Bull Street (A White Collar Crime Thriller)

by David Lender

  Richard felt like he always did when he went to LeClaire with an issue: he got clear logic, unsentimental honesty. Same thing with Steinberg. And he’d never seen either of them lose their tempers. But Jack was a different story.

  Richard heard a knock on Steinberg’s door and turned to see Jack walk in. Uh-oh. This could get ugly now.

  Steinberg said, “Pull up a chair. You won’t find this boring.” Jack sat down. Steinberg said, “François and Richard were just briefing me on a visit Richard had with representatives of the SEC and the U.S. Attorney’s Office. They tried to sweat him into giving up an insider trading ring they say is centered here at Walker, and linked to Milner’s deals.”

  “Must be a full moon,” Jack said.

  “And it seems Richard and Kathy Cella stumbled on the same thing the SEC did a few months ago. Nicknamed the guy apparently directing the trades the mole.” Steinberg turned back to Richard, asking, “Why didn’t you come forward to anybody at the firm about this earlier?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve been asking myself that since I walked out of the U.S. Attorney’s Office. I guess I just screwed up.” Richard could now see Jack observing him, his face blank. Is he gonna fire me? Serve me back to Holden? Jack said, “How’s this linked to Milner?”

  Richard said, “Trading in a bunch of his deals. Including Tentron.” Jack’s face was still expressionless.

  Steinberg said, “I’m going to call Jim Lawson, the senior partner at Shearson & Stone, our law firm, and set up a meeting with their litigators as soon as possible. Hopefully tomorrow morning.” Richard felt his fists unclench. But he was still watching Jack.

  LeClaire said, “The guy from the SEC was Roman Croonquist, Director of Enforcement. And he said Charles Holden,” looking back and forth between Jack and Steinberg, Jack’s eyebrows raising when he heard Holden’s name, “at the U.S. Attorney’s Office might drag Richard out in handcuffs. We should try and get that meeting with Shearson & Stone soon.”

  Jack said to Richard, “Better check yourself into a hotel. And get a pair of those Groucho Marx disguise glasses with the moustache and big nose.” Jack grinned. Richard felt a whoosh of relief at hearing Jack joke about the situation.

  Steinberg said, “Bring all the hard copies of the email messages, your laptop and anything else you’ve got. I’ll call you on your cell when I get the meeting.”

  LeClaire and Richard got up to leave.

  “Close the door behind you,” Jack said.

  After Richard shut the door it took Jack a moment to realize how tense he was, having worked so hard to not show any reaction, and then even joke with the kid.

  Flattened by a Mack truck they never saw coming.

  His mouth had a funny taste in it. And then for some reason he was thinking of that squishy sound his wet galoshes made on the tiles in the entry hall of the apartment building where he grew up in Canarsie. His galoshes wet from the snow after a street fight. He liked to fight in winter; most of the guys were bigger and stronger, but in the snow they slipped and went down easy. That way he could step onto them and break their spirits while he busted up their faces, blood flying around until they yelled, “I give.” He realized the taste in his mouth was like after one of those fights; blood mixed with puke. Right now he felt like hitting someone.

  “How much you think he knows?” Jack said.

  “You heard almost as much as I did. I’d say plenty.”

  “Enough?”

  “Enough. Except maybe who’s actually involved. Emails documenting trades going back four years, including emails distributing trades out from Paris to all over Europe, the Far East, firms in the U.S. Including on Milner’s deals.”

  Jeez. Jack had put his blood and guts into Walker, building it up over all these years, now maybe waking up to find it worthless because of these markets. But now he could see it all go down the tubes in an insider trading scandal. And getting his investment in Walker wiped out maybe not the worst of it. He felt itchy, like he needed to get up and walk around.

  Jack said, “We gotta get this thing under wraps. If we don’t we could lose it all. It was bad enough with this financial mess. Now we’re looking at jail on top of going bust.”

  Mickey was blinking at one of his screens, thinking. After a moment he said, “We’ll just have to see how it develops. It sounds like the Feds have a lot of what Richard does.”

  “After twenty-five years if I get my Walker stake wiped out I’ll shoot myself. Anybody tries to stand in my way of protecting against that, I’ll shoot him.”

  Mickey just looked at him.

  “What?” Jack said.

  “If the Feds move on us it’ll be soon. I can’t see having time to outrun them.”

  Jack said, “Well, in the absence of any other brilliant ideas, I say we go balls-to-the-wall to bottle this up before it kills us.”

  Mickey said, “I don’t have any other brilliant ideas.”

  That was a new one: Mickey coming up blank. One of them better think of something quick.

  Milner sat in the one of the client suites at the UBS private banking office at Park Avenue and 48th Street. He’d finished filling out the paperwork for the wire transfer five minutes earlier, and given it to the assistant to Rolf Kulling, his private banker. Now, staring at polished mahogany walls and smelling oiled leather, he waited for Kulling to get off the phone. A minute later Kulling sidled in with that insinuating manner all private bankers seemed to have.

  “Harold, always a pleasure.” They shook hands.

  “She give you the paperwork?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Great. You need anything else from me?”

  “No, sir.”

  “How long you think it will take?”

  “One to two weeks. It’s hard to say.”

  Milner felt a burst of surprise. What? “One to two weeks? What’s the problem?”

  “I’m sorry, Harold, but $250 million is an unusually large wire transfer. Ever since September 11th, Homeland Security scrutinizes any wire transfers it deems appropriate, particularly those going offshore. That usually means anything over $10,000.”

  Milner was nodding he understood, but he still couldn’t quite believe it.

  Kulling said, “We’ll do the best we can.”

  This sure changed things. Well, he’d have to deal with it. Fake it for a little longer, hang around until he could pack up Mary Claire and get the hell out of here.

  It was Jack who called Richard about the meeting at Shearson & Stone. Jack told Richard, “Your first lawyer is like your first lover. You never forget. Particularly if you’re scared. Wait’ll you get a load of Toto.”

  Karen “Toto” Blanc was Shearson & Stone’s head litigator. A rival litigator once yielded to her, saying she was “too tough.” It stuck. It didn’t take long for Jack to abbreviate it to Toto. But even Jack didn’t have the nerve to call her that to her face.

  Richard had spent the night hiding out at the Carlyle. He arrived at Toto’s office on the 7th floor at 599 Lexington Avenue, across from the Citigroup Building, at 8:00 a.m. the next morning. So far, so good. He wasn’t in handcuffs.

  About 8:10, a leggy brunette walked out of her office and extended her hand. “Karen Blanc,” she said. Richard could see her observing him when they shook hands. She was tall for a woman; he guessed about 5’10”. Slim, with prominent features that all seemed too big for her face, but somehow managed to fit together. Striking. She wore a stylish wrap dress instead of one of those goofy business suits with the dress shirt and little bow tie that a lot of woman lawyers wore.

  “Come in,” she said, still observing Richard. She went to her credenza and started fixing a cup of coffee. “Can I get you anything? Coffee, tea, bottled water?…OJ?” Asking him, but all business. Not exactly cordial.

  “Black coffee would be great.”

  She fixed it for him. “Nervous?” she asked.

  “You might say I’m at a high state of attention.”

 
“Doesn’t sound all bad.” She pointed to a chair next to her coffee table. “Have a seat.” She sat down across from him on the sofa. Blunt. Guiding him around.

  “I hear you had an interesting day yesterday.”

  “You could say that.”

  “Well, just in case you have any concerns about it, they can’t use anything that you said if they didn’t advise you of your rights to have counsel present for an interview.”

  “They didn’t give me any advice. They didn’t even tell me what the interview was about. They ambushed me.”

  “They tried to bluff you, scare you into folding. Mickey briefed me. Sounds like you did fine. I’m going to ask you to tell me the whole story again in a few minutes. Don’t worry.” Her manner was firm and confident.

  “I haven’t done anything wrong.”

  “I believe you,” she said. “Sounds like somebody has, though, and we’ll need to do what we can to get to the bottom of that. But the most important thing is, if you haven’t done anything, you shouldn’t have anything to worry about.” She smiled for the first time. “Well, young Mr. Blum, now let’s get started.”

  She took the better part of an hour directing Richard through his entire history and understanding of the mole situation, from the initial email he discovered to the meeting with Croonquist and Holden the day before. She interrupted constantly to take him back through various points, getting clarifications, making notes, referring back to them. If this was a friendly attorney-client interview, Richard decided he wouldn’t want her cross-examining him. Richard was starting to understand what Jack meant. With Toto he felt like a teenage farm boy learning things from an experienced older woman. She was in command, showing him how it worked.

  “Where are your computer and the printouts?”

  Richard patted his briefcase.

  “Cybil, are you there?” she called through the open doorway. A woman, apparently her assistant, called back, “Yes.”

  “Get me Martin Springs right away, please.” She turned back to Richard. “Are these the only copies?”

  “No.” He saw her squinting, like sighting him in.

  “I don’t mean hard copies of the printouts. I mean electronic copies, the files in your computer.”

  “No. I have one memory stick with the electronic copies of everything with me, another in my apartment.”

  She nodded, thinking.

  Richard thinking, too, trying to stay ahead of her, said, “And, of course the ones on the mole’s Internet provider’s server, and on the computers at Walker.”

  “At Walker,” she repeated. She was looking at Richard but her eyes unfocused, thinking about it. It made him uneasy.

  “You represent Walker & Company, don’t you?”

  “I represent you and Walker & Company, unless you can tell me that there’s some reason why your interests should diverge, in which case I could potentially have a conflict.” She was eyeing him again now, like maybe she was going to turn on him. Richard felt his pulse quicken. He eased himself back in the chair, trying to calm down.

  “I don’t know of any reason why our interests would diverge.”

  “Is there anything you want to tell me about?” She was observing him now like he was a lab specimen. “Is there anything you suspect might indicate that your own interests could be divergent from that of the firm’s?” Now she was squinting again.

  “No. But obviously someone at the firm is the mole. I just don’t know what direction this thing will take, and who the mole is.”

  “Be straight with me. Now, and throughout the rest of this thing.” Richard felt like she was looking inside his head.

  “I won’t lie to you,” he said.

  “Better not.”

  A guy, probably the Associate she’d asked for, appeared in the doorway. She looked up. Richard exhaled. He realized he’d been clenching the arms of the chair, relaxed his hands.

  “Martin, come in. Martin Springs, this is Richard Blum, our client. He’s an investment banker from Walker & Company.” Richard stood and shook his hand. Toto pointed to Richard’s briefcase, motioned to Richard. He pulled out the memory stick and the hard copy printouts. “Martin, this is critical evidence in this matter. I want chronological transcripts prepared similar to that which we normally do for a deposition, bound in a volume. I need all this by early afternoon. Understand?” Springs grabbed the materials and headed out the door, jumping to it. Richard was certain Springs knew why her nickname fit.

  “Does this make me a gun moll?” Kathy said. It was good hearing her be a smart-ass, but Richard thought he heard her voice quavering.

  “Harvard Business School girls gone wild.”

  Kathy was silent a moment, then said, “Babe, you alright?”

  “Yeah. Yesterday was touch-and-go, today I’m in good hands.”

  “Where are you?”

  “I can’t tell you right now. I’m afraid your phone may be tapped.”

  She paused for a long time before saying, “When can I see you?” her voice airy now.

  Richard was seeing her on the bed the other night, smelling her perfume mixed with her scent.

  “Soon.” He felt better hearing himself say it, but he was uncertain. “Go see Freida. Get the phone number, make sure you aren’t being followed and call me.”

  Ten minutes later she called back. Toto’s secretary transferred the call to a conference room across the hall.

  “Hi,” Richard said, trying to sound normal, but his voice strained.

  “I love you, Richard.”

  “I love you, too, Kath. Everything’s fine. I’m up at Shearson & Stone with their head litigation partner. She’ll want you here sometime late this afternoon. We have meetings scheduled to go over the whole thing. When we get done I’d like for you and me to get together on this mole thing this evening. I’m staying at the Carlyle under the name Richard Diver. Can you do it?”

  “Nah, I’ve got other plans.” Being game, trying to lighten it up, but he could hear the stress in her voice.

  “Okay,” Richard said. “Here’s what I need you to do…”

  Kathy hung up the pay phone from her call with Richard. She crossed Water Street and entered the bank. She cashed a check for $2,000. Then she hailed a cab. As she rode, she was thinking this must be what panic felt like: unable to hold onto a clear thought, buzzing, itchy. She took another cab, got out, then another, all the time checking behind, around her. She got out of her fifth cab at 30 Lincoln Plaza, Richard’s apartment building at 62nd & Broadway. She waved to Geraldo, the doorman, acting nonchalant, knowing she wasn’t carrying it off, and went upstairs to Richard’s apartment.

  Upstairs, Kathy stuffed three of Richard’s suits and enough shirts, underwear and ties to last him for a week into a garment bag. On his bureau, she found the memory stick with the mole’s data, put it into her purse, then ran to the elevator. Downstairs, she hurried out of the building through the service door that exited onto the plaza. She startled a guy sitting smoking a cigarette, saw him jump up when she went past him. As she looked back over her shoulder she saw him motioning to somebody. She had to tell herself this was really happening, felt a wave of shock and ran across the plaza to Broadway, hailed a cab. She saw the same guy from the plaza jump into a car behind her on Broadway just as she drove off in the taxi. “Downtown,” she said to the cabbie. “I said downtown! U-turn right here!” she yelled at him as they reached 64th Street.

  “Damn, girl, relax,” he shouted back as he slammed on the brakes.

  “Don’t give me any crap, buddy. I’m not in the mood. Drive.” The cabbie did a U-turn on Broadway at 64th Street. “Stop here,” she said at Columbus Circle and got out of the cab. She ran across the street lugging the garment bag. She looked back to see the guy get out of the car a block north of her.

  She ran down the stairs to the subway at 59th Street, onto a #1 train south that was in the station. Kathy got off at Times Square and walked as fast as she could without breaking into a jog th
rough the transfer tunnels to the Grand Central shuttle platform. She looked around the platform for recognizable faces from the subway car she had just ridden, or the man she’d seen following her. Nothing. She then caught the shuttle to Grand Central where she picked up the #4 train south, again checking the faces of the other passengers. After switching subway lines twice more she wound up at Canal Street. In the tunnels there she stopped to buy a copy of Vogue, stood thumbing through it to see if anyone else stopped to observe her. She wondered what she’d do if she saw someone.

  Then she walked to the #4 train and took it north toward Grand Central again. That was when she spotted the guy. She felt a flash of despair and then anger. He’s still tailing me! She breathed deeply to try to calm herself. It was no use. When the train stopped at 14th Street she waited in the open doorway until everyone had gotten off; still waited, forcing herself. Just a little longer. Then at the last moment she shoved her way out through the entering passengers. She saw the guy jump through the doors at the other end of the car. She turned and leaped back onto the train just as the doors closed. The guy was swearing at himself on the platform as the train pulled away.

  She felt a rush of relief. Then told herself not to relax. She got off the subway at 23rd Street and hailed a cab, still checking behind her, and went straight to the Carlyle Hotel at 76th and Madison. She asked for the envelope at the desk in her name, Nicole Diver. On the way to the elevator she pulled out two phony driver’s licenses and the key to Richard’s room. Upstairs in Richard’s room, she hung up Richard’s garment bag and sat on the floor next to the bed. Then she buried her face in her hands and sobbed for twenty minutes.

  When she finished crying, Kathy let out a long sigh. What a relief, letting go after all that. The things a woman had to do for her man these days. She bet her mother never had to put out like this in her day.

  Kathy looked like somebody let the air out of her when she walked into the conference room across from Toto’s office.