Insider Justice
A Marc Kadella Legal Mystery
by
Dennis L. Carstens
Previous Marc Kadella Legal Mysteries
The Key to Justice
Desperate Justice
Media Justice
Certain Justice
Personal Justice
Delayed Justice
Political Justice
Copyright © 2018 by Dennis L Carstens
www.denniscarstens.com
email me at: [email protected]
ONE
THREE YEARS AGO
“Do we have to meet with him again?” Dane Cannon asked the two people seated with him at the conference room table.
Dane Cannon was the current CEO of Cannon Brothers Toys. Cannon Brothers was a family owned and operated toy business located a few miles Northwest of Minneapolis in Glover, a suburb. Dane’s younger brother, Greg was the company COO. Cannon Brothers was founded by their grandfather, Everett Cannon in 1938. Over the years it had grown to a mid-size, privately owned company with revenue of approximately two hundred million dollars. As a private company, of course, earnings did not have to be reported publicly. Dane and Greg were the third-generation top management of the business.
“Yeah, we do,” replied Greg, Dane’s forty-four-year-old brother. “He's being insistent.”
“What now?” asked Marissa Duggins. Marissa was the executive vice-president. She was also the first high-level corporate officer to come from outside the family.
Over the years, as the number of family members had grown, their interest in running the business dropped in direct proportion to their all-around slothfulness. All of the family members, more than twenty of them now, owned a piece of the company. Profitability, brought on by a reputation for quality toys, kept all of them in a very comfortable lifestyle. Their uninterested attitude toward where and how the money came from suited Dane and Greg just fine. The less interference they had from their kinsmen, the better.
Marissa Duggins, at fifty, a couple of years older than Dane, was brought in ten years ago. She was an accounting wiz and a manager with steel balls and a killer attitude. Plus, although an attractive woman, she was a lesbian in a long-term relationship. This fact kept her relationship with the brothers friendly but professional.
“I don’t know,” Greg answered Marissa. “Same thing as far as I know.”
There was a knock on the door, a man opened it and walked in. His name was Irving Haraldson and he was the chief engineer of the company. Sixty-two years old, mostly bald with scattered, disheveled tufts of gray hair on his head. Irving was Hollywood's idea of a geeky, engineer, tech guy. No coat, a short-sleeve white shirt, polyester blue tie with white stripes and the ever-present plastic pen holder in his shirt pocket.
“Hello, Irv,” Dane pleasantly said. “Come in and tell us what’s on your mind.”
Irving went around the conference room table to sit opposite the three executives. Greg and Marissa both stood up, reached across the table and shook hands with him. When they were all seated, Irving opened a manila folder he had placed on the table. In it was a single copy of a multi-page document.
“Sorry,” Irving began. “I thought I was meeting with just you,” he said looking at Dane. “I didn’t bring extra copies of this memo I wrote on the problems with the skateboard.”
“What problems?” Dane asked as he took the document from Irving’s outstretched hand.
“Well, there are a couple of things,” Irving said.
Marissa and Greg were both leaning forward, hands folded, elbows on the table while Dane scanned through the memo. The three of them knew what was coming. It was something their chief engineer had complained about, cryptically, for months.
Cannon Brothers Toys was on the verge of marketing a new product. It was a motorized skateboard designed for a broader, younger market. Most motorized skateboards were marketed to older users, typically, those sixteen and older. Cannon was going to claim that they had designed a much safer version, one that included a speed regulator and an automated braking system. With the usual warnings about wearing safety equipment, Cannon was going to claim their product was safe for users as young as ten years old. With adult supervision, of course.
“Go on,” Dane told the older man while placing the memo on the table.
“We’ve been through this,” Irving said looking at Dane. “It is the lithium batteries. We need to replace every one of them with batteries from a more reputable source.”
“Wait, wait, hold on,” Greg interjected. “We have a half million of these things ready to go. Now you come to us and…”
“Let him finish,” Marissa calmly said placing her left hand on Greg’s right arm.
“This Chinese manufacturer is not reputable,” Irving continued. “We’re still getting a failure rate that is too high. The batteries overheat and damage the speed regulator and braking system. Some even explode and start on fire!” The old man was almost yelling and even slapped the table when he said this.
“How many?” Marissa quietly asked.
“It’s between one and two percent,” Irving answered her.
“I thought we had this fixed?” Dane asked.
“Well, okay, we seem to have it down to a little less than one percent,” Irving admitted. “But,” he quickly continued when he saw Greg start to say something, “we’re talking about children’s lives here. Kids as young as nine and ten could get seriously injured, even killed.”
“Come on, Irv,” Greg said. “Killed? Now you’re overreacting.”
“If the speed regulator and brakes fail while they’re going downhill…”
“Their parents have a responsibility,” Greg started to protest.
“You’re right, Irving,” Marissa said interrupting and stopping Greg. “We need to rethink this. How many copies of this memo do you have?”
“That’s the only one I printed off from my computer,” Irving said.
“Okay,” Dane said taking charge. “Irv, keep this to yourself for now. Right now, nothing’s been done. I think you’re right. We will have to pull the batteries on all of them and replace them with more reliable ones.”
“Thank God,” Irving said, obviously relieved.
“We don’t need dead kids on our conscience,” Marissa added with a warm smile.
Dane stood up and said, “Thanks, Irv, you may have saved us from a terrible mistake.”
Irving, Greg, and Marissa also stood, and Dane reached across the table to shake Irving's hand. Marissa went around the table, took Irving's arm and smiling, led him to the door.
“Keep this to yourself for now,” Marissa said. “Tell no one. Your wife, kids, employees. Give us a couple of days to talk to purchasing and manufacturing and figure out how we can fix this. Okay?”
“Yes, sure, that’s fine,” the engineer said. “I can’t tell you how relieved I am. I thought you’d fight me on this.”
“Irv, Greg and I have kids, too,” Dane said.
“We're really not monsters,” Marissa said still smiling. “In fact, take the rest of the week off. You've earned it. We'll get together on Monday or Tuesday with an action plan.”
As soon as he was sure Irving was gone, Dane took the fourteen-page memo and angrily flung it at the exterior window. His fists were balled up and pressed to his hips. Dane looked at the ceiling and noisily inhaled.
“Sonofabitch!” Dane angrily let loose.
By now Marissa and Greg were again seated at the table while Dane vented his frustration. He stood next to his chair, deeply inhaling and noisily exhaling until he regained his composure. When he did, he returned to his seat and looked at the other two.
“Now what?” Dane asked.
“One percent is nothing,” Greg said. “Insurance will cover the losses.”
“It would cost us millions to replace all the batteries and fix this,” Marissa said. “Not to mention the delay. The PR campaign is about to swing into overdrive. We have every industry publication, website, and skateboard user source ready to sing our praises.”
“They should be, we’ve paid them enough,” Greg added.
Dane sat silently thinking over their situation for a minute. He then said, “Obviously we have to go forward. Everything is set and the timing is locked in.”
By this point, while Dane was quietly thinking, Greg had retrieved the memo and placed it back on the table. He returned to his seat before speaking.
“What do we do about this? How do we keep this quiet?”
“Less than one percent. We can claim that was a fluke,” Marissa said.
“Or the over-cautious claim of the engineering department. And it is the fault of the Chinese manufacturer,” Greg said.
“The lawsuits would come down on us,” Dane said. “Try suing a Chinese manufacturer for a products liability claim. It would take ten years. Our own State Department would try to stop you. And even if you did get at them, the Chinese government would shut down the company and reopen it the next day under a different name.”
“You need to talk to Cal,” Marissa said. She was referring to Calvin Simpson, an investment advisor, venture capitalist, speculator and corporate raider. It was through Cal that Cannon Brothers had obtained a very favorable loan to develop the skateboard.
The motorized skateboard, to be released as four separate models simultaneously, was going to blow its competition away. It was being priced from a low of $499.00 to the supermodel at $999.00. Because it was going to be promoted as safer than any other, it would take over the market. Worldwide estimates projected sales in the first two years exceeding twenty million. Coupled with the company going public with an IPO a month after the product’s release, the Cannon family was looking to get rich, then walk away. Calvin Simpson and his friends were also looking to pick up quite a few bucks themselves. Of course, this was all illegal insider-trading. But Cal Simpson had a lot of friends in Washington and New York who were along for the ride. Cal Simpson had become rich the old-fashioned way; by being a well-connected crook.
“I'll talk to Cal. He'll have some ideas about how to handle this,” Dane said lightly waving a hand toward the memo. “I'm sure he's run into these kinds of problems before.”
TWO
The thirty-five-foot Chris Craft cabin cruiser moved slowly along Lake Minnetonka. The luxury gas-guzzler was barely leaving a wake it was moving so slowly. The two bikini-clad teenagers sunning themselves on the foredeck raised their heads and looked shoreward. A lone man was sitting on shore in a patio chair watching the big boat cruise past. The girls rose to their knees and waved to him as their pilot/father gave him a quick horn salute.
Cal Simpson, enjoying the sight of the girls, raised his drink with his right hand and waved with his left. The girl’s mother stepped out on deck also in a bikini, filling it better than the daughters. Minnesota blondes, he thought and smiled. Cal continued thinking, Minnesota, filled with Germans and Scandinavians, grows them like a cash crop.
The boat passed out of sight, and Cal continued to enjoy the day. He sipped his glass of ice and Pappy Van Winkle’s. Real men drink bourbon, the British drink scotch, Cal was fond of saying. He puffed on his Monte Cristo several times to get it going again while watching a two-masted sailboat gliding across the big lake.
Calvin Simpson was born fifty-five years ago in Boston as Martin Kelly, the son of a strong-arm thug who was shot and killed by the police when Cal was four. He grew up a tough, gang kid, a member of an Irish teenage gang loosely affiliated with Whitey Bulger’s Winter Hill gang. Mostly they were tough kids who were Winter Hill wannabees. Martin/Cal was one of the smart ones. By the time he was in his late teens he had learned that the big criminal bucks were made through sales and politics, especially if you combined the two. Sales, of course, being a con game of some kind; politics being old-fashioned, corrupt, local politics.
Cal's first real bite at the apple came when he was not even out of his teens. With a change of identity, the first of several, he went to work for a local brokerage firm. It was a penny stocks firm owned and operated by the brother of a local politician. It was the politician/brother who got Cal the job. Cal and his gang buddies had done an excellent job of making sure the city council member’s significant constituency was not disenfranchised. With a little cash—euphemistically called “walking around money”—to grease the wheels, homeless people, drunks, junkies, and other assorted derelicts and of course, dead people, were persuaded to vote properly by Cal and his friends.
The councilman saw in Cal an intelligence being wasted on the streets. The brokerage job followed soon after. Within two years, the smooth-talking Cal was the top salesman/con man in the place.
Over the next forty years, Cal Simpson had lied, cheated, conned and bribed his way to become almost elitist rich. Along the way, he had incurred three felony convictions all of which were eventually wiped off of the books. A name change, a satchel of cash to the right local pols, a little help from old neighborhood pal and presto, Cal would be back in business barely missing a beat.
Cal had also acquired and discarded three wives but had only one child, a daughter, Samantha, now age twenty-eight. Despite Cal being a totally jaded narcissist, Samantha was the apple of his eye. There was nothing he would not do for her. That should have made her a spoiled, rotten brat but Samantha was actually the sensible rock in Cal’s life. She was under no illusions about her father and in fact, Samantha was a shrewd corporate lawyer with only one client: Daddy.
Cal had moved to Minnesota four years ago after Samantha graduated from Yale Law School. At the time he needed to get away from greedy ex-wives and the East Coast. In Minnesota he was treated by most as a rich, successful investor and venture capitalist.
“Hi, Dad,” he heard Samantha’s voice a few feet behind him.
“Hello, sweetheart,” he replied as she bent down and kissed his cheek.
Cal watched her as she pulled up a chair to join him. As usual, he was forever grateful she obtained her mother's physical genes. A beautiful brunette with Cal's brains would have opened a lot of doors for her if she needed it.
Samantha slid her chair across the artificial grass covering the concrete, lakeside patio. She sat down at the table between them, picked up her dad’s drink and swallowed half of what was in the glass.
“What time is the guy from the toy company stopping by?” she asked.
Cal looked at his Rolex and said, “He should be here in about fifteen minutes, four o’clock.”
“Do you want me to stick around?” she asked.
“No,” Cal emphatically replied.
The tone that he used was a clear indication that Cal did not want Samantha to hear what they had to talk about. The two of them had an understanding between them. As long as Samantha was not privy to any conversations that may involve less than legal activities, she was shielded by attorney-client privilege. This privilege was not available when a third-party was present. It would also allow her to advise him as his lawyer.
Of course, Samantha knew exactly what the problem was with the toy company. The two of them had discussed it several times. But without Samantha being present at this meeting she could legally shield herself by claiming privilege and deny any knowledge of the problem. Or the solution.
At precisely 4:00 P.M. one of the household personnel interrupted the father and daughter. With her was Dane Cannon, Cal’s four o’clock appointment.
Both Cal and Samantha stood to greet Dane. The six-foot-four Cal always seemed to be about six-foot-ten to the five-eleven Dane. Seeing Samantha there took some of the edge off of the intimidation Dane always felt from Cal.
“Hello, Dane,” Samantha pleasantly said. She shook his hand and adde
d, “I'll leave you two to discuss whatever it is you came for.”
“You’re not staying?” an obviously disappointed Dane Cannon replied. Despite his marital status, Dane Cannon had a barely disguised thing for the beautiful Samantha Simpson.
“No,” she replied. “Sorry, but I have to go. Dad,” she continued looking at Cal, “I’ll talk to you later.”
When Samantha was gone, Dane politely tried to decline a drink offered by Cal. Ignoring him, Cal refilled his own glass from the ice bucket and bottle on the table. He then filled a second glass for his guest. Cal handed it to Dane, raised his glass in a silent toast and the two men clicked glasses together and swallowed. Unknown to Dane, Cal always measured a man, at least in part, by how well he handled his bourbon. So far, Dane Cannon passed each test.
“Isn’t that the Corwin Mansion a couple places down the road?” Dane asked referring to the estate of one of Minnesota’s leading families.
“Yeah, it is,” Cal grumbled.
“Have you met her?” Dane asked referring to Vivian Corwin Donahue.
“Couple times. Political events. She strikes me as a stuck up, phony bitch. And why shouldn’t she be? She earned her money the old-fashioned way. She inherited it. Why?” Cal said.
“Um, ah, just wondering,” Dane said wanting to get off the subject after Cal’s display of antipathy.
“Okay,” Cal said beginning the discussion, “Tell me what’s on your mind.”
A few minutes later, Dane had told Cal everything about the problem with the skateboard project.
“A less than one percent failure rate,” Cal said, a statement not a question. “And this engineer believes we need to scrap the whole thing and start over?”
“Pretty much,” Dane replied, taking another sip of the whiskey.
Insider Justice Page 1
