“You’re kidding?”
Gina shook her head. “It was quite the kerfuffle. I was in law school at the time.”
Their walk to the offices of AUSA Eva Trench took them another ten minutes. From the street, it was hard to get a perspective of how large the Justice building was; but once inside you experienced its enormity.
“Spread out over these seven floors,” said Haley, “there’s almost one and a quarter million square feet. Luckily, we’re almost at the end of our walk.”
“I was about to ask for an oxygen mask,” Gina said.
Trench’s outer offices were grey and austere. Kafka could have easily written about them. Gina checked the time; it was fifteen minutes past when their appointment had been scheduled.
“Ms. Romano,” said the receptionist, “AUSA Trench will see you now.”
Gina was buzzed through a security door, which gained her admittance to Trench’s offices. The room wasn’t overly large, or maybe Trench’s oversized desk just made it seem that way.
“Sorry to have kept you waiting,” said Trench. “The AG was asking me for an update on a case I’m working.”
Gina didn’t believe a word of it; her skepticism showed itself in her reluctant smile. The two women shook hands; they were about the same height and had similar coloring. Trench was a dozen years older and carried herself with the kind of swagger usually seen on men in their twenties.
“Have a seat,” she said.
Gina took a chair and faced her, waiting to hear what Trench had to say. The AUSA pursed her already thin lips, where only a narrow band of red lipstick that looked more like a facial gash could be seen.
“We’ve decided we want to be more active in the Arbalest whistle-blower case,” said Trench.
“What prompted your change of heart? It wasn’t very long ago that you categorized our case as a ‘loser’ to my boss Martin Bergman.”
“We revisited the merits of it.”
“I find your timing”—Gina let the word hang there—“impeccable.”
“Is that so?” Trench said, offering up the words with a Brooklyn-accented disinterest.
“I am sure it won’t come as a surprise to you that Arbalest wants to settle with us.”
“You know what they say about how it’s not over until the fat lady sings,” said Trench. “I don’t hear her singing yet, do you?”
“I don’t much like opera,” said Gina, “or operatic intrigue.”
“That’s surprising,” said Trench, “with a name like Romano.”
“I also don’t like extortion,” said Gina.
“There are rules,” Trench said. “Let me remind you of those rules. In a whistle-blower case the DOJ has to authorize a minimum threshold amount for the settlement. And in case you forgot, we’re also the ones who determine the percentage of money your whistle-blower is entitled to if the case does settle. Now, if you’re going to tell me that your whistle-blower is entitled to the maximum amount of thirty percent of the settlement, I’ll take that into consideration, or I might not. The truth is I have all the authority and you have none.”
Trench leaned back in her chair, offering a much too large self-satisfied smirk.
“Is this the time when I am supposed to back off and play all nice?” Gina asked. “Because if it is, I’m sorry, I completely missed my cue. And as you must have heard, my firm is never inclined to run scared, Ms. Trench. If I’m going to do any running, it will be out of this office. And you wouldn’t want me to do that because your office wouldn’t get any credit for settling this case, and the government wouldn’t get any settlement money. And we’re talking about millions and millions of dollars.
“Do you think I moved fast this past month pushing this case to where it is now? Just wait and see what I can accomplish by next month after I abandon the DOJ and my efforts on this whistle-blower avenue all together. The message that Arbalest will get from that is to pay less attention to the importance of any DOJ settlement and more attention to all of the defective product lawsuits I will file across the country. They will understand that if they don’t deal with me, they will never get closure on this litigation.
“In a week’s time, I’ll have filed a dozen independent defective gunsight product liability lawsuits from California to New York. And in one year’s time, I’ll have filed hundreds more. I will work around the clock, and you’ll read about my successes. Not a month will go by where I don’t get some multimillion dollar jury verdict. That kind of success won’t go unnoticed. In other words, Ms. Trench, both you and I know this might be a better mass tort case than a whistle-blower case.
“Rest assured, though, it will be my goal to tell every reporter who asks about those cases that the DOJ, and you personally, passed on the chance to handle this case yourselves.”
With barely contained fury Trench said, “Those are very big moves, Ms. Romano.”
“Yes, well here’s my first big move.” Gina placed onto Trench’s desk a copy of the first product liability lawsuit that would be filed.
The AUSA looked at the lawsuit paperwork and then back at Gina.
“Both of us know this can’t end well for you, Ms. Trench.” Gina had always suspected Trench had backed away from the Sight-Clops case because of political influence. Now she was all but certain the fix had been put in by one particular senator from Illinois, which happened to be where Arbalest’s corporate headquarters were located.
But now Trench could feel the shifting wind; above everything else, she was a realist. “So,” Trench said, “Let’s talk about what it is you expect out of this department.”
Gina placed her list of what she expected on Trench’s desk. At the top was her requirement that she have unencumbered authority to settle for an amount she determined to be appropriate. Next on the list was that her client Robert Diaz receive 30 percent of that settlement. Third was a demand that Arbalest be sanctioned with a monetary penalty to be determined by the DOJ along with a press release exposing the civil violations the company had committed.
All the items listed below these were simply boilerplate. There was a signature line for Trench, and she signed the document without any hesitation. There were no kind good-byes or niceties exchanged as Gina put the document in her briefcase and made her exit.
33
LOOK MOM, NO BLOOD ON MY HANDS
Gina suspected that Ned’s choice of a small deli meet-up was a reflection of his warped sense of humor, as it was located between Ford’s Theatre and the International Spy Museum. By this time, Carol had probably managed to warn Ned his phone might be bugged. Assassination and spycraft, thought Gina. This case had it all.
Ned and Bennie had moved two tables together, which took up much of the delicatessen. On those tables were coffees, beverages, and a few of the deli’s appetizers.
Four men in suits consulted for a moment out front before entering. This wasn’t the kind of establishment where they typically met for power lunches and dinners. Gina was sure the foursome had flown in on the Arbalest company jet. As Bennie stood up to vacate his space, Gina handed him her purse. “If you don’t mind, Bennie,” she said, “I’d like you to watch this.”
“And this, please,” said Ned, passing him his cell phone.
Bennie took the items without comment and stationed himself near the front of the restaurant.
It was Zimmer who made the introductions, but from that point on Quentin Carter did the speaking for Arbalest.
“Thank you for meeting with us Ms. Romano and Mr. Williams,” Carter said. “Mr. Zimmer has expressed to us your concerns, which prompted us to want to meet with you as soon as possible.”
Carter looked around the two tables and beyond, making sure no one was listening. “As I understand it,” he said, “before the terms of any settlement can be discussed, you want assurance that no one at Arbalest was involved in any way with the murder of your colleague, Angus Moore.”
Gina nodded.
“I am sure it will come as a su
rprise to you,” said Carter, “that when Mr. Knapp and I heard about Mr. Moore’s death, we were naturally concerned. Even when early reports suggested Mr. Moore had died in an auto accident, Mr. Knapp and I wanted to be assured that was all there was to it. Because of that, we summoned Kendrick Strahan to Mr. Knapp’s house in Lake Geneva only two days after Mr. Moore’s death.
“Strahan, as I am sure you know, was a lobbyist in the employ of Arbalest. More than that, at one time Strahan was a personal friend of Mr. Knapp’s.”
At a nod from Carter, Knapp began to speak. He was a middle-aged man of fair complexion. His face was remarkably free of wrinkles, which made him look younger than he was, but also gave his features a look of only being partially formed.
“I knew Ken from our time at boarding school,” said Knapp. “He was a star athlete back then. Ken was a smart guy; he was on scholarship, but still was always looking for shortcuts. Others always wrote his papers, including me, and if he could copy or cheat he would. Ken liked to party as well. He had a smuggling ring which brought in booze and grass to school.
“Ultimately, those habits and proclivities caught up with him. Ken was later expelled from Harvard, although over time he did get his degree from another college. When he was in his mid-twenties, he got a job with the US Treasury working for the Secret Service. He put in more than ten years before self-destructing there. That’s when he called me begging for a job. I thought he might be good for marketing, especially with his background in law enforcement. I offered him a position with the Gun Control Institute, which is essentially a lobbying arm of Arbalest.
“By most accounts, Ken was an effective lobbyist. There is no question that sales increased under his direction. Because of that, Ken was essentially given free rein. In retrospect, it’s clear he needed more oversight. I am also of the opinion that I did him no favors by making him a lobbyist. We are now aware that position brought out the worst in him.”
“Are you suggesting that Strahan murdered Angus,” asked Gina, “or ordered his murder?”
Carter and Knapp had an ocular consultation. It was the lawyer who ultimately spoke. “Mr. Knapp doesn’t think Mr. Strahan would ever have knowingly condoned murder. I am not so sure. When Angus Moore started asking questions about bribe money being paid to politicians and purchasing agents, Mr. Strahan became noticeably agitated and nervous.”
“So when you heard about Angus’s death,” said Gina, “you had Strahan come to Mr. Knapp’s Wisconsin home where the two of you interviewed him?”
“That’s correct,” said Carter. “I took notes at that meeting and will be happy to provide them to you.”
“For now, give me the gist of the conversation.”
“Strahan was hiding something from us. That was apparent to me. Mr. Knapp asked him outright if he was involved in Mr. Moore’s death. Strahan said he had nothing to do with it.”
“Did you believe him?”
“No,” said Carter. “I was certain he knew more than he was telling us. Mr. Knapp had the same impression.”
“But the two of you were willing to leave it at that?” asked Gina.
“We put Mr. Strahan on notice that there would be an audit of his department,” said Carter, “and we pulled the plug on his sizable discretionary fund.”
“What have your findings revealed?”
“Unfortunately it has become clear that Mr. Strahan was handing out bribes,” said Carter, “or what he liked to call ‘pay for play.’ We also have evidence that Strahan frequently rented out the Libertyville Shooting Club for the kinds of parties Arbalest would never have condoned.”
“But conveniently for you,” said Gina, “Strahan died.”
“I wouldn’t call it convenient,” said Carter. “I know Mr. Knapp doesn’t call it convenient. I would much rather have Mr. Strahan here to answer your questions. But because he is not, Mr. Knapp will commit to providing whatever your firm needs to satisfy itself that no one at Arbalest, with the possible exception of Mr. Strahan, had anything to do with Mr. Moore’s death. To help you in that endeavor, you are welcome to do a forensic accounting of Arbalest and the Gun Control Institute.
“As I mentioned, we are already doing our own investigation, and what we’ve already found is more than disturbing. Because Mr. Strahan’s friendship with Mr. Knapp was well-known, he was able to bypass standard protocols. Special exceptions were made for him, and because of that, he was able to promote projects that Mr.
Knapp knew nothing about.”
“Ken and his shortcuts,” said Knapp, shaking his head.
“Mr. Strahan convinced accounting that Mr. Knapp was okay with setting up a distribution account where his substantial sales commissions were funneled into what he called ‘marketing expenditures.’ That money, along with his purported rental expenditures for Libertyville, provided him with a huge slush account.”
“I would never condone murder,” said Tim Knapp. “I couldn’t live with bloody hands.”
It was a strange admission from the CEO of one of the world’s largest small-weapons manufacturers, but Gina actually believed him.
She turned to Ned and nodded.
“If things check out as you say they will,” Ned said, “and we will turn over every stone making sure they do, we will be asking for a settlement of five hundred million dollars.”
Zimmer opened his mouth, ready to vent his outrage; Carter silenced him with his index finger.
“As well as a separate fifty million dollar settlement,” said Gina, “providing for a V.A. Wounded Soldiers Fund in Angus’s name. That donation needs to be separate from the whistle-blower settlement so that the DOJ doesn’t benefit from it at all.”
“Will Arbalest be allowed to use this donation as P.R.?” asked Carter. “After what you’ve been putting us through, we could use some good publicity.”
“That’s fine,” said Gina.
Carter turned to Knapp and got a small nod.
“Nothing we’ve heard today would preclude a deal,” said Carter.
34
NO TRACKS
The scientific name for the cockroach order is Blattodea, which derives from the Latin word blatt and essentially means “an insect that shuns light.”
Like cockroaches, Ivan Verloc preferred the darkness. And also like cockroaches, Ivan was sensitive to any disturbances in his environment. Ivan hadn’t been born with the long, flexible antennae of cockroaches, but he was attuned, just like they were, to seen and unseen threats.
And like a cockroach, Ivan was adept at disappearing. In fact, that’s what he was doing. He was shutting down his entire Bergman-Deketomis operation. Every dark tunnel he’d bored, every back door that he’d explored, was being closed. And what he couldn’t shut down he made every attempt to camouflage so that he would leave behind very few traces of where he had been and what he had done. It was likely he was being overly cautious, but he was okay with that.
His special phone rang, and Ivan debated whether he should talk to Lutz. Then he decided it was time to have a last conversation.
“What’s the matter, Ivanhoe?” said Lutz. “I haven’t heard from you in days. Don’t you love me anymore?”
“You mean like Strahan loved you?”
“Poor guy committed suicide.”
“Really?” said Ivan. And then over the phone he played his recording of Strahan’s last minute on the planet, down to his final choked gurgle.
“That’s now part of your file,” said Ivan. “Remember our talk about mutually assured destruction? With all I got on you, you’re looking at a life sentence.”
“And where do two murders put you, Ivanhoe?”
“Far from here, that’s where,” he said. “I’m shutting down operations. This will be the last time we talk.”
“You don’t want to get on my bad side, Ivanhoe. I need my mole to keep working.”
“Your mole has found another hole. Almost overnight, the people at that law firm have become more guarded in what they’re
saying. I get the sense they’re afraid Big Brother is listening in.”
“You’re being paranoid. Why don’t you put on your big-boy pants and tell me what’s going on?”
Ivan released the phone from his hand like it was a mic drop.
From his end of the line Lutz heard the loud impact followed by the faint words, “Elvis has left the building.”
35
FOUL HENRY
Gina pretended to celebrate along with Ned and Bennie on the flight home, but her heart wasn’t in it. She had been running so hard and for so long she wasn’t sure what to do with herself. In what seemed like eternity, Gina had focused on Angus, Arbalest, and Sight-Clops to the exclusion of everything else. She had been able to compartmentalize, to put aside matters not relevant to the pressing issues that needed to be addressed.
Now, for the first time in weeks, she had time to think. Gina wasn’t sure if that was a good thing.
Ned commented to Bennie, “I just about choked when Gina, cool as a cucumber, told those stiffs in suits, ‘Oh, yeah, you’re also going to cough up fifty million for a wounded soldiers’ fund. And that was after I thought I had already pushed them to their wall by asking for five hundred million. That little bit of extra was not in the script. Where did that come from?”
“I was remembering Cara’s affidavit from her meeting with Private Jones,” said Gina. “Here’s a soldier with a textbook case of PTSD, and in obvious need of healing, and the only person who’s listening to him is a twenty-four-year-old lawyer from Florida. We can do better than that.”
“Yeah, agreed,” said Ned.
Gina pretended to nod off, and then her pretense became reality. She opened her eyes only when their company plane was on its short final approach for Spanish Trace at just before eleven. Old habits caused her to look at her phone first thing. There was a text from Carol Morris: You, Deke, Martin, and me to meet in fifth-floor conference room at 8:30 a.m.
“Home sweet home!” said Ned.
“While you were sawing wood,” Bennie told Gina, “I arranged for Steve to have your back tonight. He’ll give you a ride to your place.”
Law and Vengeance Page 24
