“My source says Justice has the IRS filings for the fund Evelyn worked on, and yes, there’s money missing and she was in charge of the bookkeeping, but she didn’t do it.”
“Nobody’s going to blame Evie, not on my watch.” And then, after a long pause, he said, “Know what? Everyone let Evie down, except for you. You kept searching, and I owe you for that. But you have to understand, I no longer work at Justice, and this isn’t my investigation.”
I slid down to my haunches with my back to the building. My head fell forward and my hair fell over my face, so no one could see my frustration.
Ian Chase had been my best hope.
“So you didn’t hear it from me, okay?” he said, and then: “You ever hear of dark money, Miss Knightly?”
CHAPTER FORTY
IAN WAS TALKING about political fund-raising in which anonymous donors could give unlimited amounts of so-called dark money to nonprofit groups, sometimes called PACs. These political nonprofits acted like middlemen between donors and candidates who fit the groups’ ideology. People called their donations dark not because they were necessarily bad, but because they were made in secret.
When investigators searched Brad Hartnett’s apartment, they found in his computer a USB memory card that belonged to Evelyn Carney. Saved on the card were documents for the Order First Fund. Some of the documents recorded communications. Others were spreadsheets coded by a series of numbers and letters. Agents cracked the fund’s code and linked dark-money donors to judicial candidates in dozens of states around the country.
“The fund itself is legal,” Ian said. “Or at least gives the appearance of being legal. The big problem is the type of donor who gives to this fund.”
One donor was a for-profit prison corporation that paid for the campaign of a senior judge, Lawrence Euclid. For-profit prisons were a growing industry worth billions of dollars with an increasingly aggressive lobby, Ian said. “They make money by filling beds and keeping as many incarcerated for as long as possible. That’s why donations from these types of corporations should be allowed nowhere near a judicial campaign.”
“But if the law says the Order First Fund can accept donations from any corporation, it’s doing what the fund was legally set up to do, right?” I said. “Whether you approve of that industry or not.”
“Except with this fund, some of the donations were specifically designated for certain judges,” Ian argued. “In the case of one Judge Euclid, for example, you have to ask if these donations are kickbacks for maximum sentencing. You know, locking up kids for campaign cash. Because, boy, does Euclid like a long sentence.”
I drew a sharp breath. “The documents show evidence of this?”
“The docs are a starting point. Whether there’s enough hard evidence to prosecute, it’s impossible to say at this point.” He paused thoughtfully, and then in a low, passionate voice, said, “But if voters knew what kind of prison Euclid appears to have sold these kids into, the neglect and assault and sex abuse, his reelection prospects would be toast.”
He was pitching the story. Usually my mind romped giddily at a new lead, but the prospect of this story was dismaying. I’d have to look into children trapped, cast away, and sold out, forgotten by the state.
“There are other problems,” Ian said. “Some of the donors have business before the court. You know, if the donor corporations think they can’t win their case, they’ll attempt to sway the election to a judge more favorable to them—or their money. Other evidence shows the fund skirting rules against direct communication with campaigns—that’s called coordination, and it’s illegal. But frankly, nearly everyone does that. Thankfully, coordination won’t be too much of a problem for Bernadette.”
His tone surprised me. “You sound like you’re letting Bernadette off the hook.”
“Well, she’s likely ruined,” he said. “Once her clients hear about a federal investigation, they’ll desert her. No campaign can afford to be associated with someone under investigation, even if those same campaigns took advantage of her fund.” He let out a deep sigh. “Maybe my fondness for Bernadette blinds me. It’s hard to believe she had knowledge about some of the goings-on in the fund.”
“I hadn’t realized you were friends with her.”
“If it hadn’t been for Bernadette, I’d never have met Evie. She introduced us.”
“Bernadette did?”
He laughed caustically. “The grande dame of the political scene, playing cupid. She told Evie, ‘Let’s go meet the next US Attorney for the District.’ If Evie was going to work for her, she had to have strong connections. It was a prerequisite.”
“She nudged you together?” I said. “That didn’t strike you as manipulative?”
“It’s what people do. What do I care, if it brings me Evie?”
I thought of the cutaway shot of Bernadette Ryan in her gold brocade jacket, seated next to a vibrant Evelyn Carney. Bernadette had taken her to meet Ian, and Evelyn was enamored.
“You said there were two prongs to the investigation,” I said. “The other is the missing money?”
“The embezzlement,” he corrected. “Small amounts began disappearing as early as a year ago. They were assumed to be accounting errors. Recently, the amounts grew larger as the suspect appeared to grow more confident.”
“How much did Paige Linden skim?”
He hesitated.
“Ballpark?”
“There was a wire transfer in the early evening prior to your attack,” he said. “The Order First Fund was cleaned out. I’m told the figure is in the millions.”
It was staggering. “Of dollars?”
“The low estimate is ten,” he said. “But again, the audits have just begun.”
“Ten . . . million?” I stammered, slumping back in my chair, completely in awe. She had done it. Paige Linden had committed the perfect crime. She’d stolen from a fund that could not bear the scrutiny of law enforcement. If the embezzlement were investigated, unlawful activity in the fund would be discovered, donors would become public record, and everything would be out in the open.
None of which Bernadette Ryan could risk.
For Paige, the revenge must have been thrilling. The money was the fund’s illusory power, and by stealing the money, she’d stolen Bernadette’s power over her. She had millions of Bernadette’s dark-money dollars. With that kind of cash, you could disappear forever.
The low estimate was ten million, which came from only one fund. “How do we keep faith in a judiciary that’s awash in secret money?”
He didn’t say anything for a long moment, and then: “You know that inscription on the pretty white building on First Street?” He was talking about the United States Supreme Court. On its facade it was written: Equal Justice Under Law.
“I’ve read it.”
“A beautiful dream, isn’t it?” he said mournfully. “But nowhere close to reality. Know what’s worse? Nobody cares.”
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
THE NEXT MORNING I sent a package with written questions to Bernadette Ryan at her law office. In the cover letter, I explained that I was working on a story of alleged embezzlement of her Order First Fund, and that investigators believed the crime was linked to two murders. Subsequently, the Department of Justice opened an investigation into whether donors used the Order First Fund to influence judicial outcomes. I offered an opportunity to comment. If she chose not to respond, I’d report that, too.
Fifteen minutes after the courier confirmed my package had been signed for at the firm, I got a call from Bernadette Ryan’s secretary. Ms. Ryan would see me at noon.
The firm was housed in a Federal-period mansion obscured by an enormous magnolia tree. Beside the front door, a small brass plaque read Simmons, McFadden & Ryan. Inside, it was all lemon-polished wood and wide-planked flooring that creaked as I crossed and heavy doors that kept secrets. Even the phones rang quietly. A thin man escorted me up narrow stairs to a suite of offices.
Bernadett
e Ryan was seated behind her desk. She wore an expensive suit that must’ve been a size two, and her infinity scarf was meticulously folded. Her lips moved in what might’ve been a smile. “I cannot imagine why this meeting is necessary,” she said. “My lawyers are composing answers to your questions as we speak.”
And yet you invited me here.
“As you know, I’m working on a story about the Order First Fund,” I said. “I’ve been told a considerable amount of money was stolen from it. Can you comment?”
On her desk, there was an old-fashioned apothecary jar filled with gold-wrapped candies. She lifted the lid and chose one, studying its wrapper with great attention.
“You were aware money was missing?” I said.
She unwrapped the chocolate and popped it into her mouth. She chewed the candy thoughtfully. After a long moment, she said, “It was brought to my attention. At what point, I cannot recall. But you must know, I don’t involve myself with minutiae. My role is to lend my name to bring in donors.”
“You’d define millions of dollars missing as minutiae?”
She lifted an elegant shoulder. “The fund is one of the smaller and less consequential funds, yes. As such, it was off my radar, unfortunately.”
“Whose radar was it on?”
She tossed her blond bangs from her eyes assertively, but did not ask me to leave. I think she wanted me to feel her power, to intimidate me, and I was intimidated. But that should never stop a person from doing her job.
“Evelyn Carney was assigned to the fund, yes?” I said.
She complained about my asking questions I knew the answer to. She said it was a waste of her time. “Do you have any idea what rate I bill out at?”
“So to avoid cutting into those billable hours, I’ll be blunt, shall I?” I glanced down at my notepad. “The thrust of the story, based on evidence gathered by law enforcement, goes like this: on Sunday, March 8, an employee under your direct supervision, Evelyn Carney, went missing while en route to an evening meeting with Assistant US Attorney Ian Chase. She was going to ask Ian for help.”
“Is there a question here?” she said.
“For months your auditors and private investigators failed to find money that went missing from the Order First Fund. All internal efforts were also a bust. You knew Ian Chase had vast experience with white-collar crime, particularly embezzlement. You also knew he was romantically involved with Evelyn Carney and would help her as he would no one else. So you sent Evelyn to ask Ian if he could take a peek at your so-called ‘diversion of assets’ problem.”
This last had been supposition. She took a moment to adjust. “You still haven’t asked a question.”
“Problem is, there’s no way that fund can withstand an official federal inquiry, right?” I said, and when she didn’t answer, I went on: “From what I understand, illegal coordination with campaigns is the least of your worries. Which makes Evelyn’s assignment tricky, doesn’t it? She has to make sure an upstanding federal prosecutor turns a blind eye to the pesky illegal fund activity that could tie you up in a lengthy federal investigation. So you assign Evelyn as keeper of the books. Now it’s Evelyn’s fund, not yours, and she’s in trouble, not you. That’s how you get Ian Chase’s help on the sly. You figured he’d do whatever it took to save the woman he loves.”
“You may report it was Evelyn’s fund, because it was Evelyn’s fund,” she said in a low, hoarse voice. “There’s documented evidence to prove it.”
“I’ll take that as a comment, yes?” I wrote it down. “Here’s what I can’t figure out. How did you get Evelyn to agree to go to Ian’s that night?” For a long moment, I stared down at my pen, considering the possibilities, and then I tapped my notepad with it. This is the part I’d have to riff.
“Why go to Ian’s?” I tapped out each word. “Evelyn was pregnant and alone and feared she was being followed. How does she overcome that fear? Why doesn’t she say, screw Bernadette Ryan and her corrupt fund-raising activities, and let you hang?” Tap-tap-tap. “Why put herself at risk? Unless it was you she feared.” I thought about that for a moment. “She knew you’d hired investigators. She thought they had intercepted her phone. Maybe it wasn’t only Paige Linden tracking Evelyn the night she was killed. Did you have someone following her, too?”
“You have a rich imagination.”
“Is that a yes or a no?”
She said nothing, merely lifted the lid of the apothecary jar with hands that were no longer steady. As she’d grown more nervous, I’d become less so. The lid clattered back on, and she folded her hands in her lap.
“Feel free to jump in anytime you want to comment on what I plan to report,” I said. “It begins with the Order First Fund getting skimmed around a year ago. In the beginning, it’s not much money, barely noticeable. When did you realize it wasn’t an accounting error?”
“I couldn’t say.”
“August of last year, at the latest, right?” When she said nothing, I went on: “I have video of an August community meeting where you’d taken Evelyn Carney to meet AUSA Ian Chase. That’s how you got your inside line with a powerful federal prosecutor. Soon thereafter, you put her to work on the embezzled fund.”
I paused, waiting for her denial, but she remained still, silent. Her face was sickly white, and I knew: “You set up Evelyn to discover the fund shortage. Then you blamed her, since as you say, she’s in charge of the fund. Is that accurate?”
She stood up. “That’s enough. This meeting is over.”
“That’s not a denial,” I said, remaining in my seat. “Is that a confirmation?”
“I’d like you to leave.”
“I’ll take that as a no comment, fair?” I said, and without waiting for her response: “Now Evelyn’s in deep shit. If she doesn’t find your money, she could be disbarred, maybe even prosecuted. At the very least, her career in this town is over. After all, you are Bernadette Ryan, doyenne of the Washington political scene. You attend opera with Supreme Court justices and private luncheons with US senators. But you’re not all threats. You dangle the carrot, don’t you? If Evelyn figures out where the money went, you’ll reward her. Ian seemed to think Evelyn had been promised a promotion working directly for you.”
She interrupted: “I never told Evelyn Carney where to go on the night of Sunday, March 8.”
“Fine, thank you.” I wrote that down, too, quoting her.
“What’s more, I believe you’re losing sight of the villain here,” she said angrily. “Paige Linden stole vast sums of money and killed two people to cover it up. All because she didn’t get what she wanted, campaign money for a rumor of a candidacy. Paige Linden may have talked herself up all she liked, but I had already warned donors about her. What does she do? She took the money anyway.”
Paige had said Bernadette tried to destroy her. That night in the woods she’d told me. I’d thought she was batshit crazy.
A chill went down my neck. “You started a whisper campaign against Paige?”
“They’re my colleagues, allies. It was my duty,” she said. “From the first day she walked into this firm, I saw her. I knew exactly what she was. Not my idiot partners. Against my instruction, they recruited a person who, as I warned them, was sneeringly ambitious, grandiose, and narcissistic with no respect for tradition or authority. Yet they voted her in. They gave her partnership in my firm.”
I thought of the spy app Paige had used. She’d monitored Evelyn and Brad and me. Ian Chase thought there were others.
“When you plotted against her, it was over the phone?” I said.
Where she was eavesdropping on you.
“My partners laughed off my warnings, said I felt threatened by her. Me, Bernadette Ryan, threatened.” She was flushed with anger. “So I built a case and argued it to each partner, one by one, until I could get rid of her. Was I wrong? Look at what she’s done to my firm.”
Quietly, I said, “I haven’t forgotten that Paige Linden killed two people. But I also can�
�t forget that when Evelyn Carney went missing, you told investigators you regretted you could not help. That can’t be right, can it? You knew where Evelyn had gone, that she must be in danger, and you did nothing?”
She picked up the phone on her desk and called security. I heard the ring and a gruff response on the other side of the door, and then the door was opening.
I rose from my chair. “To you, Evelyn Carney was expendable. Her life wasn’t worth your firm or your power or whatever ideology you’re peddling.”
The security guard grabbed my arm. I pulled away. “Don’t touch me. I’m going.”
“Ms. Knightly?” she called out.
I stopped at the door and turned back.
“When I look at you, I see a woman wasting her talents,” she said. “You could be anything. You could work for the Senate or House leadership. Maybe the White House is more your style. There are lobbying firms all over town that’d pay enormous amounts to a woman with your savvy. Instead, you chase perilous stories. Why put yourself at such risk when I can get you more prestige and power than you ever dared dream?”
Give up my story for an embarrassment of riches. Through the years, Bernadette had probably delivered on many such promises. She’d been the magician who turned fools into kings, and those kings owed her big. But Paige had stolen the money that was Bernadette’s magic. Soon her kings would know the magic was gone, and they’d abandon her. They always did.
“Save your deal making for Justice,” I said. “Those prosecutors are appointed, not paid for, but maybe you’ll find one to let you plea out.”
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
A FEW DAYS later, I got a tip from Ian Chase. Paige Linden had been taken into custody at a beach in Santa Marta by Colombian officials, and was now being flown into Reagan National on a Gulfstream owned by the US Marshals. The plane was expected to land in little over three hours.
Her capture had come shockingly fast. It seemed Paige Linden had accounted for everything except social media. American tourists on spring break had recognized Paige’s face from her picture in my story trending on Twitter.
The Cutaway Page 27
