J.D. Trafford - Michael Collins 03 - No Time To Hide

by J. D. Trafford

  “Perfect.” He turned back to the truck. “In the morning, I’ll need you to drive the truck to a long-term parking lot near the airport. I don’t want Cheeto getting in trouble.” Michael looked at Andie. She was still asleep in the front seat. “Let’s unload, and once everything is out, I’ll wake Andie. I‘m looking forward to us sleeping in an actual bed.”

  “The upstairs queen is mine,” Kermit said. “I already did a little jelly roll in it, if you know what I mean.”

  Michael shook his head.

  “No, I don’t know what you mean.” He turned and started walking back toward the truck. “And please don’t share.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR

  Quentin Robinson was at the brownstone long before Michael and Andie woke up. He had claimed the office on the garden level, and he also appeared to have made peace with his decision to quit his job for a roll of gold coins.

  Quentin’s wife thought that he was going mad, but she reconsidered when Quentin told her that his student loans would be paid off and they could finally go on their long-delayed honeymoon to Hawaii when Michael’s case was done. Then, the idea of representing an old law school friend didn’t seem as crazy.

  Quentin drank coffee and pecked away at the computer.

  Based upon the information provided by Kermit, he researched cases similar to the allegations being made against Michael. He wanted to figure out what a likely sentence would be when Michael pleaded guilty.

  Kermit hadn’t said anything about Michael pleading guilty, but that wasn’t unusual. Nobody wanted to plead guilty. Everybody wanted to take their case to trial. But quickly the offers from the prosecutor would start getting worse and the client would eventually change his or her mind.

  Quentin called it, “growing into their guilt.”

  The case will settle, Quentin thought. Even the great Michael Collins will plead guilty. And then Quentin figured that life would return to normal. He would go back to practicing poverty law and living in poverty as is appropriate for any lawyer with a martyr complex.

  He looked up from his computer screen when he heard somebody come into the kitchen and start rustling through the refrigerator drawers. Quentin saved his electronic research-trail on Westlaw and got up. Quentin walked around his desk, and then went down the hallway to see who it was.

  “Mr. Robinson.” Michael smiled when he looked up from his bowl of cereal and saw his former study partner. “You drive a hard bargain, I hear.”

  Quentin walked over to the kitchen island where Michael sat, and he pulled out the barstool next to Michael.

  “I figure if I’m selling out, I’ve got to at least make it count.” Quentin sat down, and then extended his hand. “It’s been a long time.”

  Michael took Quentin’s hand and they shook.

  “Too long.”

  “Well, maybe not too long,” Quentin laughed. “I could’ve waited to see you under different circumstances.”

  Michael looked around the brownstone, feigning insult.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “This is a pretty awesome career opportunity that you’ve been presented with.” Then Michael pointed down the hallway toward Quentin’s new office. “And I bet you never dreamed of working in such a clean environment.”

  “It is clean.” Quentin thought of his cramped quarter-room on the third floor of the People’s Legal Center. “I’ll admit that. It’s the cleanest place I’ve ever worked.”

  ###

  Michael closed the office door, and he and Quentin started the interview. Within minutes, Michael knew that he had made the right decision. Despite the ponytail and the ill-fitting clothes, Quentin was going to be a fighter. More importantly, his friend was smart and cared about the outcome.

  Quentin started the interview with Michael’s basic personal background information: where he grew up, education, hobbies. Then he moved into Michael’s time at Wabash, Kramer and Moore, and eventually to the incident. That’s where he stopped. Quentin worked right up to the moment when Michael left the parking garage to drive Joshua Krane to Krane’s bank to retrieve the account numbers and passwords. He didn’t want to go any further.

  Quentin knew not to ask Michael whether he stole the money or whether he was guilty.

  When practicing criminal defense, ignorance was power. The truth about guilt or innocence limited options during trial and plea negotiations. Quentin merely needed to create a reasonable doubt, not prove innocence. Knowing the truth would only get in the way of that.

  Quentin needed to be free to poke holes in the government’s case. He needed to present alternate theories about what had actually happened to more than $500 million. Knowing the truth would ethically prohibit him from presenting alternate theories to the jury. In short, Quentin needed wiggle room.

  After two hours, Quentin finished a note on his pad of paper and looked up.

  “We’re behind.” Quentin made the declaration more to himself than to Michael. “The government has been working on this case for years. The amount of documents to review is going to be large.” Quentin shook his head. “I’m going to need some help. They’re going to have a team of lawyers and investigators.”

  “Wouldn’t be the first time you‘ve been outnumbered.”

  Quentin set his pen down on the desk, took off his round tortoiseshell glasses and rubbed his eyes. “I haven’t even seen the indictment.”

  “Neither have I,” Michael said. “But you know what it’s going to say.”

  Quentin glanced out the window. He took a minute to watch a robin land on the sidewalk, peck at something on the ground, and then fly away. “I’m not seeing a lot of ways out, Michael. I say that as both a friend and now your attorney. They’re going to have an electronic trail of money that leads right to you. That’s why it’s taken them so long to move forward. They needed to track the money.”

  Michael leaned forward in his chair. He lowered his voice, serious.

  “Quentin, I’ve got faith in you.” Michael waited until he knew Quentin was listening. Then Michael looked him in the eye. “When this is over, I’m going to walk away a free man.”

  Quentin’s lips turned into a smirk. “You know something I don’t know?”

  “Maybe.” Michael leaned back in his chair. “Or maybe I just have faith.”

  ###

  It was mid-afternoon when Quentin and Michael decided that they had talked enough for the day. Andie popped a bag of microwave popcorn and got some beers out of the refrigerator, and everyone gathered in the brownstone’s living room.

  They drank and ate junk food for an hour, and then the conversation lulled.

  Michael took a breath and said, “I think it’s time.”

  He stood and reached into his pocket and removed a disposable cell phone and Agent Armstrong’s business card. It was the card that Armstrong had given Kermit as Kermit had left the Immigration and Custom Enforcement’s interrogation room.

  Michael walked over to Quentin. He handed Quentin the phone and the card.

  Quentin hesitated.

  “You sure you want me to do this?” He looked at Michael, and then at Andie and Kermit, who were sitting on the couch.

  “It’s as good a time as any.” Michael turned and looked at Andie. “I’m not hiding anymore.”

  She nodded her head. They had already talked about it. Andie had questioned the plan, unsure of whether it would work, but in the end, she was supportive.

  Michael turned back to Quentin.

  “I’d rather I go in on my terms not theirs.”

  “But once I make this call, there’s really no turning back.” Quentin said. “And I’m not so sure I can get you what you want.”

  “He’ll agree to it.” Michael shrugged his shoulders. “It’s Vatch and Gadd that will break the agreement. They want a big show. They’re going to want a lot of cameras. They’re going to want the perp walk — me walking to a squad car with my hands cuffed behind my back. They won’t be able to resist, and that can be an out.�
� Michael smiled. “That’s also going to make this part a little fun.”

  “Okay.” Quentin nodded. He began walking back to the office, so that he could make the phone call in private. After a few steps, Quentin paused and then turned back. “Shouldn’t I be calling Agent Vatch, instead?”

  Michael laughed. “Hell, no.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

  Brea Krane sat across from Tad Garvin in the firm’s penthouse conference room. Typically Garvin would have an associate in the meeting with him, if for no other reason than to pad the client’s bill with the added expense of another attorney. But this meeting was different. This meeting demanded discretion as well as deniability.

  It was off-book. No record of the meeting would be kept. No bill would ever be sent. Garvin hadn’t even reserved the conference room, out of precaution that those records could be discovered.

  “So they think he’ll be in town tomorrow for the funeral?” Garvin tapped his pen on his notepad. He had the pen and paper to look professional, but he didn’t intend to write anything down.

  “That’s what Vatch told us,” Brea shook her head, dismissively. “But they won’t ever catch him, not unless he decides it’s time. Collins has always been five steps ahead of Vatch, and I doubt anything has changed.”

  Garvin set his pen down. He rubbed his chin, thinking.

  “Well, there are two other things that I needed to share,” he said. “First, your brother seems to be spiraling, again.”

  Brea knew exactly what Garvin was talking about. “Off his meds.”

  “Likely,” Garvin said. “Seems he made an unauthorized trip down south.”

  Brea tilted her head to the side. “Thought he looked tan for somebody who plays video games all day.”

  “Now you know why.” Garvin bent over and opened his large briefcase, removing several photographs from a file folder. He slid the photographs across the table to Brea.

  Brea looked down at the charred remains of the Sunset’s bar.

  “He always liked fire.” She looked at the photographs one more time, then pushed the photographs back to Garvin. “I’ll try and be nicer. See if I can manage him, maybe this might even work in our favor.”

  “You’re not going to bring him in on this are you?” Garvin was concerned.

  “Of course not.” Brea shook her head, and then batted her eyelashes, trying to ease Garvin’s nerves. “This is our deal, sweetie. Just you and me.”

  Garvin looked into the much younger woman’s eyes. She was playing with him. Garvin knew it, but he didn’t care. If Brea Krane asked him to leave his wife and spoiled kids, he’d do it in an instant.

  “The second thing, which is more important, is what arrived in the mail today.” Garvin then bent over and removed a bulky envelope from his briefcase. He set it on the table and pushed it over to Brea Krane. “Came this morning.”

  Brea picked up the envelope. She examined the postmark. “Mailed from the Cancun Airport,” she said as she opened it. “I figured he’d reach out to me.”

  “He doesn’t have many options,” Garvin smiled. His fake-white teeth glowed. “The bigger question is whether he has any money. The feds think they’ve got it all.”

  “The feds are idiots. Years have passed.” Brea reached her hand inside the envelope. There was a phone. She removed the phone and tried to find a note, but the rest of the envelope was empty.

  Brea set the empty envelope aside and turned on the phone. It vibrated, found a signal, and then a notification appeared on the screen.

  “Looks like I have a text message.”

  Brea pressed a button and a short text message appeared on the screen.

  “It’s a phone number.” Smiling, she looked up from the phone to Garvin. “Collins wants me to call him.”

  “It’s coming together.” Garvin nodded. “Sure, you still want it. I mean, you don’t exactly need the money.”

  Brea shook her head. She hadn’t expected Tad Garvin to fully understand; very few people did.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” she asked, setting him up.

  Garvin shrugged.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “There are risks.”

  Brea shook her head. “Do you think I’m rich?” Her tone and the question caught Garvin off-guard.

  Garvin started to answer, but soon realized that there was no way that his answer could not offend. He stammered for a for a few seconds, and then Brea put him out of his misery with another question.

  “How about this, instead: Are you rich?” Brea smiled at her lawyer. Tad Garvin billed clients like her more than $500 an hour. He made millions of dollars a year. Yet, she knew that Tad Garvin didn’t consider himself rich. He was merely a high-paid servant. No matter how much money he made, his clients were always wealthier. He was the advisor to kings, but Tad Garvin knew that he would never be a king.

  “I’ll help you out,” Brea Krane reached over and took Tad Garvin’s hand. A little flirt to soothe his feelings. She still needed him. When the trial was over, he’d be gone. For now, however, she needed Tad Garvin on her side. “You and I are not rich. The masses,” Brea gestured toward the view of the broader city from the conference room’s large window. “The masses think we’re rich. The liberals in Washington, D.C., think we’re rich. But we know that we are not.” She squeezed his hand.

  “We are simply enablers. We have just enough power to enable the truly wealthy to continue to do whatever they want with the world. We’re all the same, the middle managers, the junior executives, the vice presidents, the doctors and lawyers. We’ve been bribed by the system to keep the status quo. The truly rich let us own a nice house, drive a fancy car, maybe have a pool and a few vacations a year to some place warm, but we’re not truly rich.”

  Brea Krane let go of Tad Garvin’s hand. She stood up and walked over to the window, staring down at the life that circulated below. Then she turned back to Garvin.

  “My father was rich,” she said. “Truly rich. He and our family were on the Forbes list of wealthiest families in the world. His net worth when he died was $32 billion. Do you understand the difference between a millionaire and a billionaire? It’s the difference between owning a diamond and owning a diamond mine.”

  Brea Krane looked out the window at the city. She put her hand on the glass.

  “People like my dad could look at this city and buy anything or anyone that he wanted. He could buy that building and the building next to it. Cash. He could buy those ships. He could buy this law firm. He could walk into any store and buy the most expensive suit or piece of jewelry, and it wouldn’t make a difference. He’d still be a multi-billionaire.”

  Brea turned away from the window. Her eyes were fire.

  “When my dad died and the lawyers came in and seized our family’s money, all I had left was a couple million dollars from a trust fund. My brother didn’t get anything because his trust fund hadn’t vested yet.” Brea shook her head. “That’s what the government and Michael Collins stole from me.” Her face hardened. “So I’m getting every cent Michael Collins has left, whether it’s $1 or a hundred million. I’m entitled to that money. It’s the only way I can get back to where I belong.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY SIX

  The conference room jumped with activity. The team of FBI agents, attorneys, forensic accountants, and support staff were giddy with the news: Michael John Collins was turning himself in.

  “Don’t trust him,” Vatch tried to dampen their enthusiasm. “This guy has been running for years, and now all of a sudden he’s got a change of heart? I don’t think so,” Vatch rolled his eyes at Armstrong’s naiveté. “You’re being suckered.”

  “He knows he’s going to get caught sometime, and all he wants to do is go to the priest’s funeral.” Armstrong wasn’t going to allow Vatch to belittle his accomplishment. Armstrong wanted the credit for getting Collins. “I think it’s fair. His attorney said that he’ll arrive in the front. I can meet his car and I will personally walk
him inside for the service. When the service is done, Collins wants me to walk him out the back to a car to be processed.”

  “You’re a fool.” Vatch’s tongue flicked. “Collins wants to make us look bad, again. He’s wants to embarrass us.”

  “He doesn’t want a show,” Armstrong said. “That’s what his attorney told me. Collins just wants me. No SWAT team. Nothing else. If anybody but me shows up, the attorney said that Collins isn’t going to show.”

  Vatch shook his head and looked at Brenda Gadd at the head of the conference table.

  “You believe this? You’re actually going to go along with this?”

  “Well, your tactics haven’t exactly been successful.” Gadd paused, and the room was silent. Nobody was going to say anything until United States Attorney Brenda Gadd had finished her thought. “Perhaps there might be a middle ground.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN

  The news had to be false. Brent Krane opened the bottle of prescription pain killers, got two pills, crushed them, and then put the crushed powder in a small glass of water. “Down the hatch.” He picked up the glass and drank the clouded liquid in one gulp.

  He’d seen Michael Collins and Andie Larone burn. He’d lit the fire himself.

  A few drops of water rolled down the side of his mouth, but he didn’t care. He’d gotten the hit he’d needed. Brent took a breath, trying to convince himself that it wasn’t true. He told the crowd that Collins was dead, but they wouldn’t stop yelling at him. They reminded him that they had wanted to go back, but he had kept driving away. He was a coward.

  Brent Krane felt a wave of nausea, then a rush of pleasure that muted the crowd. The pills were twenty-four-hour time-release tablets, but crushing them meant that the full drug wouldn’t slowly enter the system as designed. Instead, he got all the power at once.

  Brent stood straighter in front of a full-length mirror in his bedroom.

  “You’ll see,” he scolded the crowd and puffed out his chest. “The cripple cop is a liar.” Brent Krane tried to make himself look bigger. I am getting bigger, he thought. He flexed his skinny bicep. I’m getting stronger, too.