3 Death, Taxes, and Extra-Hold Hairspray

by Diane Kelly

  The judge waved her arm dismissively as Daniel stood to rebut Ross’s argument. “I know what you’re going to say. Those churches are irrelevant because they’re doing the right thing with their money rather than using it to pamper their pastor, and therefore they’re not quote unquote ‘similarly situated’ to the Ark.”

  Daniel glanced back at the other attorneys at his table as if unsure how to respond. “That’s not precisely how I would have put it, Your Honor,” he said tentatively. “But yes, the churches noted by Mr. O’Donnell should not be taken into consideration because they do not have similar spending patterns to the Ark.”

  Trumbull shook her head before looking down at Ross. “I gotta give ’em that one, Ross.”

  Strike one.

  Ross tried another tack now, noting the number of churches that had had their tax-exempt status revoked after they’d engaged in proscribed political activities. Though these churches had lost their tax exemption for reasons different than our reasons for pursuing the Ark, I hoped the judge would make a broad interpretation of the law and use these churches as a basis for finding in favor of the IRS.

  “Tax-exempt status is intended to be a very limited privilege,” Ross argued, “offered only to those organizations and entities that are willing to comply with the attendant restrictions, Your Honor. When a church allows its leader to use its resources for personal luxuries, those restrictions have been violated, just as those churches that have engaged in political activity have violated the legal restrictions.”

  Ross called me to the witness stand. As I stood from the government’s table, both Nick and Eddie whispered words of encouragement, though Eddie’s “go get ’em, tiger” held far more decorum than Nick’s “give the bastard his due.”

  All eyes were on me as I walked across the courtroom. When I climbed into the booth, Judy Jolly jumped from her seat, pointed a finger at me, and shrieked, “Whore of Babylon!”

  Trumbull banged her gavel. BAM! She eyed her bailiff and jerked her head toward Judy. “Get that woman out of here.”

  Judy Jolly struggled to pull free from the tight grip the bailiff had on her arm as she was led from the courtroom. “Get your hands off me!”

  Her words only enticed a second bailiff to grab hold of her.

  Once the doors closed on Judy, Trumbull pointed her gavel at the gallery. “If anyone else pulls a stunt like that, you will find your butt in jail quicker than you can say ‘Hail Mary.’ Got that?”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Testify

  At the bailiff’s instruction, I raised my hand and swore to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. I looked straight at Pastor Fischer and loudly vowed, “So help me, God.”

  From the counsel table, Ross asked me to list Fischer’s personal expenses that had been paid for by the church and given rise to the IRS investigation. “My pleasure, sir,” I said to Ross.

  I raised the thick, stapled document in my hand so that those at the defense table, the reporters, and the Ark members could see it. The document was two hundred pages thick, documenting each and every personal expense the Ark had paid on behalf of Noah and Marissa Fischer over the past few years. Luckily for Nick and me, Viola could type a hundred and twenty words a minute and had assembled the document for us. Eddie had to promise her an extra vacation day in return, but it was worth it.

  The attorneys at the defense table had been huddled, whispering. Daniel stood now. “Your Honor, we object to this testimony. The case law involving churches that lost their tax-exempt status for violating the restrictions on political activity are not comparable to the Ark’s situation. The issue is covered at length in our brief.” Daniel motioned to the file sitting in front of Judge Trumbull. “If you’d like to take a look, you’ll see that the law is well established.”

  Judge Trumbull’s jowls tightened as her jaw tensed. She said nothing for a moment, simply staring at Pastor Fischer. Clearly, she didn’t like the man. But just as clearly, she recognized the law was in his favor.

  “Good idea,” she said finally, turning her attention back to Daniel. “I’ll take a gander at your brief while Special Agent Holloway tells us about the personal expenses the Ark paid for its pastor. If I decide her testimony about the expenses is irrelevant, I’ll instruct my court reporter to strike it from the record.”

  The angry faces at the defense table made it clear they didn’t like her decision. But there was nothing they could do about it.

  Ross stood again. “Agent Holloway, could you please read into the record a description of each personal expense that the Ark paid for Mister Fischer, as well as the amount?”

  “Gladly,” I replied. I looked down at the document. “Item one. Dinner for Mister Fischer and his wife at Bijoux restaurant. Three hundred eighty-four dollars and sixteen cents.” I looked up and shot a pointed look at Fischer. “Including the six-dollar tip.”

  Trumbull looked down at the pastor now. “You stiffed the waiter? That doesn’t sound like the Christian spirit to me.”

  Silly that he’d been so cheap, really, since it wasn’t even his money he was using to pay the food bills.

  “Perhaps his Christian spirit had been dulled by the spirits he had consumed,” I offered. “The bill includes a charge of ninety dollars for several glasses of single-malt scotch.”

  Trumbull glanced down at the defense table and raised an eyebrow.

  Daniel stood. “The small tip was likely a math error, Your Honor.”

  “Not likely at all,” I replied, looking over at Fischer. “The list will clearly show that Mister Fischer routinely left far less than the standard tip, even when the restaurant receipts showed no charge for liquor and he was presumably sober.”

  Daniel sat back down, realizing that pushing the issue would only make his client look worse.

  I continued on, the court reporter typing along on her machine as I spoke. “Item two. Two La Perla bra and panty sets purchased at Neiman Marcus. Two hundred sixty-seven dollars and thirteen cents.”

  The judge looked down at Fischer again. “Suffering a gender identification issue, Mister Fischer?”

  The reporter from the alternative paper snickered.

  Fischer’s face blazed, though his eyes remained icy. “That purchase was made by my wife, Your Honor.”

  “She can get a three-pair package of panties at Wal-Mart for $4.99,” the judge said. “That’s where I get mine. They cover my bum pretty darn well, despite its size.”

  Fischer didn’t respond, realizing the judge was goading him. I’d never seen Judge Trumbull act like this. Judges normally tried to appear as unbiased as possible. Then again, her salary was paid by federal tax dollars. She probably didn’t appreciate it when people failed to pay their due.

  While the court reporter typed her fingers to the bone, I continued on, ad nauseam, for nearly three hours, noting each and every personal expense the Ark had paid on Fischer’s behalf. Initially, Daniel objected to my testimony regarding a number of the expenses, arguing that some of the meals were church related since members of the congregation had dined with the pastor. But after I pointed out that only the Ark’s largest contributors had been invited to the dinners and Judge Trumbull overruled his objections, he eventually gave up and let me ramble on uninterrupted.

  Several of the Ark members in the gallery eventually left the room. Apparently my litany wasn’t nearly as fascinating as the self-serving sermons and laser light shows put on by their pastor every Sunday. But, then again, not all of us were born for show biz.

  A few of Fischer’s supporters who had openly glared at me when I’d taken the stand now bore bewildered expressions, apparently shocked to learn the full magnitude of personal expenses their church had paid for its pastor. Maybe next time they’d attend the Ark’s business meetings, they’d make sure they were better informed before jumping to the conclusion that the government was the enemy and their pastor was a saint. Still, I doubted whether any of them had the guts to take a st
and on the issue, to rock the boat and risk ostracism or retaliation. Yep, it would take a very brave person to point out that their beloved emperor wasn’t wearing any clothes—or, in this case, that he was wearing clothes paid for with misappropriated funds.

  When I finally finished, the judge, who’d been working a seek-n-find puzzle on her desk, asked if the defense would like to pose any questions to me. When Daniel declined, I climbed down from the witness box and returned to my seat at the counsel table

  The judge looked down at her court reporter, giving her an apologetic look. “Strike Agent Holloway’s testimony from the record.”

  The court reporter heaved a heavy sigh.

  Trumbull looked from Ross to Daniel now. “I’ve read over your brief, Mr. Blowitz. You win this one, too.”

  I wasn’t entirely surprised, despite the fact that Judge Trumbull had let me go on for so long. Ross had told us the argument was weak, the case law by far in Fischer’s favor.

  Strike two.

  “Anything else?” Trumbull asked Ross.

  Ross slowly stood and shook his head. “No, Your Honor.”

  “Mr. Blowfish?”

  Daniel stood. “No, Your Honor.”

  Trumbull looked down at Fischer, simply staring at him a few moments before speaking. “In all my years on the bench,” she said finally, “I have never been more sorry to issue a ruling than I am today. I agree with the IRS that all of these expenses were personal and should not have been paid by the church. But I’m sworn to uphold the law, even when I don’t like the results. The case law interpreting the Constitution is clear. The IRS has violated the equal protection clause by singling out you and the Ark when they haven’t pursued those other naughty pastors and churches, too.” She banged her gavel once. Bam. “Injunction granted.”

  The gallery erupted in shouts of “Hallelujah!” and “Amen!” Some of the people stood and high-fived each other. Associate Pastor Michael Walters was not celebrating, though. He sat quietly on the aisle of the fourth row, his expression troubled.

  Bam! Bam! Judge Trumbull banged her gavel again. “Quiet!” she hollered. She waved her gavel at the now silent gallery. “You people should expect more of your pastor. Why you let him get away with this behavior is beyond me.”

  Why did they let him get away with it? Because many of them, too, had benefited. Those in the room were the best heeled of the Ark’s well-heeled parishioners, the elite few whom Fischer allowed into his inner sanctum, the indulgers in the Christmas Cristal and caviar. Many had attended the expensive dinners with the Fischers at the city’s finest restaurants. Fischer’s exoneration probably gave them a sense of relief, too. Still, I was pleased to see that not all of them appeared jubilant.

  Tim Haddocks stood. “With all due respect, Judge, it’s not appropriate for you to make such comments.”

  Trumbull’s eyes narrowed at the former AG. Her nostrils, on the other hand, flared. “Are you telling me how to behave in my own courtroom?”

  Haddocks opened his mouth as if to say something else, then thought better of it and sat down. “No, Your Honor.”

  “I didn’t think so. Only an absolute moron would do that.” The judge looked down at her desk, signed a document, and held it out to me. “This is probably little consolation, Miss Holloway, but here’s the order to have the lien removed from your house.”

  I walked to her bench and took the paper from her. “Thanks.”

  “I’ve got to go pee now.” With that, she left the bench.

  Nick, Eddie, and I exchanged frustrated glances.

  At the defense table, Fischer stood, turned around, and raised his hands to silence his congregants who’d begun chattering again the second the door had closed on Judge Trumbull. “The judge’s decision wasn’t just a victory for the Ark Temple,” Fischer said in his best pulpit voice, “it was also a victory for God. Let’s bow our heads and thank the good Lord that justice was done here today.”

  I felt like I was going to be sick.

  Once the prayer had ended, Daniel stepped over to our table. “No hard feelings?”

  I looked up at him. “You were just doing your job,” I said. “It’s just too bad you do it so well.”

  He gave me a wry smile.

  Fischer walked over to our table then, smiling. “I’d like to offer a sign of peace,” he said, holding out his hand to Nick, his chunky gold bracelet reflecting the overhead light. “All is forgiven.”

  Nick stood and took Fischer’s hand. “Is it, now?”

  Judging from the grimace on Fischer’s face, Nick had taken a fairly firm grip. The two men shook hands, a glare of pure hatred like a laser firing from Fischer’s eyes despite the forced smile on his lips. The pastor nodded curtly at Eddie and me. “God be with you.” He returned to his counsel table, gave a quick wave to his team, and headed out the door.

  As the courtroom emptied, Ross quietly gathered up the documentation and packed the documents in his briefcase.

  Eddie stood, his cell phone in hand. “I’ll call Lu.”

  I looked up at him, grateful he was willing to take the heat. “Thanks.”

  He headed out of the courtroom to find a quiet spot from which to phone our boss.

  I sat with my eyes closed, trying to calm myself. I didn’t like losing, especially to such a flagrant scofflaw. Justice had not been served today. The Lobo wouldn’t be happy we’d lost the case. And I doubted God was pleased, either.

  You’re not happy about this, are You? I silently prayed. I know You work in mysterious ways and all that, but how could You let this happen?

  A deep voice whispered in my ear. “This isn’t over.”

  Was it God?

  No, it was only Nick.

  “What else can we do?” I asked, opening my eyes.

  Before he could answer, something pink with butterscotch-colored hair appeared in my peripheral vision. I looked up at Trish, fighting the urge to wrap my polka-dot scarf around her neck and strangle her with it.

  She looked down at me for a quick second, then tilted her head, smiling at Nick, and holding out her hand to him. Was it just my imagination, or did she also push her breasts forward? Her watermelons loomed over me. Oh, yeah. She’d definitely stuck out her chest.

  “Hi, there. Nick Pratt, right? I’m Trish LeGrande. From the ten o’clock news?” The lilt in her tone meant she expected Nick not only to acknowledge her minor-celebrity status, but to be impressed by it, too.

  Nick didn’t stand but he shook her hand, simultaneously shaking his head. “Sorry. I don’t watch the local channels much. I get my news on cable.”

  Ha! He’d slammed her. For me, I suspect. Yep, if I wasn’t careful I could fall hard for this guy.

  Cameras hadn’t been allowed in the courtroom, so Trish held out a tape recorder. “Any comment, Tara?”

  How about “Shove it up your ass?” I shook my head. “Nope. No comment.”

  She shrugged. “Whatever.” She slid the tape recorder into her purse and pulled out her cell phone. She offered another smile, the expression more a challenge than a friendly sentiment. “Do you want to let Brett know how things turned out, or should I?”

  She may not have hit me, but she’d dealt me an enormous emotional blow. I felt myself slump involuntarily.

  Strike three.

  Nick draped a protective and reassuring arm across the back of my chair. “Tara and I have some important things to discuss,” he said, looking up at Trish. “So if you’ve got time to contact Brett, I’m sure she’d appreciate it.”

  Trish tossed her head, looking from Nick to me and back to Nick, her eyes assessing the two of us. “Okay. See you.”

  When Trish had gone, I looked Nick in the eye. “Thanks for that.” My voice sounded as weak as I felt.

  “She’s not half the woman you are, Tara.”

  I held my palms in front of my chest, fingers splayed. “She’s four times the woman I am.”

  “Her chest, you mean?” Nick leaned closer in to whisper,
“I’m an ass man, myself. You’ve got her beat in that department.” He pushed my raised arms back into my lap. “Hands down.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  When God Closes a Door, Somewhere He Opens a Window

  Defeated and furious, Nick, Eddie, and I walked back to the office.

  “How’d things go?” Viola called from her desk as we stepped off the elevator.

  “We lost,” Nick spat.

  “Damn,” Viola said. “How’d Lu take it?”

  “Not well.” Eddie shook his head. “I hated to disappoint her in her condition.”

  “It’s not like you had a choice,” I said.

  “Maybe you could shoot the guy,” Viola suggested to me.

  I must’ve hesitated just a second too long because Eddie turned to me, put his hands to his head, and hollered, “Don’t shoot anybody!”

  “I’m not shooting anybody! Sheez!” Not that the thought hadn’t crossed my mind. “Who wants to hear Vi complain about the paperwork?”

  Nick and I headed on to my office. I plopped into my desk chair while he took a spot at the window, looking out on the late-afternoon traffic downtown.

  “What now?” I asked.

  “I don’t know about you,” Nick said, “but I could go for a beer or two. Or ten.”

  “Did I hear you say you’re going out for drinks?” Josh appeared in my doorway, his expression hopeful.

  Nick looked from Josh to me then back to Josh again. “Yeah. And you’re the designated driver.”

  Despite the fact that he’d have to refrain from alcohol, Josh’s face lit up. “Really?”

  “Bring all your gadgets,” Nick instructed him. “We may do some spying later.”

  “Cool!” Josh scurried off to gather his stuff.

  “You sure you want him tagging along?” I asked Nick. The last thing I wanted to do on a Friday night was spend time with Josh. Sure, the guy’s technical skills came in handy now and then, but overall he was still an annoying little twerp who never offered to share his Twinkies. He seemed to think Nick hung the moon, though, like a kid brother who looked up to an older sibling.