Gus had continued. “What I was thinking was you could fly to Hong Kong yourself.”
Bruce knew that one of them had to go. The painting was too hot for any domestic dealer or collector. The only market was abroad—a private collector, a crime family, a Soviet bloc or Third World leader. Somebody above, or immune to, the law.
“No way, Gus. You know that’s your job.”
“And I’ll do it, I told you, just not right now. If you want the money so bad, you go to Hong Kong. I can set it up with my guy there, he’s ready to buy. Otherwise, just wait a few months. Look, I sold the other paintings like I said I would—they paid for your fancy law school. But I need to lay low right now. I’ve got something planned.”
“What?”
Gus and Bruce had known each other since the second grade. Bruce had always been the dominant partner—stronger, smarter, better looking. Almost twenty years later, Gus still craved Bruce’s respect, even though he had known for three years now that Bruce wanted nothing further to do with him. He also knew Bruce would never rat on him, because Gus could simply return the favor.
“Gardner Museum. They got great stuff—Vermeer, Rembrandt, Degas—and shitty security. They use friggin’ art students as security guards. But I can’t risk a flight to Hong Kong before that. Even if they don’t catch me selling the Manet, it’ll just get them curious about what I’ve got planned. But hey, you want to come out of retirement? I could use your help at the Gardner.”
“Fuck you, Gus.” It had come out with a sharp edge.
“Oh, that’s right, you’re gonna be a lawyer now. Like that’s any better than stealing art. And I bet you’ve got some scam in mind, some kind of inside job at that fancy law firm of yours.” Bruce hadn’t responded. “Am I right? I mean, I can’t see you pushing paper for the next forty years.”
It had occurred to Bruce that the biggest problem with old friends was that they remembered too much of your past to be fooled by your present. Gus knew Bruce first and last as a thief, law degree or not, and there wasn’t much sense in pretending otherwise. “Maybe you are and maybe you aren’t, Gus. But you know the difference between you and me? I don’t steal for the fun of it like you do. You’re addicted to the high, you love the danger. Hell, you’ve got nothin’ to lose.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Bruce had regretted the comment even before Gus had spit out his response, knowing that Gus would take it wrong. Gus had spent most of the fourth grade fighting cancer. And winning. It was in remission now, but they both knew Gus lived with the fear that it might return at any time. Still, it had been 15 years, and Bruce was getting a bit tired of Gus continuing to allow the disease to govern his outlook on life.
“That’s not what I meant, Gus. It’s just that you’re not doing anything with your life. Maybe you want to be a thief for the rest of your life, but I don’t. Once I make my million, I’ll stop. That’s why someday you’ll get caught, and I won’t.”
Gus nodded, seemingly placated. “Well, Mr. Million, you better hope you’re right. Because my gut says you got no choice but to hop on that plane to Hong Kong.” He had flipped Bruce a key. “Painting’s in the same spot. I’ll expect my cut when you get back.”
And Gus’ gut had been right—Bruce didn’t have a choice, didn’t have a back-up plan for coming up with close to $10,000. He had been totally focused on the bar exam, confident that Gus had already fenced the painting and would be showing up any day with a wad of cash. And now there wasn’t time to plan and execute another theft.
So Hong Kong it was, risks and all.
There was a lesson here—trust nobody, count on no one. His boyhood friend had failed him, and might yet betray him. His parents were of no use—his stepmother treated him like a houseplant, and his father couldn’t even keep enough money out of her hands to lend him a few thousand bucks for a few weeks. Grandpa would have helped, except he was dead.
He tried to compose himself, tried to focus on what was rather than what should have been. He needed to get through this flight, then he could worry about changing his life.
He sat, stewing, for another hour, then strolled toward the front of the plane. Just getting out of his seat made him feel better. As he approached the bathroom, he noticed that a number of passengers had switched seats to move away from the stench. And there was a long line at the opposite bathroom. At least the money was safe. He turned around and went back to his seat.
Four hours to go. Dinner came and killed another hour.
A half hour later, they flew into another storm. The seat belt light blinked on. The plane rocked and pitched, rattled and shook. A few passengers shrieked; many others closed their eyes and gripped their armrests.
Then, with no warning other than a slight ping, the seat belt light disappeared. One hour to landing and suddenly the entire plane was swarming with passengers. Was one carrying a badge?
Bruce could smell his own fear wafting up from his armpits. He had a newfound respect for Gus—this waiting was sheer torture. At least during the actual theft you’re moving, rushing, scrambling. In and out in twenty minutes, then it’s over. But this was like being a fish in a bucket—either they shoot you or they don’t, but there isn’t a damn thing you can do about it. Except sweat.
He thought about Gus again. Maybe Gus wasn’t so stupid. After all, Gus was probably back in Boston recovering from a wild weekend at the Cape. Actually, that wasn’t fair—Gus could just as easily be volunteering at a children’s cancer ward. You just never knew with Gus. Bruce once saw him give a shivering homeless man the jacket off his back; another time he sucker-punched a wino who had staggered into his path. It all depended on his mood.
But wherever Gus was, he wasn’t stuck on an airplane with his entire future at stake. So who was the idiot? Who was the one who, after years of planning, could let a measly $10,000 ruin everything, when in a few years $10,000 would be pocket change?
Bruce shook his head. He was supposed to be the brilliant one. Gus would find the art, and Bruce would figure out how to steal it. The master problem-solver. These same problem-solving skills should have been applicable to problem-avoidance. Yet here he was.
The captain’s voice interrupted Bruce’s self-flagellation: “Ladies and gentlemen, sorry for the turbulence, but the good news is that the storm has given us a bit of a tailwind and saved us twenty minutes. We are now beginning our descent to Seattle. Please be seated.”
Bruce shook off his introspection, allowed himself a glimmer of hope. It would be too dangerous to try to arrest him now, during the descent. They were running out of chances.
The plane kissed the runway, then began taxiing toward the gate. Bruce edged his way forward toward the exit, one of a handful ignoring the crew’s request to remain seated. He ducked into an empty seat and turned, searching for a pursuer. If he saw anything suspicious, he would simply get off the plane and leave the money in its watery dungeon. But he saw nothing.
He pushed his way past the other passengers and walked briskly off the plane, then jogged to the end of the gangway. Nobody waiting for him. No sign of anybody following.
He muttered apologies, doubled back against the crowd and squirmed his way back onto the plane. He smiled at a flight attendant—“I forgot something at my seat.” She smiled back, nodded, then moved into the first class area. He slipped into the bathroom. He didn’t have much time—there were still many passengers making their way toward the exit, but he didn’t want to draw undue attention to himself by being the last one off the plane.
He removed a wire coat hanger from his carry-on, fished out the plastic bag, dropped it into the sink. He ran hot water over it. The toilet paper peeled away and Bruce grabbed the plastic bag and dried it off. “Money laundering,” he whispered. He again removed the rubber heel from his boot, placed the plastic bag inside the cavity, and, using the tube of super glue, re-attached the heel to his boot.
He opened the bathroom door and peeked out. Nobody waiting with handcuffs,
and still dozens of passengers waiting to disembark. He left a fifty-dollar bill for the person who would have to clean the bathroom, and stepped out into the front of the queue of passengers waiting to exit the plane. A few seconds later he squeezed through the exit portal a second time, then walked briskly through the gangway and headed toward the baggage claim area, careful not to catch his heel on anything. Still no sign of anyone following.
All he had to do was grab his suitcase and clear customs. He hoped his theory about the FBI not wanting to work with the customs agents was right. But even if it was, he knew that he was a walking poster child for law enforcement’s drug courier profile—young, male, and returning alone from a short trip to Asia. If he was searched, how would he explain a wad of bank checks hidden in his boot?
He found his suitcase, winced as he lifted it off the carousel. His cracked ribs hadn’t healed and he had skipped the pain killers out of fear they would make him foggy-brained. He dragged the suitcase to the customs line. Two customs agent stations freed up simultaneously.
Bruce took one step toward a young, attractive woman, then stopped and reversed himself. He moved instead toward the station of a stern-looking, middle-aged man. He would normally have chosen differently—the man was hardly likely to succumb to Bruce’s boyish charm. But Bruce had just watched the man complete a thorough search of a young couple’s bags and Bruce guessed that the agent wouldn’t search two travelers in a row.
Bruce handed the agent his passport and customs form, then gingerly lifted his bag onto the inspection belt. He thought about asking how the Mariners were doing, but decided it would make him look like a nervous young man trying to make conversation. He waited patiently while the agent methodically examined the papers, leaned heavily on his re-glued heal.
Finally the agent spoke. He smiled politely, but Bruce could sense the man probing, trying to read him. “Were you traveling for business or pleasure, Mr. Arrujo?”
“Job interview.”
The agent nodded. “What do you do?”
“Just got out of law school. I was interviewing with one of the banks in Hong Kong.” Bruce hoped that the combination of careers in law and banking would make him sound respectable.
The agent tested the story. “Wasn’t the bar exam this week?”
“A few weeks ago. Always the last week of July.”
The agent nodded again, glanced at Bruce’s suitcase. “Could you open that for me?”
Bruce complied.
“Interviewing, you say?”
“Yes.”
“With a law firm?”
“No, a bank.”
“Why no business suit?”
Bruce dug into the bag, pulled out a wrinkled grey suit he had found in a trunk full of Grandpa’s old clothes. It didn’t even come close to fitting him, but packing it in anticipation of this very moment was exactly the kind of attention to detail he prided himself on.
He held it up to the agent, then stuffed it back in the bag before the agent caught the moth ball scent. “Not reason to hang it—it needs to be cleaned anyway. I sweated like a pig over there.”
The agent scribbled a note and handed Bruce his passport. “Well then, welcome home, Mr. Arrujo.”
“Thanks.” Bruce smiled, lowered his bag to the floor, and turned to leave. He had made it.
“One more thing, Mr. Arrujo.” The agent’s words froze Bruce. There was a new tone, a clipped briskness in the voice. This was an order, not a request. Something had changed.
Bruce felt his muscles tense. He swallowed, set his bag down to buy a second to re-compose himself. He turned slowly back to face the customs agent. “Yes?”
CHAPTER 2
[August 17, 1989]
Shelby still couldn’t believe how many jerks there were in law school. Most of her classmates had been pretty difficult for Shelby to take when they had arrived at Harvard two years earlier—pompous, self-absorbed, narrow-minded. But now that they were on the verge of graduation, they had fully devolved. Into reptiles. The old joke wasn’t far off—a tragedy was a bus full of lawyers going over a cliff with an empty seat.
Worse yet, she had come to the sudden realization that her boyfriend, Barry, deserved a prime seat on that bus. She had fallen for him because he had been an idealist. He had believed in that whole Camelot thing from the Kennedy era that was still popular in Boston. Particularly at Harvard. Instead of just criticizing the system, Barry wanted to fix it.
Barry had written his college thesis on the problems of modern-day democracy. Late one night, after studying constitutional law with two other students, he had offered to let Shelby read it. Shelby had been both amazed at the clarity of his analysis and stunned that he had actually proposed a solution that made sense. Barry’s thesis was simple—democracy on a national level had simply become too large to be effective. Democracy still worked on the local level—for example, citizens of a small town debating the need for a new elementary school. However, in a country of over 250 million people, the voice of any one citizen was simply too small to make a difference. Shelby remembered Barry’s next sentence verbatim: “When no one citizen can make a difference, all citizens adopt an attitude of indifference.”
Barry’s proposal was to localize government as much as possible. He believed that government should still take an active role in society, but that it should be government at the local rather than federal level. It was an interesting combination of the Camelot-like “good government” beliefs and the Reagan administration’s efforts to downsize the federal bureaucracy.
The clarity of the argument had won Shelby’s mind, and the passion and idealism with which it had been written had gone a long way toward winning her heart.
Unfortunately, the bright-eyed Barry who had written that thesis and the bleary-eyed Barry who was now stretched out on Shelby’s couch shared nothing in common except dental records and fingerprints. Barry had spent the summer working at a law firm in Washington, D.C., and Shelby had noticed a dramatic change in his personality. It was as if his values and ideals had become fluid and gaseous, instead of firm and solid. He would now argue any side of any subject, regardless of merit.
And he seemed to enjoy it—argument as an intramural sport.
In fact, he was half-asleep on Shelby’s couch now because he had been up all night composing a letter on behalf of one of his clients—a letter that argued that highway projects should be decided at the federal rather than local level. It was a position completely contrary to the crux of his college thesis.
Shelby had just proofread the letter for Barry. She hoped she wasn’t overreacting, and she didn’t give a damn about highway projects, but she couldn’t stop her eyes from moistening as she read the persuasive words of the hypocritical man she once thought she loved. She dropped to her knees in front of the couch.
“Barry, listen to me. I don’t know who you are anymore. You’ve become this, this … mouthpiece. You’re incredibly bright, and they’ve taught you to be a great advocate. But where is your integrity?”
Shelby could sense that Barry’s anger was rising, and she laid her hand on his shoulder to quiet him, then removed it quickly. “Please, just listen. I’ve been thinking about this a lot. Just because you can win the argument doesn’t mean you should win the argument. You’re like a man with a gun—just because you have the tools to shoot someone doesn’t make it right to pull the trigger. It’s the same with advocacy. You have the tools to win any argument—you’re brilliant and well trained. But I thought you were different. I thought you’d first decide which arguments were worth winning, and only then go off and win them. But, lately, it seems like you’ll argue for anything, right or wrong.”
Barry was silent for a moment. Shelby could see that her words reached him, but only barely so. “Look, Shelby, that’s just the way the system works. Each side hires a lawyer, and each lawyer argues as well as he can for his client. It’s not the lawyer’s decision whether to make the argument or not; his job is just to be
an advocate. It’s up to the judge or jury to decide what’s right or wrong, not the lawyer.”
Shelby rolled away from him and sat with her legs crossed in front of her. “No! That’s not right! You can’t simply abdicate responsibility like that.”
“Look, Shelby, we’re only talking about a highway project here. I know you’re sensitive about it, but not everything relates back to your family’s death.” He paused for a split second. “At least it doesn’t for me.”
Shelby fought the urge to slap him. He knew he was losing the argument, so he hit her with a low blow. The ultimate advocate—win the argument, no matter what the cost. “You know what, Barry? You’re right. Everything does relate back to that for me. I happen to think it’s wrong that some asshole can polish off a pitcher of martinis, stagger into his BMW, smash into a car full of people at a tollbooth, and get acquitted. All because he can afford a team of high-priced lawyers who concoct some story about Chinese food and Listerine causing his high breathalyzer test! I happen to think that a system that allows that kind of result needs to be changed. Not bought into.”
“I don’t know why you’re being so emotional about this. I’m not the lawyer who got the guy acquitted.”
“No, Barry, you’re not. But you’ll get another scumbag out of trouble someday, and not lose a minute’s sleep over it. Maybe it’ll be some corporation that dumped toxic chemicals into a river, or some bank executive who lined his own pockets. But you’ll be the mouthpiece, you’ll be the hired gun. You’ve sold out, Barry. You’re not the person I fell in love with.”
“Come on Shelby, calm down. I really think you’re jumping to conclusions. You’re not thinking clearly.”
Shelby hung her head for a moment, took a deep breath, then stood. “This is not a debate, Barry. Your advocacy skills aren’t going to make me fall back in love with you.”
She walked toward the door, grabbed her keys. “I’ll be back in an hour. I think it’d be best if you were gone.”
[Boston Law 01.0] Unlawful Deeds Page 2
