“That was before I knew he was dangerous.”
“Might be dangerous,” I corrected before adding, foolishly, that the criminal revelations only made the search more compelling.
“You find danger compelling?”
“Part of me does,” I acknowledged.
Two weeks after receiving my translation request, Nadine replied. In my giddy haste to learn what the article said, I had misremembered her nationality. Nadine is Belgian, not Dutch. Graciously overlooking my stupidity, she fed the story through a virtual translator and emailed back the results. The computerized conversion wasn’t entirely coherent, but fluent enough to amplify the charges mentioned in the New York tabloids. It turned out that some Badische associates were tied to acts of “deception, forgery, fraud, and assassination.” Assassination?
The Dutch update prompted me to conduct a criminal background check on the San Francisco Cesar, a decision I didn’t reach lightly. It’s one thing to Google a long-lost roommate. It’s another to pay a website to tap into law enforcement databases. It felt slimy. I knew what my former roommate would have said had he known: “Don’t be so nosy, Nosey.”
Even after I overcame my moral misgivings, I still faced some practical obstacles. Criminal background checks, to be done thoroughly, require the subject’s date of birth and a social security number. I had neither. That meant the search results would omit information from all California archives, as well as most federal databases. Given those limitations, it seemed unlikely that I’d get much on a San Francisco con man prosecuted by the United States Department of Justice. Still, the report would, at a strict minimum, provide basic data on everyone in the country who shared Cesar’s first, middle, and last name.
My $9.95 investment generated nine matches. Of those, four Florida Cesars, two New Jersey Cesars, and a Cesar living in Texas went straight to the trash folder; their ages didn’t jibe with my ex-roommate’s. That left two viable candidates: one from San Francisco and another living in New York on a fancy stretch of Fifth Avenue. More likely than not, the San Francisco Cesar was the criminal mentioned in the Post. But what about the other guy? If Fifth Avenue Cesar turned out to be my guy it might alleviate Max and Françoise’s fears. But I couldn’t help feeling that it would really suck to learn that my long-lost nemesis was an upstanding citizen and, worse still, stinking rich.
In addition to the nine exact matches, there was a tenth with the same mailing address as the San Francisco Cesar but a slightly different surname. Two guys named Cesar living in the same building? That seemed odd. Odder still was that the tenth Cesar had a double-barreled last name that combined my roommate’s surname, Viana, with Teague, the name of the owner of the Realistic Institute. What were the chances?
Still, residential coincidence could hardly be taken as proof. If only I had a mug shot. I felt sure a recent picture would clear things up.
Realizing my amateur efforts weren’t getting me very far, I asked for the help of a high school buddy named Paul Hechinger. A producer at Court TV, Paul had been covering criminal matters for years.
“Who was the arresting agency?” he asked when I told him I was trying to get my hands on a mug shot.
“I have no clue.”
“That’s going to be a problem.”
He explained some sixty federal agencies are sanctioned to make arrests. “They’re supposed to network their crime data. That doesn’t always happen.” Paul agreed to walk my request down the hall to the Smoking Gun, a Court TV affiliate with extensive law enforcement contacts and a vast archive of arrest photos.
A few days later, he called me back. “Struck out. The guys at the Smoking Gun don’t have anything. Short of filing a FOIA, it’ll be tough to get your hands on the guy’s mug shot.”
“FOIA?”
“Freedom of Information Act.”
“Are FOIAs hard to file?”
“Not hard. But you need to know the name of the arresting agency.”
“Wonderful.”
“If I were you, I’d review the court filings. They’re bound to contain a lead.”
“Done that. I can’t make head or tails out of the legalese. ‘Admission of a Codefendant’s Self-Inculpatory Plea Allocution to Prove the Existence of a Charged Conspiracy.’ What the hell does that mean?”
Paul commiserated. “You could try cold-calling the FBI. They might have a bulletin or wanted poster.”
I followed his advice and left messages at bureau field offices in New York and San Francisco. No one got back to me. Apparently, twelve-year-old bullies aren’t a federal law enforcement priority.
KISMET ON JEBEL HAROUN
Once more, the inquiry had stalled out. I had a search without a solution and a story without an ending. Or rather, I now had two stories without endings—one about a bully and one about a fraud. And the only possible link between them was extremely tenuous: a double-barreled surname connecting a boarding school bully and a hairdresser from Manila. I had exhausted all leads and, in the process, exhausted myself. And my family. All of us were more than a little weary of the search for Cesar.
A few weeks after the FBI blew me off, the mother of my godson proposed we join them on an archaeological tour of Jordan. I jumped at the chance.
“The trip will be great,” I told Françoise. “It’ll put some distance between me and you-know-who.”
“My eye,” she said. Her skepticism was understandable. Françoise saw Cesar for what he was: the symptom of a chronic condition that might go into remission for months or even years but that would never disappear for good.
Few places match the visual splendor of the Swiss Alps, but as we hiked from Petra (the ancient Jordanian city that hides the Holy Grail in Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade) to the summit of Jebel Haroun (a sacred site where the prophet Aaron is said to be buried), I have to admit the arid beauty of the Ma’an came pretty damn close. There were a dozen parents and children in our expedition, plus four Bedouin guides and their flatulent pack animals. After dinner, the adults gathered around a campfire, sipped whiskey, watched the sun set below the sandstone hills, and swapped stories. I told the group about Cesar. That led to a heated debate about whether or not my bête noire was the guy the feds had sent to prison. The most vocal skeptic was a man named John Hall, senior partner at the New York law firm of Debevoise & Plimpton. Fascinated though he was by my inquiry, he was unswayed by the evidence linking my Cesar to the San Francisco con man. Before turning in for the night, he took me aside and, after gently correcting certain technical errors in my account that touched on matters of law—for instance, I had conflated the roles of district and US attorneys—he offered to help review the specifics of the case when we returned to the United States.
“Thanks,” I said. “That’s really generous.”
“Generosity has nothing to do with it. I want to know how this all plays out.”
THREE EMAILS
A few months after the trip to Jordan, I turned again to Cesar. It was the Sunday before Thanksgiving. I was in my office reviewing yet another batch of court documents, trying once more to establish a link between my roommate and the Bay Area swindler. While I was skimming an “appeal from a judgment of conviction for mail fraud, wire fraud, and conspiracy to commit wire fraud,” something caught my eye. One of the defendants cited in the brief, the Baron Moncrieffe, had apparently received pro bono representation from a law firm with a name that rang a bell. I checked my address book.
Son of a bitch!
I immediately fired off an email to John. After a few pleasantries, I cut to the chase:
. . . Do you happen to recall my account of a bully named Cesar, whose anti-Semitic attentions I endured at a boarding school back in 1971?
I discovered, in a file transcript of the Appeal made in the Second Circuit, that one of the defendants (not Cesar) was represented by Mark P. Goodman, a lawyer at your firm.
Do you think I might be able to speak with Mr. Goodman? I’m guessing he’d be able to help m
e establish whether or not [his client’s] codefendant was the same guy I knew thirty-plus years ago.
I’m attaching the two PDF files about this case. Any guidance you might provide would be greatly appreciated.
John emailed back in under an hour:
Allen,
I will talk with Mark Goodman on Monday. He is a former assistant US attorney and regularly takes pro bono cases for indigents. I assume [his client] is such an assignment. Although it is possible that there are some restrictions on what Mark can tell you about [Cesar] (because he learned them in connection with a confidential relationship or because of some sort of joint defense arrangement), I am sure that he will be quite willing to talk with you and tell you whatever his ethical responsibilities permit. And I would think that general biographical information would be fair ground and should answer the identity question.
John
“THESE GUYS CONNED EVERYBODY”
Before placing the call, I spend a few hours Googling Goodman and his firm. The results are intimidating. American Lawyer ranked Debevoise & Plimpton the number one firm in the nation and singled out Goodman by name for building a practice devoted both to lucrative “big mess” corporate cases and to unpaid pro bono work. (He reportedly provides some 250 hours of uncompensated representation each year—five times the standard recommended by the American Bar Association.) A hotshot litigator at a firm where partners receive upward of $2 million a year probably has better things to do than help a colleague’s vacation companion chase down a former roommate. I tell myself, Don’t waste his time.
“I’m bound by ethical limitations,” Goodman informs me as soon as he picks up the phone. “There are some things I cannot discuss. Understood?”
“Understood.”
“But this much I can say. Everything these guys touched, promised, concocted, represented, and did was a lie, a contrivance, a fiction. I’ve been around a lot of con artists. I handle a ton of white-collar crime. A ton. This was the most massive fraud I have ever come across. Massive. Fake knights. False banks. Imaginary kingdoms. Are you getting the picture?”
“Very clearly, yes.”
“These guys traveled on bogus passports. They hosted lavish dinner parties at five-star hotels. They performed knighting ceremonies.” Goodman chuckles. “All the movie stars they scammed. There’s a file somewhere around here. Letters, photos. Liza Minnelli, Dionne Warwick, Gene Kelly.”
Gene Kelly! Temping though it is, I resist pressing for details. “It’s not the victims who interest me. It’s one of the con men.”
“Which one? The prince? My guy the baron? The colonel?”
“No. Cesar Augustus.”
The name confuses Goodman.
“He’s identified as Cesar A. Viana in the court records.”
“Oh,” says Goodman. “The shill.”
“That’s right.”
I provide a succinct account of my time at Aiglon.
“And you think the kid who tormented you in 1971 is the same guy who worked for Badische thirty years later?”
“I hope so.”
Goodman is silent for a moment before he says, “What do you want to know?”
“Well, for starters, do you recall if Cesar was Filipino?”
“I believe all the defendants were American. But I didn’t deal with Cesar directly. Hold on. There might be something in the files.”
I hear the rustle of paper. “You still have the files?”
“Only the recent briefs. Most of the stuff is in storage or with associates.”
“Other lawyers were involved?”
“It was a full-court press,” Goodman says. “That’s how it works here, even pro bono. We never cut corners. The point is to win. It’s a shame we pled out. I was all set to argue.” He explains he had little choice. A week before trial, the prosecution produced irrefutable proof that the Baron Moncrieffe had filed a false financial affidavit to obtain court-appointed counsel.
“If the baron had assets, how did he end up getting free representation from your firm?”
The question prompts another chuckle out of Goodman. “Like I said, these guys conned everybody. It’s all in the record. If you want, you can come down and have a look.”
It takes me a moment to absorb the magnitude of the proposal. “That’d be great,” I say, trying very hard to remain calm.
Seventy-two hours after Goodman’s invitation, I send him the following email:
Dear Mark,
I can’t thank you enough for the kind offer to allow me to look over the files that touch on Cesar (the coconspirator in the Badische affair). It should quickly become apparent if “my” Cesar is the same one currently serving time.
I’ve looked at my calendar, and find that the second half of December is chock-full of obligations. I can, however, come down on any of the following dates: Monday, Tuesday or Wednesday (November 28th, 29th or 30th) or the following Monday, Tuesday or Wednesday (December 5th, 6th or 7th).
Cordially,
Allen
I spend the rest of the day clicking the GET MAIL button. By the time Goodman’s reply arrives, five days later, I’m a wreck.
Dear Allen,
The Badische files will be available for you to review in our offices next Tuesday, December 6. I will arrange for a conference room.
m
The next week is even more maddening. The Tuesday meeting is rescheduled to Thursday. Then the Thursday meeting is postponed until Friday. I keep myself busy composing long lists of questions about the scope and scale of the fraud. But only one question truly matters: Is the sadist from Switzerland the shill from San Francisco?
THUNDERSNOW
It’s five a.m., two hours before I have to catch the train to New York. I’m standing in front of a full-length mirror, adjusting the knot on my tie. I feel like I’m in high school primping for the senior prom, and I am just as uncomfortable in my blue blazer and oxfords as I was in the tan three-piece corduroy Brooks Brothers suit and almost matching suede Wallabees I wore in 1978.
On the walk to the Providence train station, my foot begins throbbing where Docteur Méan stitched me up, a sure sign that the weather is about to change. While waiting for the Acela to arrive from Boston, I pick up a copy of the New York Post, the paper that revitalized the search. Flipping through the tabloid’s dependable mix of sex scandal, drug crime, and institutional corruption—topics efficiently consolidated in today’s lead story, FDNY FLOOZY A “WHACK WHORE”—a quotation, in a gossip column of all places, grabs my attention: “Almost without fail, lawsuits are about revenge!” The line makes me wonder: Is the search for Cesar an act of prosecution or a hunt for some deeper verdict about myself?
Near the Rhode Island–Connecticut border, a heavy snow, coupled with lightning and thunder, coincides with a flurry of phone calls. “Canceled?” the guy next to me says. “What do you mean canceled?” “The shovel?” says another commuter. “How do I know? Check in the basement. And try to get Manuela to at least stay until noon.”
My mother contributes to the electronic birdsong. “I’m watching CNN,” she informs me breathlessly from the comfort of her overheated Manhattan apartment. “A blizzard is hitting the city!”
“I know, Mom. I’m in it.” The weather app on my phone informs me the Northeast is under assault by a meteorological anomaly called thundersnow.
When the train reaches Penn Station, I call to reconfirm my appointment with Goodman. No one picks up. I catch a subway anyway, make it uptown with forty minutes to spare, and bide the time by devouring a large tub of rice pudding at a deli across from Goodman’s firm.
Shortly before my ten a.m. meeting, I finagle two plastic bags from a cashier, tie them over my oxfords, and brave the winter squall. The knee-deep snow makes it nearly impossible to cross Third Avenue. My pants are soaked, my hair is dripping, and my toes are throbbing by the time I enter the reception area of Debevoise & Plimpton. The rice pudding starts to rebel as I take a seat.
&
nbsp; I try to hide my discomfort by bending over the Cesareum, which I’ve lugged into the city to confirm, if confirmation becomes necessary, the legitimacy of my inquiry. Ten minutes go by before I notice something that ratchets up my self-consciousness: I’m guessing very few visitors enter the number one law firm in the nation wearing white plastic bags on their feet.
At ten thirty, I’m still cooling my heels, now liberated from their makeshift galoshes, and wondering if Goodman is blowing me off. The receptionist can’t (or won’t) say. She can’t (or won’t) even tell me if he is in the building. Maybe he’s spending the morning sledding with his kids. Or maybe he’s decided that attorney-client privilege precludes granting me access to the files. Every time the receptionist talks into her headset, I imagine Goodman on the other end telling her, “I don’t care. Just get rid of the guy.”
At ten forty, a compact woman approaches and introduces herself. “Diane. Mark’s assistant. Mark’s in the middle of a big report. He can’t get away right now.”
“I can wait.”
“No, that’s not going to happen,” Diane informs me brusquely. Before I have a chance to protest, she says, “Come.”
I follow her down a long corridor, up an internal staircase, down another long corridor, and into a room dominated by a conference table rimmed by a dozen chairs. Plate-glass windows on the far side of the room offer up a tempestuous view of the Manhattan skyline intermittently accentuated by lightning bolts. My focus, however, locks onto an even more electrifying prospect: a ziggurat of document boxes stacked at one end of the table.
“I’ve set out the chron logs,” Diane says, pointing to a pile of binders. “You may want to start there. Then, if I were you, I’d work through the Redwelds.”
Chron logs? Redwelds? Now’s not the time to ask questions. I nod and say, “Great.”
“Okay then,” she says. “Knock yourself out.” And without another word, she leaves.
Whipping Boy Page 7
