“That should do it.”
Andie shook her head in disbelief.
“It’s done.”
###
Kermit was now fully clothed, although his bowtie had been removed. He sat on the park bench across the street from the office tower. The world was more vibrant. A new energy radiated around him.
When Kermit saw Andie emerge, he stood. She had a huge smile on her face. He could see it, even though she was on the other side of the street. Andie ran toward him. She dodged a couple of taxis, made it onto the sidewalk, and then jumped into Kermit’s arms.
“Can you believe it?”
Kermit laughed.
“Senorita, I do declare that anything is possible in this chaotic world.”
“We have to let Michael know.” Andie hugged Kermit, again, and took a step back. “Brea Krane should be testifying soon.”
“You gonna tell her what’s going on?”
Andie shook her head.
“Nope.” They started walking down the street toward a taxi stand at a nearby hotel. “Even if I wanted to, she’s not answering her phone at the moment.”
Kermit shook his head.
“Figures. Got the money. No loyalty among thieves.”
“But we don’t need her.” Andie walked up to the first taxi in the line. The driver opened the door for her.
Before Andie got in, she turned to Kermit.
“If we didn’t get the documents served, we were going to get her to do it through Garvin, but it’s better this way.” Andie smiled. “The surprise will be real.”
Kermit clapped his hands. “You know, I don’t care what the judge says, I’m watching that go down, my lady. I’ll even wear my suit. I’ve got to see it.”
###
Andie, still dressed as a young associate, undid the top three buttons on her blouse and approached the blue coat standing in the hallway outside the courtroom.
“Excuse me,” Andie smiled. “I’m an associate attorney with Quentin Robinson.” She nodded toward the door. “He’s the defense attorney with the ponytail and glasses.”
The federal marshal’s eyes drifted down toward Andie’s chest as she talked. He caught himself, and then focused on maintaining eye contact with her.
Andie saw him struggle not to be a pervert, which gave her some power in the conversation.
“I don’t want to disrupt the proceedings inside. Would you mind passing him a note?” She took a folded piece of paper out of her pocket. “It’s nothing secret, just a note reminding him about supplemental disclosures.”
The blue coat took the note from her, unfolded the piece of paper and read it. What Andie told him was the truth. The note simply said:
THE DOCUMENTS ARE READY
“Please,” Andie smiled sweetly. “If it’s not too much trouble.”
The blue coat liked the attention, and so he agreed to give the note to Quentin. He turned, opened the courtroom door, and then walked down the center aisle to counsel tables.
Gadd continued her questioning and Judge Husk didn’t give the old federal marshal a second look.
The blue coat leaned over a wooden railing, tapped Quentin on the shoulder, handed Quentin the note, and walked away.
Quentin opened it, trying to read the note while still listening to Gadd’s questioning. He raised his eyebrows, a little confused. Then Quentin put the note down on the table and slid it over to Michael.
Michael read what was written on the small piece of paper, suppressing a smile. He turned around and looked for Andie in the courtroom, although he knew she wasn’t allowed inside. Then he closed his eyes in a quiet, silent celebration. He thanked Andie and Kermit, and he told Father Stiles that he just might be a believer, maybe.
CHAPTER SEVENTY FIVE
Gadd finished her questioning of the accountant, and Quentin took the rest of the morning with his initial cross-examination. There was a break for lunch, and then Gadd proceeded with a redirect and Quentin followed with additional cross-examination. The witness was finished by mid-afternoon.
Judge Husk let out a heavy sigh, and then turned to Gadd.
“Next.”
Brenda Gadd stood.
“Yes, Your Honor.” Gadd looked at the back of the courtroom. “The United States calls Brea Krane to the stand.”
At the mention of her name, the jurors perked up. This was going to be the first female witness, and so the men hoped that she might be attractive. This was also going to be one of the first witnesses who was probably not going to talk about bank accounts, electronic fund transfers, and the service of subpoenas upon foreign corporations.
Brea Krane walked down the center aisle. She was poised and confident, paying no attention to Michael. Brea walked up a few steps to the witness stand, was sworn to tell the whole truth and nothing but the truth, and then sat down.
Gadd’s initial questions were general: schools and hobbies. Then Gadd ventured into Brea’s relationship with her dad and her family. Quentin could probably have objected to the questions as irrelevant, but she was the victim’s daughter. He didn’t want to come across as insensitive.
Eventually, Gadd elicited testimony about how her father’s death had affected the family and Brea told a few stories, which may or may not have been true, and she even managed a tear.
The reality was that Brea barely knew her father because he was either working, managing various mistresses in multiple cities, or squeezing in a bribe to this government employee or that congressman. But because of all the lawyer shows on television, the jury expected some tales of love and sorrow. Brea Krane obliged.
The direct examination ended, and Judge Husk brought down the gavel. The jury was dismissed for the evening. Brea Krane’s testimony would continue in the morning. This time it would be Quentin’s turn to ask the questions.
Michael leaned over.
“We need to talk.”
“About the note,” Quentin looked at the folded piece of paper still in Michael’s hand.
“Yes,” Michael said, “and some other things.” He nodded toward Brenda Gadd. “Ask her again for any supplemental discovery. Tell her that you know she’s winning, but that you need more to work with.”
Quentin scrunched up his brow, rubbing his chin.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Just do it,” Michael was impatient, but was too happy to get upset.
“I’ve already badgered her every day, sometimes twice a day, for weeks.”
Michael put his hand on Quentin’s shoulder and gave it a squeeze.
“Trust me.”
###
Michael waited in the small attorney-client conference room, just off the back entrance to the courtroom and next to the secure elevator that led to the holding area. In his hand, Michael held fifteen typewritten pieces of paper.
There was a quick knock on the door, and then it opened. Quentin came inside the room and immediately saw the paper in Michael’s hands.
“What’ve you got?”
Michael looked down, and then handed the paper to Quentin. “I’ve been working on this for awhile. It’s Brea Krane’s cross-examination.”
Quentin glanced at it. “I know you’re trying to help,” he said. “But I think I can handle her cross-examination.”
Michael shook his head.
“No, Quentin. Things are changing.”
“Do I want to know how?”
“Not really,” Michael said, “but you’re going to need to be prepared.”
“For what?”
Michael smiled. He started to answer, and then he stopped himself.
“Read the questions and you’ll understand.”
Michael closed his eyes and thought of leaving New York forever, going back to the Sunset and his beloved ramshackle hut. He dreamed of falling asleep on the Point with Andie in his arms. He dreamed about being free, once and for all.
“Just read it, and we can talk tomorrow if you want before the start of court.”
“Anything else?”
“These questions only make sense if Gadd produces the documents.” Michael nodded. “I know she’s got them now. She just needs to dump them on you. That’s what I’m counting on.”
Quentin shook his head.
“How do you know this?”
Michael took Andie’s note out of his pocket.
“Because this says so.”
They both stood up, and Michael gave his attorney and friend a hug. He finished with two man-slaps on the back and pulled away.
“It’s time, my friend. It’s time.”
CHAPTER SEVENTY SIX
Gadd returned to the office after a quick dinner. She threw her suit jacket over the simple “guest” chair in her office, and then she saw the box. Gadd shook her head and muttered a few expletives to herself.
Walking around the desk to the other side, she pulled the box toward her. Gadd looked down and saw that the return address for the box was from Tad Garvin at Franklin and Uckley.
FU, she thought.
Then Gadd found a scissors, cut the tape, and opened it. Inside the box, there were probably a thousand sheets of paper. She closed her eyes, too exhausted to think, and then removed the cover letter. She was hoping it was for another case, but Gadd knew that it wasn’t.
The letter was from Tad Garvin, and the documents all related to Michael Collins and Joshua Krane.
Gadd put the lid back on the box and pushed it away. Then she sat down at her desk, logged on, and checked her email.
There was a message from an administrative assistant at Tad Garvin’s law firm. Attached to the email was a zip file, an electronic duplicate of the box of paper.
Gadd leaned back. In the olden days, she would have just ignored it. She wasn’t calling any more witnesses. She had submitted all of her exhibits. She wasn’t going to use anything in the box, because she didn’t have to.
In the olden days, she’d have pretended that it was never received and if somebody asked about it, Gadd would dismiss the paper as irrelevant (which it probably was) and duplicative of all the other documents that Tad Garvin had provided the government through the course of its investigation of Michael Collins.
Gadd leaned back in her chair. She stared at the box, rubbing her eyes.
She had a slam-dunk case. Michael Collins’ attorney hadn’t put up much of a fight, but Quentin Robinson had been persistent. He’d asked about additional disclosures consistently before the trial and during.
Gadd stood. She removed the first piece of paper of supplemental discovery. It was a six-year-old SEC filing related to a Krane Construction subsidiary. Gadd put the piece of paper back in the box, and then pulled another at random. It was a similar corporate disclosure. Then she pulled another and another. They were all the same.
Gadd sat back down. A jury trial was a grind, and she was getting old. She needed sleep, and she didn’t want to spend the night reviewing documents.
Gadd picked up the phone, punched in a series of digits, and waited.
After a few rings, there was an answer..
“It’s Brenda Gadd.” She took a deep breath, and then she did what any United States Attorney does: she exerted her power to make a subordinate’s life miserable. “Got served with a bunch of new disclosures in the Collins case. I need them reviewed so that I can disclose them in the morning. There’s probably nothing there, but it needs to be done. I’ll send them over.”
Gadd pressed a button on her computer while she listened to Agent Frank Vatch complain. When Vatch paused to take a breath, Gadd continued. “Since you’re so excited to get to work, I’m forwarding you the electronic file right now.”
Gadd forwarded the email she had received from Franklin and Uckley to Vatch.
“Call me if there’s a problem. Otherwise, I’ll send them to the defense early tomorrow.”
###
Vatch pressed the “end” button on his cell phone, shaking his head. He knocked on the Plexiglas separating himself from the cab driver in front.
“Turn around up here.”
Vatch knocked on the Plexiglas again.
“Gotta go back to where you picked me up.”
“You going back to work?” The Indian driver shook his head and tut-tutted. “No good.”
Vatch shoved the cell phone into his pocket and glared out the window.
“Got that right.”
###
Vatch flashed his card at the security guard and rolled toward the elevator bank. After thirty-five years, Vatch was familiar with the “my dick is bigger than your dick” game that was pervasive among the federal law enforcement “partners.”
In public, they were all on the same team. High-level elected and appointed officials populated inter-agency task forces with the goal of cooperation and information-sharing. They spouted platitudes about how they all had the same mission to protect the public.
But in private, nothing was done for a bureaucracy that had a different scramble of letters: FBI, ATF, CIA, NSA, TSA, UST, DOJ. You only belonged to one tribe.
There was really only one exception: United States Attorney Brenda Gadd. When she called, there wasn’t much choice. Despite being a woman, she had a bigger dick than almost anybody. She had the power to send Vatch to the file room for the rest of his career if he disobeyed her. It didn’t matter that she was DOJ and he was FBI. Everybody worked for Brenda Gadd.
Vatch reached out and pressed the elevator button. The doors slid open. He rolled inside, and they slid closed. A short trip up a dozen floors, and Vatch emerged into the deserted hallway. A motion sensor clicked. The office’s fluorescent lights flicked to life.
Vatch rolled past the cubicles to his small office. He spun around to the other side of his desk and turned on his computer.
He pressed a few buttons and opened his email. The message from Brenda Gadd waited for him. He clicked the attachment and the computer froze, thinking about how to handle the massive file.
A few seconds passed, and then the computer flashed. A list of six hundred separate, imaged documents popped up, over a thousand pages.
Vatch clicked the first one and started to work.
CHAPTER SEVENTY SEVEN
Vatch was about thirty percent through the documents after two hours. He had to admit that he wasn’t looking particularly closely at any of them. They were all mostly SEC disclosures or some other corporate report. Once Vatch reviewed the first page, he’d quickly scan through the rest and move onto the next.
There was nothing new.
Vatch had seen most of the documents before. They appeared to be duplicates of past disclosures. Perhaps Tad Garvin had merely sensed the end of the case and wanted to squeeze out a few more billable hours by making up some work for his law firm.
Vatch clicked to the next file. A new document popped up on his computer screen, and then his cell phone rang.
He dug into his pocket, got the phone, and answered.
“Yeah.”
He had half-expected it to be Brenda Gadd, checking on him. But it was Anthony’s mom. She rarely called unless there was trouble.
“Slow down,” Vatch listened. “Is he hurt?”
She rambled. Anthony’s mom sounded drunk or high or both.
“Wait a second,” Vatch closed his eyes. He tried to be patient as Anthony’s mom talked in circles. “Listen to me, okay? Slow down. Where is he?”
She strung a coherent answer together. Vatch nodded. His chest tightened. It was the phone call that he had been expecting for months.
“Well, I can’t do anything for a few more hours. I’m still at work.”
She cried harder and screamed at him, something about losing her baby boy.
“Just wait.” Vatch turned off the phone, put it away, and tried to refocus on the documents.
He reviewed another three. They were more of the same. Then he looked at another half-dozen, and then finally he couldn’t take it anymore. He couldn’t concentrate.
For
nearly five years Vatch had hunted Michael Collins. He had stayed with the case, even when others had told him to stop.
When Agent Pastoura had died in an alley, she didn’t have backup because of him. Vatch couldn’t get out of the car on his own to help her, and so he had to pay off that debt, make amends. Now the Collins case was over. He needed to move on. He needed to care for himself and the only other person that meant anything to him.
Vatch took out his cell phone. He pressed the “call log” button, and the phone number from Anthony’s mother was listed at the top of incoming calls. He pressed another button, and waited for her to answer.
“It’s me.” Vatch looked at the computer screen. He shook his head, clicking the document viewer closed. “Be there in fifteen minutes. Don’t answer the door unless it’s me. Don’t talk to anybody else. Don’t let Anthony call or talk to anybody. Nobody. Don’t do anything. Don’t let anybody inside without a warrant.”
Vatch ended the call. Then he logged off and shut the computer down.
###
There was confusion and too much activity in the neighborhood. Vatch stared out the window of the cab as the cab driver wound his way around police detours. There were small crowds of people — huddled and sharing gossip.
Two NYPD cruisers blocked an intersection near his apartment. The street corner was lit up by large, temporary lamps on poles, like the kind that photographers use on photo shoots. Vatch, however, knew what these lamps illuminated. He knew what the cops were all staring at, even though he couldn’t see it.
“Doesn’t look good.” The cab driver pointed. He pulled over in front of the apartment building.
Vatch took out a twenty, handed it to the driver, and then waited for the driver to get out of the cab and fetch his wheelchair out of the trunk.
The cab driver unfolded the wheelchair. He put the brake on, and then opened the back, passenger door. “You need any help?”
J.D. Trafford - Michael Collins 03 - No Time To Hide Page 21
