by S. D. Thames
David skimmed the four-page purchase agreement and noticed all the standard terms. “The buyer was XCLP as trustee for the GS7900 trust?”
“They wanted to take title in the name of a trust. That’s why the check was made out like that.”
“XCLP. Xerxes Capital, LP.”
“And take a look at this.” Justin took the document back and flipped it open to the signature page. “See anything notable there?”
David checked it out, but didn’t recognize any of the names. “What am I looking for?”
“No, here.” Justin pointed to the footer of the document. “That look familiar?”
David’s heart sank as he recognized the footer. HA-XXX-11016. “That’s our footer.”
“Exactly, drafted by someone at Hollis & Alderman.”
David sat stunned. “You never talked to anyone at the firm during the sale?”
Justin shook his head.
“You didn’t know anything about this?” David said.
“Not at all. Didn’t even notice the footer until I was canned.” Justin caught his breath. “And see the date it was signed?”
“Two weeks before the fire.” David’s thoughts were still spinning.
“Pretty fortuitous, don’t you think?”
“So they paid eleven million, and a month later get paid twenty. Not a bad investment.”
Justin finished his beer.
“So why did you get the blame for this?” David asked.
“Because someone had to. And I never confirmed in an email that this was my boss’s decision. He lied. Threw me under the bus. Told the board I sold the loan without his approval.”
David looked at the signature page again and saw Justin’s signature. “Just business, eh?”
“Makes you wonder, doesn’t it, about who really set the fire?”
David didn’t even want to think about that right now. “This explains a lot,” he said. “Why the insurance company doesn’t know what to do with this case.” And why Vasquez had been running around like a decapitated chicken for the past six months.
“I wouldn’t know what to do with it either,” Justin said. “But I can see why they’d want to cut their losses.”
“Just like the bank did.”
Justin nodded as he finished his beer. Then, he turned to David. “What about you?”
“What about me?”
“When are you going to cut your losses?”
The next morning, David beat the staff and the rising sun to the office. He searched the firm’s database for drafts of the purchase agreement or any related emails. He was looking for any indication of who authored or emailed the agreement—or more importantly, who opened the client file—but he found nothing. If the firm was holding secret documents for Xerxes Capital, there was only one place they would be stored: in Alton’s locked walnut cabinet.
David didn’t give Beatrice time to turn on her computer and remove her jacket before he asked her what time Alton would be in. “I haven’t seen him all week,” he said.
She nervously scanned the hallway. “He’s had meetings. Plus, you’ve been in trial.”
“I need to talk to him.”
“I will let him know. You can always email him.”
“Tell him I need to meet. Tonight.”
She started typing, clearly hoping David would walk away.
“And one more thing.”
“Yes?” she said impatiently.
“I need to know about a firm client, XCLP, or Xerxes Capital, LP. Does either name mean anything to you?”
“Why do you ask?” she said with her best poker face.
“I need a conflicts search run on them. They’re adverse to a potential client.”
“Who’s the potential client?”
“It doesn’t matter, Beatrice. I just need to know if there’s a conflict.”
“You know they’ll want to know who the client is.”
“Just run the damn search already!” His scream echoed through the empty hallway.
Amidst all his fretting over Xerxes Capital and the escrow records, David had nearly forgotten who was taking the witness stand today: Fire Marshal Al Ashcroft. David knew Ashcroft wouldn’t testify that Frank had anything to do with the fire, but he wasn’t sure that would do them any good. His deposition testimony had been consistent with his office’s investigation findings: his office had suspicions that the fire was not accidental. While Vasquez could prove that Ashcroft believed the fire was caused by arson, David would not be allowed to tell the jury that Frank was never arrested in connection with the fire. Under Florida law, Vasquez’s client could have its cake and eat it too.
When Vasquez announced Ashcroft as the plaintiff’s next witness, the jurors’ heads swung toward the double doors, and Ashcroft promenaded into the courtroom, clad in his formal uniform, his face glowing red like he’d been in the sun all his life.
Frank nudged David and whispered, “This should be good.”
David retreated at the smell of Frank’s smoky morning breath. “Act like you care, Frank, even if you don’t,” he whispered back.
Vasquez cleared his throat while he reviewed his notes on the lectern. “Fire Marshal Ashcroft, please introduce yourself to the jury.”
“I’ve been the fire marshal in Gaspar County for twenty-nine years, and fighting fires since I was old enough to vote.” Ashcroft’s answers rolled off his tongue like the politician he was. His voice was strong and confident enough to narrate commercials—a friendly, old-fashioned voice, more suited to radio than television. Within thirty seconds it was clear that Fire Marshal Ashcroft had the respect of everyone sitting on the jury.
He certainly had more than that from juror five, David noted. Ms. Ida McCormick, the eldest juror, was a native Floridian. She beamed at the sight of this stately man touting the highlights of his illustrious career, first as a firefighter, fighting the infamous fire that burned down Gaspar Elementary in 1967, through the prominent elected position he’d held for the past fifteen years.
“In all, I’ve overseen the investigation of three thousand fires during my career,” Ashcroft explained. He wiped his bald brow in a polite, deferential way. David thought Ms. McCormick might swoon.
“Three thousand fires,” Vasquez repeated with feigned admiration. “And many of those involved allegations of arson?”
“Absolutely,” Ashcroft said.
“And you oversee criminal investigations as well?”
“I do. My office often works with the Florida Department of Law Enforcement.”
“Mr. Ashcroft, you’re familiar with the fire that destroyed the south tower of the Regency Gaspar Towers in August of 2008?”
Ashcroft nodded. “I am. My office investigated its cause and origin.”
“After your investigation, your office concluded that it was most likely caused by arson?”
Ashcroft glanced in David’s direction. “That was our initial conclusion, yes.” Something about his pronunciation of “initial” grabbed David’s attention.
Frank leaned over and whispered, “He said initial conclusion.”
David nodded, but kept his attention on the witness. Vasquez was taking a long pause, probably considering whether to clean up that word—“initial”—that lingered in the courtroom like the smell of a diaper that needed changing.
“Chief Ashcroft, please explain to the jury why that was your conclusion.”
Ashcroft leaned forward and faced the jury. “Explosions of that magnitude usually do not occur accidentally, especially within a building—especially a new building. And our initial investigation revealed no accidental causes of the fire.”
There it was again. Maybe Ashcroft was just being precise, but it sure felt like he was inviting David to question him on it.
Apparently Vasquez was torn about the word, too. He took a deep breath at the podium. “So you found no evidence that the fire was accidental, is this right?”
“That was our initial conclusion.�
� This time, Ashcroft looked David dead in the eyes.
“That’s all I have for now, Judge.” Vasquez tried to exude confidence, but his hue was a shade paler than when he’d begun the examination.
“Thank you, Mr. Vasquez. Does the defendant wish to question this witness?”
“We do,” David said as he stood and carried his notes to the lectern. He had planned to cross-examine Ashcroft with the defendant’s expert report, written by a hired gun who for five hundred bucks an hour gladly opined that the fire was caused by the faulty gas line under the Towers. But before he got to the technical evidence, he wanted to clear the air of something. “Captain Ashcroft. You’ve referred several times today to your initial conclusion and your initial investigation.”
Ashcroft nodded and smiled. “Yes, sir, I have.”
“Have you revised your opinion in any way since conducting your initial investigation?”
“I have,” Ashcroft said.
The courtroom was quiet—afraid-to-wake-a-sleeping-baby quiet.
“And how so?” David’s stomach felt like he was trapped in a carnival spinner. A collective held breath sucked the air out of the courtroom. Even inspector Ashcroft seemed to be fighting off a wheezing spell.
“I have concluded,” Ashcroft paused momentarily, “that our initial opinion was wrong.” Judge Cox sat up attentively.
David couldn’t speak. He felt Frank smirking, told you so.
Ashcroft continued without waiting for another question. “So I reviewed the expert reports, and I realized that we had missed something in our investigation. There was a construction defect in the gas line. We should have seen that during our investigation. It was plain as day.”
David cleared his throat. “So you now agree that the fire was accidental?”
“That’s right. The gas line.”
David paused, making sure he’d heard correctly. Then he glanced back at Terry, who gave him a quick thumbs-up. “No further questions.” He could have used a wheelchair to get him back to his seat.
Judge Cox leaned in Vasquez’s direction with a hint of amused pity. “Any redirect, Mr. Vasquez?”
Vasquez stood, took a deep breath, and thanked the judge. He was trying to play it cool, but everyone in the courtroom had just watched his case fall off the tracks and go up in flames.
“Captain Ashcroft, when did you realize that your opinion was wrong?” he asked in a defeated voice.
“When I had an opportunity to review the expert report of the defendant.”
“And when was that?” Vasquez asked.
“Last month, I suppose.”
“So that was after your deposition in this case?”
Ashcroft nodded.
“And how did you obtain a copy of that report?”
Ashcroft glanced at David again. “The defendant’s counsel provided me with a copy.”
“And when you refer to defendant’s counsel, do you mean Mr. Friedman sitting here?” Vasquez pointed to David.
Ashcroft took a slow look at David and then nodded his head. “Yes. He provided me with it.”
David wanted to stand and correct this on the record. He’d never provided Ashcroft or anyone at his office with their expert report. But how could he? Ashcroft had gutted Vasquez’s case. Nothing Vasquez’s expert said now would have any credibility. David sat back, wondering where the lies began and where they ended.
“So you just accepted their report as true?” Vasquez might as well throw his notes away now.
“Of course not. I went back and reviewed the evidence. In my professional opinion, they—that is, the defendant’s expert—got it right.”
Vasquez looked like he’d like to get under the table and open a bottle of booze. “So you were wrong then, but now you’re right?”
“Yes.”
“Isn’t it just as likely that you’re wrong now and were right then?”
Bad question, David thought, and the look on Vasquez’s face said he knew it was too.
“I believe this, what I testified to today, is the correct conclusion,” Ashcroft explained.
“But Mr. Ashcroft, the state investigators … Isn’t it their job to get it right the first time?”
“Absolutely, but it’s also our duty to admit when we make a mistake. And here we made a mistake.”
“Now, Mr. Ashcroft. You are over sixty years old, are you not?”
“I am.”
“You’ll be retiring at the end of next year?”
“That’s correct.” Ashcroft glanced at the jurors with a look of insult.
“So it’s fair to say, you’re not as sharp as you used to be?”
The jurors made a collective frown at this line of questioning, but there was a distinct scowl on the face of Ms. Ida McCormick, juror five, who happened to be sixty-five years old.
Ashcroft smiled with humility. “That’s probably true, Mr. Vasquez. And that very well might explain my initial error. But I think we’ve got it right. And I asked two of my junior investigators, very sharp guys, to take look at it, too. They’re both younger than you, Mr. Vasquez, and they both agreed.”
Vasquez stared at defeat, and then at the judge. “Your Honor, I move to strike the last response on grounds of hearsay.”
“You’re welcome to call them,” Ashcroft said with a damning smile. “They’ll tell you the same thing.”
David stood to respond to the objection, but Judge Cox ruled on his own. “Overruled.”
David took a seat. It was obvious the jury loved this; they were getting their money’s worth for skipping work this week.
Vasquez leaned over the lectern, trying to salvage whatever scraps of the case he could. “Fire Marshal Ashcroft, did you receive any compensation or promise of compensation from the defendants in consideration for the profound change in your opinion in this case?”
Good question, David thought. Just not for trial.
Ashcroft crossed his arms and reclined in his seat. “Mr. Vasquez, that is the most ridiculous question I have ever been asked. I am a public official. I could care less who prevails in this lawsuit. I only want justice to be done. I am more than willing, indeed it is my professional duty, to admit when I am wrong about a conclusion. And I freely admit that my initial conclusion in this case was in error. For you to accuse me of criminal behavior because of my opinion … well, I guess nothing surprises me anymore.” Ashcroft smiled apologetically at the jurors. They all smiled back.
Vasquez stared at his notes. He seemed afraid to touch them, as though they were on fire. “Your Honor, I have no further questions for this witness.”
As David waited for the next witness, he realized that this was no longer his trial. He slowly turned to Frank, who was grinning like a teenage boy after his first time getting to second base. Frank leaned close.
“I told you it would be good.”
That evening, David returned to the office following an afternoon during which things did not improve for Victor Vasquez and Continental Assurance Company. After Ashcroft’s testimony, David was easily able to decimate the plaintiff’s arson expert during cross-examination. The jury seemed to sleep through the rest of the afternoon, and juror number five made it a point to scowl at Vasquez any time their eyes met. David knew he was winning this case, but the farther the trial went, the less he wanted anything to do with it. He approached Beatrice as she was shutting her computer down for the evening. “What did you find out?”
Before she could answer, he felt a hard succession of pats on the back.
It was Terry. “I stopped by for your cross of their expert this afternoon. You killed him, kid. You killed him.” He glanced at Beatrice. “He killed him, Beatrice.”
She smiled, something she’d never done for David. “Good afternoon, Mr. Jenkins.”
“Is Alton around?” Terry asked.
“He’s out this afternoon.” She glared at David to make sure he’d heard that too.
“Tell him I stopped by,” Terry said. Then to David, “
Drop in before you leave tonight.”
“I’ll try,” David said. After Terry left, David stood over Beatrice. “What did you find out about Xerxes Capital?”
“A file was opened,” she whispered. “That’s all I can tell.”
David felt like he’d been sucker punched. As much as he’d known it was true, he didn’t want it to be. “When did they become a client?” he asked.
“In January.”
“Of?”
“This year, 2008.”
Just as David expected: when Steve Salvo and Dan Chase had been in town. “Who opened it?”
“I can’t tell you. I don’t know. It’s a confidential file.”
“A confidential file?”
“Yes. He opens them from time to time.”
“Who does?” David asked.
“Mr. Holloway, of course. Only he can open a confidential file.”
“Where is he, Beatrice?”
Beatrice shook her head. “I’m not getting fired for you. You can—” she stopped herself from cursing and took a deep breath. “Good night, Mr. Friedman.”
David plopped down in his office. The place seemed bare right now. Everything seemed bare. The county fire marshal, a man respected more than God in Gaspar County, had just lied on the witness stand about David providing him with an expert report that all but exonerated David’s client. And David had done nothing to correct the lies.
His phone rang. He wasn’t surprised to see who was calling.
“Where the hell did you go?” Vasquez asked. “I wanted to talk, but you were gone when I turned around.”
“I had to take care of something at work.”
Vasquez chortled. “Well, I got to hand it to Fire Marshal Al Ashcroft. He wasn’t afraid to admit he’d changed his mind. I guess he’s going to be set up for his retirement.”
“What do you want, Victor?”
“I think you know what I want. Why don’t we talk about this over a drink?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
David found Vasquez right where he’d said he would be waiting, at the bar in his hotel—the same Hilton where David first met Frank O’Reilly. Vasquez wore the same suit he’d had on at trial today, but he’d lost the tie and top few buttons. His relaxed demeanor said the trial was all but over for him.
