitive, but I will take every cent you’ve got left. You get me?”

  “Half of it’s hidden where you’ll never find it,” I said. It was parked in a Swiss annuity—anonymous and invisible. “And the rest is in my son’s trust fund.”

  “Then you can tell the little guy he’s about to become a pauper.”

  Larry held up a hand in caution. “Don’t rush in there, Wally. Mr. Stafford’s son is autistic.”

  Blackmore, the political animal, understood immediately. If he went after the money that paid for all the extra care and schooling my son needed, the special needs community would never forget. Blackmore wouldn’t be able to win an election unless he was running against Bernie Madoff or Phil Spector. Actually, Spector might edge him out in a low turnout.

  He was also aware of the fact that the little green light on Larry’s recorder was still flashing. Every word he spoke had the power to come back and bite him on his private parts someday.

  “Can my client continue?” Larry asked in that same soft tone.

  Blackmore nodded at the steno.

  I thought of the two million dollars in bearer bonds that I had stolen from a corrupt banker and handed over to a man who had saved my life. There was no point in confessing to that—no one was ever going to come looking for that money.

  “There are twelve of these microstocks. They’re all remarkably similar. Very low-cap. Minimal documentation. They all trade by appointment only. The companies are all blue-collar-type businesses located out on Long Island.”

  “We know all that. Let’s move it along.”

  “You wanted to hear everything,” Larry said. “Let him tell it.”

  I continued. “All the IPOs were done by one of two firms. Both small banks. Neither survived the crash. I can’t find any connection between them, but both specialized in new issues by start-ups. Mostly old technology, service industry, or buggy-whip manufacturers. One of the firms also did a bunch of tech stocks back in the late nineties. None survived 2000.”

  “Names?” one of the young lawyers asked.

  “Knight Securities and Hawthorne-Doolan. Knight was the bigger firm. They did the tech business.”

  “Keep going,” Blackmore said.

  “From what I’ve been able to find, none of the companies ever made much money for the investors. Zero dividends and they all trade well below the initial offering price. The owners made out all right, but it was the bankers who really cleaned up. They paid themselves huge fees relative to the deal size.”

  Larry interrupted. “Wouldn’t you expect that, though? Even small underwritings have fixed costs.”

  “Huge fees, Larry. Huge.”

  “I see.”r />
  “The business owners?” Blackmore asked. “What was their cut?”

  “Not much cash. But all of them—all of these twelve, at least—got free leases on trucks. Free garage space. Free maintenance. For a one-time fee paid to a company called Rose Holdings, they got to lower their operating costs to peanuts.”

  Blackmore jumped on the name like a rattler striking. “Who’s that? Rose Holdings. We don’t have them.” He glared angrily at his team. “Why don’t we have them? Who are they?”

  I pushed on. “I don’t know. All I’ve got is the name and a location. Again, it’s out on Long Island. Way out. Manorville. Rose Holdings owns a farm where they raise bison.”

  “Bison. What do you mean, ‘bison’?”

  “Buffalo. American buffalo.”

  “Somebody’s raising buffalo on Long Island?” He looked like he thought this might be another indictable offense.

  I decided not to share the story of my escape. “There’s a big warehouse building. A garage. I’m pretty sure it used to be a place they trained horses. Now it’s where they keep trucks—and they run a chop shop there, too, I think.”

  “You’ve seen it?”

  I nodded. “Once. I’m not going back.”

  “Why’s that?” he said.

  “I don’t like being gored and trampled on by half-ton quadrupeds.”

  “You discussed all this with your boss?”

  “No. I started to and he cut me off. He wasn’t interested.”

  “He knew about it already,” Blackmore said.

  “I don’t think so,” I said. “He asked about the size of the trades and told me to forget about it.”

  “Why would he do that, do you think?”

  “You’re asking me to speculate.”

  “This is not a trial, and I’ve paid well to hear what you think.”

  “The broker isn’t getting rich off these trades. The clients are doing well. The whole thing doesn’t add up to more than a few mil or so. Chump change. And Virgil didn’t tell me to bury it. He told me to hand it off to the compliance department. Which I did. Then he put me on something else and that was the end of it.”

  “But you kept looking into it.”

  “Yes and no. I did some follow-up, yes, but it wasn’t a priority.”

  “What did Virgil want you to work on?”

  I looked at Larry for support, but I didn’t get it. “This is kind of a gray area. I don’t think it relates to your case.” This was where the conversation with the FBI had turned sour.

  Blackmore thought he smelled blood. “I decide that, Mr. Stafford. Not you. Ask your lawyer.”

  I didn’t need to. I knew what Larry would say. “Virgil thinks that someone or some group is making a run at the firm. He asked me to look into it.”

  This news brought on a moment of Blackmore and his team sharing quick looks. They all took notes.

  “What did you find?”

  I found that I had to clear my throat. We were definitely in the realm of privileged information. “Yes, someone is trying to buy the firm. No, I don’t know who. Yet.”

  “It sounds like my client has a valid point,” Larry intervened. “I can’t see that this has any bearing on your investigation.”

  We all sat and thought quietly for a minute.

  Blackmore didn’t concede, but he did change the subject. “It’s called ‘parking.’ You know the term? My people have traced those trades to another small broker-dealer. This one in northern New Jersey. Not much more than a pump-and-dump boiler room. A dozen brokers in an office park near Montclair. Any of this sound familiar?”

  Pump-and-dump was one of the oldest and yet still most prevalent stock fraud scams. The fraudster would set up a minimally capitalized fly-by-night brokerage firm and hire aggressive salesmen to cold-call clients with a hot tip on a relatively illiquid stock. The available flow of the stock must be small enough for the firm to control the pricing. Over days, or weeks, the crooks will tout the stock, driving the price higher and higher. Then, without tipping off the clients, the firm sells its stake in the overhyped stock and lets the whole airy confection collapse. The only way an investor can hope to make anything at all on the stock is to get in early and sell out at the very point that the sales force is pushing it the hardest. Otherwise, it’s a loser. Every time. Of course, the safer course is not to get involved in the first place.

  “I’ve examined Becker’s books and records. We dealt with a financial advisor. That’s the extent of our involvement. The firm has no knowledge of or relationship with any other broker-dealers. Who are these people?”

  “I don’t believe that,” Blackmore said. “The FA has been taking a nice cut out of this business, but the big money is being made by these crooks in New Jersey. There’s a kickback somewhere and I’m going to find it.”

  “Really? I don’t think Becker Financial has anything to do with this.”

  “Have you met with the broker? The financial advisor? What do you know about these people?”

  Occasionally, an operation like this would make headlines because they had grown to a size that both the feds and the press found notable, but the vast majority were small-time cons run out of low-rent loft spaces. Much too small-time to be of any interest to a headline-seeking U.S. Attorney.

  But if Blackmore could bring down a good-sized firm, one that was being run by the son of one of the more notorious goniffs of recent years, he had a chance of making the front page of all the national newspapers. He had a strong incentive to find a link between these small-time crooks and Becker Financial. And to Virgil Becker in particular.

  “No,” I said. “I’ve never met any of these people.”

  “You never met”—he checked his notes—“Mark Barstow? Larry Grella? Daniel Parks?” He continued to rattle off a list of names, to which I just shook my head. I knew none of them.

  “All right. Let’s just talk about the broker. Joseph Scott. What’s his relation to your boss?”

  “None, as far as I know. Virgil’s not the kind of boss who has the front-line producers up for a drink and a slap on the back. I doubt that he’s met half of the salespeople who work for him. He’s got sales managers and branch managers for that.”

  “So why would Virgil protect this guy?” Blackmore asked.

  “He wouldn’t. You’re looking at it wrong way ’round. Why would he risk the firm for some nobody out in Lake Grove or Stony Brook or wherever? Even if the guy was a top producer, it’s not worth his while to get involved. It makes no sense.”

  “I want you to meet with this guy Scott. You’ll wear a wire.”

  I had heard stories about people who had been trapped that way. They lived a life of constant fear and suspicion until the feds used them up and spit them out.

  “Not a chance,” I said.

  “That’s not in the agreement, Wally,” Larry said.

  “Screw the agreement.” He turned to the steno. “Not another fucking word. Not one more word. Understood?” Back to us. “And I am not ‘Wally,’ Larry. I am now Mr. Blackmore, and I want what I paid for.”

  “I’m not wearing a wire,” I said.

  “Shut up!” Blackmore yelled at me.

  “Quiet, Jason,” Larry said. “We’re out of here.” He stood up and I hopped to my feet, too. He picked up the recorder off the table. “We’ve cooperated, Mr. Blackmore. I’m sorry my client didn’t make your case for you, but he’s done nothing wrong. If he uncovers any wrongdoing, I am sure that he will report it to the proper authorities, just as any good citizen would do. Good-bye.”

  “Wait! You walk now and I’ll tear that agreement to pieces, no matter what O’Rourke says. Read the fine print. If you’re holding back or I can prove you’re guilty of anything you haven’t talked about, you will go to prison. And not just for the balance of your sentence, wiseass. I will
put you away for so long, nobody, but nobody, will remember your name. I want Virgil Becker and you are going to help me get him.”

  Larry held up the recorder. The green light was still blinking. “If you have any more questions for my client, please submit them in writing.”

  Neither of us said a word until we were in the elevator.

  “I trust you’ve got that five mil tucked away someplace safe,” Larry said.

  “It’s not over, is it?”

  “No. Blackmore is a vindictive little man. We should both watch our backs. I hope you don’t have any more surprises hidden away, Jason. We won today, but only because we had a winning hand. Next time, he’ll be sure to have stacked the deck.”

  “What’s his next move?”

  “Hell if I know.”

  23

  After dinner I spent a few hours poring over the meager information I had. Strings of numbers, whether prime or not, and an admonition about “family” weren’t worth much. I had misplaced my tablet—again—and though I strongly suspected that it might have found its way into my son’s bedroom—again—I wasn’t going to risk waking him. I took my laptop, cell phone, and a cup of tea and plunked down in my chair.

  Richard Hannay picked up on the first ring. “I set up a website for us.”

  “Why do we need a website?”

  “To exchange messages and talk in private. It’s a fortress. It would take a small army of hackers a week to get in. By that time, we’ll have been warned and moved on.”

  “Interesting. Can we use it to talk?”

  “And video. We can even conference through it if you want to include people you know are secure. I set up a similar arrangement for communicating with my wife and the girls.”

  “Sounds great. When did you come up with this?”

  “This morning. Think in the morning. Take a look.”

  He directed me to a page that advertised a purveyor of off-sized machine screws, nuts, and bolts. Blazoned across the bottom of the screen was a red banner declaring SITE UNDER CONSTRUCTION—COME BACK LATER.