“I couldn’t get no work. They say I gonna come down with AIDS if I don’t. What would you do?”
Thaddeus shook his head. “Probably the same thing. Or worse. Okay, that’s good for now.”
They shook hands and, when he was leaving, Bat was suddenly overcome. He hugged Thaddeus. And while he was hugging him he said, faintly, “Thanks, man.”
Thaddeus could only nod. He turned away and took the pocket square from his jacket. He dabbed his eyes and wished he had a tissue. He’d have to remember to order tissues. That was the thing about having your own business: everything came back on you. You need ink pens? Better order them because no one else is going to. Tissues? Same thing.
He walked back to his computer and made a paragraph worth of entries in Bat’s file. When he was done he was smiling. Now he knew how he was going to spring him free of the trap. Right now his paw was caught and the hunters were coming, but Thaddeus was about to change all that.
He was going to see him free.
39
The IRS, meanwhile, wasn’t standing around taking patty-cake lessons. The Special Agents summonsed his bank accounts.
Bank of America coughed up two years of Thaddeus’ bank statements, with checks and deposit slips.
Far West National contributed eighteen months’ worth of savings account records.
Fidelity Investments came across with 350 pages of investment records, everything from 401(k)s to investment accounts to SEP-IRAs.
Chicago wasn’t overlooked in the mix; Fifth Third Bank turned over five years of records, business and personal.
Then they went after the credit cards.
Agent Kroc was in charge of the living expense reconstruction; Agent Magence oversaw the bank deposit analysis. In the end they would know just about everything there was to know about the money passing through Thaddeus’ hands for the last several years.
During this hunting-gathering process, Thaddeus was copied on each summons that went to the institutions. The documents the banks sent back, however, he wasn’t copied on. So, while Thaddeus looked over his shoulder, Tubby Watsonn was accumulating the same documents. Then he was performing the exact same analyses they knew the feds would perform.
The Special Agents met in the windowless conference room consisting of a table, four chairs, and the President of the United States.
“Okay, here’s what I got,” said Kroc. “Adding the cost of living where he’s living, to the food it takes, plus car payments, plus all the rest of his monthly nut, it’s costing him $150,000 a year to accommodate his lifestyle.”
“But that could come entirely from the cash at his disposal in the bank accounts and investment accounts. He can live like that for the rest of his life and never earn another penny.”
Kroc looked thoughtful. “I thought of that. So I traced every dime that came out of any savings or investments.”
“And?”
“And he’s living totally off earnings during those years.”
She nodded. “Good. Now let me tell you about his bank deposits. Let me tell you the full skinny on those earnings you’re talking about. This will blow your mind.”
“Go ahead.”
Her workup was thorough. As always. “He deposited three hundred fifty thousand the first year. On his tax return he reported two hundred twenty-five K.”
“So he failed to report a hundred twenty-five grand.”
“Exactly. Which is a crime.”
“Did any of that hundred twenty-five come from savings or investments? That wouldn’t be unreported income if it did.”
She shook her head fiercely. “Zero. None of it can be traced back to savings, loans, or investment accounts.”
“That does it. He failed to report income.”
She smiled. “So he’s guilty.”
Kroc shrugged. “Unless he can make money out of thin air, he’s guilty. What about succeeding years?”
“Following year he failed to report a hundred fifty thou. Year after, two twenty-five K. We’ve got him by the short ones.”
He shivered. “I love this. I love it when a big dog goes down like this.”
“Which proves that he’s taking unreported income out of the casino to live on. In other words, he’s stealing from himself.”
“Which is legal. But failing to report the money he took, that’s a crime.”
“I rest my case.”
“We’re all but ready for trial.”
“We’re ready.”
She high-fived her partner, who, for a moment, wasn’t sure why she was raising her hand, and he flinched.
“High five, Kroc. We’re gonna put one Thaddeus Murfee behind bars. Let’s get a drink.”
“Can’t. Henry’s expecting me.”
“Tomorrow then. We’ll take early lunch and celebrate, one martini each.”
“We’ll see.”
“Jeez, Kroc.”
40
He went by Sparky, last name Burgess, and he had a paralegal certificate from the Worldwide Institute of Legal Training.
When Thaddeus asked where the hell that was, Sparky couldn’t say. It was some school he had discovered online. He had paid them $6,500 and it had taken six months. He had enrolled in property, civil procedure, criminal law, criminal procedure, bankruptcy, legal research and writing, and contracts. Plus an entire week had been devoted to nothing but torts. They sent him a diploma—which he brought to show Thaddeus—and he kept it in a fluted silver frame.
Sparky was tall and lanky, with a shock of red hair that he kept combed straight back from a widow’s peak. He wore wire eyeglasses with a bifocal line, spoke with just the hint of a lisp, and physically looked ready to rumble on a moment’s notice.
In a prior life he had worked for Panhandle Western Pipeline as a welder’s helper, moving with a maintenance crew through Texas, Oklahoma, Colorado, and Nevada, where he had decided he’d had it with traveling, sublet a studio apartment, and found Worldwide Institute of Legal Training online.
He had been turned down for eleven paralegal jobs, he admitted to Thaddeus, because he had no experience. But he had gumption, as he put it, and he would promise to always have Thaddeus’ back. All he wanted was a chance.
Thaddeus had résumés of better-qualified candidates on his desk, seven of them. But Sparky reminded him of himself when he was just starting out and no one would give him a chance.
“I shouldn’t do this,” Thaddeus scowled, “because I doubt if you really know shit, but I’m going to roll the dice with you. You’ve got six weeks on a trial basis. You’re not an employee during that time; you’re an independent contractor. Reason for that is I don’t want you suing me for wrongful termination at the end of six weeks if it doesn’t work out. Fair enough?”
“Hell, Thaddeus, you just made a bud. I’m here to give it everything I’ve got. When do I start?”
“Right now too soon?”
“Son, right now suits me just fine.”
“Good. Take the office next to mine. There’s a desk, a chair, and a computer. You’ve got access to Westlaw and Lexis. I want an analysis of all Nevada self-defense cases in the last ten years. Due tomorrow at noon.”
“I’m on it, son.”
“Knock yourself out. And quit calling me ‘son.’”
“Yes, sir. What should I call you?”
“Thad. I like Thad.”
“You got it. One other thing. Do I get paid?”
“Hadn’t thought of that. How much you need?”
“I can live on twelve an hour.”
“Then let’s make it fifteen. That way you can buy me a Christmas present.”
“You got it, son.”
Thaddeus gave him a long, hard look. “Get in your own office,” he growled. “I’ve got work to do here.”
“I’m already gone.”
He told Terey, the new receptionist, that he was headed to Tubby Watsonn’s office. Call and let him know he was running about thirty behind. Terey, who was fielding a
call, nodded and kept talking into the headset. Thaddeus rode the elevator down to the parking garage and unplugged the Tesla. Coming up out of the parking, he floored it and fishtailed into traffic.
“Tesla,” he smiled, “there is no other.”
* * *
Tubby Watsonn thought himself fabulous in canary golf slacks, $2,000 Gucci’s, and a linen navy blazer over a canary golf shirt, open at the throat.
He clenched a half-burnt cigar in the short, fat fingers of his right hand and poked it between his lips. He gave it a chew, inhaled, and blew a plume of swirling smoke across the desk.
Thaddeus leaned back and fought the smoke. “Jesus, Tubby, is the smokescreen part of what I’m paying for?”
“Naw,” said Tubby in his most accommodating voice, “smoke is free. Brain is seven hundred fifty an hour.”
“I thought it was five hundred.”
“That’s for people who can’t afford my true value. You, sir, can afford to pay for my very best and that’s what you’re going to get.”
* * *
Sparky wanted to talk. He had a few questions about Nevada criminal law. Thaddeus told him to come right on in. It was the second day of Sparky’s employment as an independent contractor and he was anxious to please. Plus, he thought he might have an idea for the Tattinger case.
“Billy A. Tattinger—”
“Bat,” Thaddeus said.
“This Bat guy presents an interesting case for us.”
Thaddeus shook his head. “Hold on, Sparky. I thought I told you I wanted a memo analyzing all Nevada self-defense cases. Why are we jumping over to the Tattinger case? I didn’t assign that case to you.”
“That self-defense memo is in your inbox, son. I sent it two hours ago.”
Thaddeus blushed. “I should check my email. Sorry. Now proceed with what you were saying.”
“Right. Well, I read through the Tattinger—Bat—file. And I’ve got a few observations. For example, the statute reads, ‘To constitute crime there must be unity of act and intent. In every crime or public offense there must exist a union of act and intention.’ Do they have that in Bat’s case? I mean, is there intention? Please allow me to continue. The next portion of the law says, ‘Intention is manifested by the circumstances connected with the perpetration of the offense, and the sound mind and discretion of the person accused.’ It just seems to me, since Bat had to have those meds to survive, he had no discretion. His physical need for medication for his body removed all discretion from his mind. And let me point out, the ‘and’ in that sentence is conjunctive. Which means there must exist both sound mind and discretion. If they ain’t got discretion on our guy, they ain’t got intent.”
Thaddeus grinned. “Now we’re getting somewhere. I love it.”
Sparky shrugged. “Stick with me, son, and we’ll make this work.”
“So I’m beginning to see. What else you got on this?”
“You put the defendant on the stand and you go into his state of mind. I believe you walk him out. There won’t be a dry eye on that jury when they hear about his predicament.”
“While you were looking over the file, did you review the police reports?”
“I did.”
Thad thought about this. “And did you read that the transfer of pot for money took place in the front seat of the narc’s car?”
Sparky nodded. “I did. So why was Bat in that car? Did the cop entice him? Was it entrapment? Or was Bat predisposed toward committing a crime, no matter who it was with?”
“Exactly. Now I’d like that officer’s statement.”
“You want to take his statement and set him up for trial?”
“I do,” said Thaddeus. “At the very least, the state owes us discovery on the case. The cop’s case statement should already be in that package.”
“Let me get to work on that. Nevada doesn’t give the defendant the right to take the cop’s statement. But maybe I can sweet-talk the D.A.”
“Now that would be something.”
“I’m pretty smooth, son.”
“So I’m noticing. So I’m noticing. Anyway, at the very least, get the discovery package. Then we can talk again. And Sparky. You’re very close to hanging on to this job full time.”
“We can talk, son, but I’m gonna need more money.”
“Really? I thought you said twelve an hour was enough to live on and I said I’d pay fifteen. What’s changed?”
Sparky looked at the desktop. “I met someone.”
“Oh?”
“She’s about my age and doesn’t have anything either. Just like me. We’re talking about getting a place together. She makes more than me and I don’t know that I can afford half.”
“How about seventeen an hour. Does that get it done?”
“Absolutely! So I get a raise?”
Thaddeus shook his head. “You don’t even get the job—yet. You’re still on probation, remember?”
“Oh, you’re not gonna want to let me go. I always give my jobs a hundred fifty percent.”
“I’m beginning to see that.”
Thaddeus went for the coffee thermos on the desk. “Want some?”
“I’m good.”
“All right, then. Beat it. I’ll read your self-defense workup and we’ll talk again.”
“Right.”
“And Sparky, excellent work on Bat’s case. I really appreciate that.”
“I figured he might be a favorite of yours.”
“He is.”
“With his priors, he’ll go to prison if you don’t walk him out of this one.”
“I know. We’ll do our best to get that done for him.”
Sparky excused himself and Thaddeus took his coffee mug to the window.
He looked across at the George Federal Court.
He could only imagine the wheels of justice grinding away inside, slowly, inexorably intent on putting citizens inside prison walls and early graves.
He envisioned Kiki strapped to the death gurney, and shuddered.
“Over my dead body,” he muttered. “We’re coming after you, Bat. Kiki. Just try to hold on a little while longer.”
41
It was the first time entertaining for Katy and Thaddeus. Kiki was invited, and they had told her to bring a friend, if she wanted.
She pulled the Bug in their circular drive at 6:15 and exited. With Matty Jones, floor supervisor at the Desert Riviera. He was also Kiki’s floor supervisor, last Thaddeus had known.
Kiki was in her early twenties. Matty had to be forty-something, Thaddeus thought as they walked up and rang the bell. Forget it, he had told her to bring a friend and she had brought a friend. Try to stop being the big brother for ten minutes and give her a little space. She had a good head on her shoulders and would do things her way, not necessarily his.
He opened the door and hugged his sister, shaking Matty’s hand over her shoulder.
“Welcome!”
“Thanks for having us, boss,” said Matty. “What a spread you got here!”
“Hello, big brother,” Kiki smiled. “You’ve done a ton with the place since last time.”
“Katy takes the credit. Here, let’s let her show you around while I work on the barbecue.”
“What’s cooking?”
“I know you won’t eat meat,” he said to Kiki, “so I’m fixing a tofu burger for you. I’ve also got salmon steaks, if you would prefer.”
“Meat,” she said. “Salmon is still meat.”
“Right. And for you, Matty, I’ve got a porterhouse. Memory serves, you’re medium-rare. Correct?”
“You’ve got it. Hey, you mind if I smoke out on the deck?”
“That’s no problem. Just get an ashtray from Katy.”
“Hello!” Kiki cried as Sarai toddled into the room to view the commotion. Seeing Kiki, she held up her arms and allowed herself to be hoisted up and kissed. “She really loves me!”
“You’re very lovable,” said Matty. “It’s no wonder.”
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They adjourned to the kitchen, took seats at the round maple table, and said hello to Katy. “Morel mushrooms,” said Katy. “Help yourselves.” She put a plate of breaded and fried morels on the table.
“What are they?” Kiki asked.
“Just taste them,” said Katy. “I wouldn’t lead you wrong. They’re fresh, by the way, flown in from our farm today. Albert sent them.”
Kiki and Matty chomped mushrooms and their eyes smiled as they swallowed and reached for another.
“Incredible, boss.”
“Oh my God,” Kiki exclaimed.
“I know,” said Katy. “And all it took was two thousand dollars in J2 fuel for the jet. Men.”
Thaddeus stepped up to the Jenn-Air range and moved tofu and beef around. He checked his watch. “What can we get you to drink? We have sodas, coffee, beer, and iced tea. Sun tea, made by Katy and ol’ sol.”
“Got any Coors?”
“We do,” said Thaddeus. “And Kiki?”
“Just Diet Pepsi or Diet Coke is fine.”
“I’m having the same,” said Thaddeus.
“Crack me a root beer, please,” Katy said to her husband.
Sarai peered out from under the table. “What are you doing under there, sweetheart?” her mother asked. “I was wondering where you’d disappeared to.”
Sarai took a quick look and disappeared again.
* * *
After supper they went for a walk around the neighborhood. They discussed the casino and its new owners, the law practice, and caught up on the latest gossip about mutual friends. At one point Thaddeus noticed Matty was holding Kiki’s hand, but he looked away, determined to mind his own business and keep his mouth shut.
After returning to the house, they settled into the family room for a movie.
“Up here,” Kiki said to Sarai, and patted the couch beside her. Just at her other side was Matty, as close as he could get. Obviously smitten, Thaddeus thought, and looked away, trying to ignore the closeness.
Attorney at Large (Thaddeus Murfee Legal Thriller Series Book 3) Page 19
