They had made plans to go out again Friday night, but Bruce hadn’t yet decided where. He was convinced that women over the age of 25 dated for one reason—to interview potential husbands. During this process, they were looking for three things: financial security, romance and good parenting skills. Bruce therefore tailored his dates accordingly.
The Swan Boat ride demonstrated Bruce’s romantic side. That left parenting and money. He decided on a trip to the Children’s Museum. He would take off his suit jacket and blow bubbles with the kids in the giant bubble display, then look up to see Marci reading the words “good father” inscribed on his forehead. And from the Museum they would go to Maison Robert, one of Boston’s most elegant restaurants.
Social plans set, Bruce pulled out his list of firm clients. On his first day at the firm, Bruce reviewed the firm client list and highlighted all of the clients that were either large institutions or were plaintiffs being represented by the firm on a contingency basis. These clients’ cases were the ones Bruce wanted to work on, not because they were necessarily interesting or challenging but because they afforded Bruce the most obvious opportunities for creative billing. Large institutions seemed never to question their bills, and plaintiffs being represented on a contingency basis were never billed at all. These types of clients would allow him to continue billing the quota of hours demanded by the firm, even if his personal business made it preferable for him to spend large chunks of time outside the office.
Bruce’s secretary interrupted his reflections. “There’s a Pierre Prefontaine on the line for you. He says he met you at a foreclosure auction yesterday.”
* * *
Pierre waited while Bruce’s secretary connected the call, then he heard Bruce’s friendly, upbeat voice. “Bruce Arrujo speaking.”
“Hi, Mr. Arrujo, my name is Pierre Prefontaine. I met you at the Queensberry Street foreclosure auction yesterday.”
“Of course, Pierre. What can I do for you?”
Pierre summarized Howie’s situation. “Now Howie has changed his mind and wants to back out. I told him I would try to find an attorney to look at the contract for him. Can you do it?”
“I’d be happy to try. But why doesn’t he want to buy the property?”
“To be honest, he’s getting nervous about the real estate market. He’d rather save his money for other deals after the prices come down.” Pierre left out his own role in Howie’s sudden conversion from bull to bear—he saw no need to further publicize his disloyalty to his “client,” the property’s seller. In fact, he probably should not have agreed even to make this phone call to Bruce.
“All right. Why don’t you send me over a copy of the Purchase and Sale Agreement, and I’ll take a look at it.”
“Howie has a fax machine at work. I’ll have him fax it over to you.”
Bruce gave Pierre the fax number. “Pierre, should I call you or Howie after I’ve reviewed the agreement?”
Pierre smiled to himself—Bruce was aware that Pierre was being disloyal to his “client,” and was being sensitive to the issue. “You should probably deal directly with Howie from now on. And thanks for asking.”
* * *
The fax from Howie arrived at 5:30 that evening, and Bruce sat down to review the agreement. Most young associates would have been thrilled at the thought of bringing a new client—and, from the looks of things, a fairly wealthy one—to the firm in their first month on the job. After all, a good client base was often the decisive factor in making partner.
But Bruce valued Howie and Pierre not as clients, but as potential resources in the real estate community. Between the two of them, they provided both ready capital and market knowledge, two assets Bruce was lacking. Bruce figured he would win their trust and appreciation if he could help Howie get out of this deal, especially if he did so without charging Howie an exorbitant “big firm” fee. The fee part would be easy—Bruce would simply not record much of the time he spent on the case. The firm would never know the difference, and Bruce’s creative billing practices would allow him to make up the hours elsewhere.
Getting Howie out of the deal, however, would not be so easy. The seller's attorney had drafted the contract, and it left Howie little wiggle room. All the contingencies in the transaction had either already been satisfied or been deemed waived by Howie because the relevant dates had passed. The only remaining contingency in the deal was obtaining a written commitment letter from the mortgage lender. And according to Pierre, the letter was just a formality.
Bruce read the agreement a second time, looking for an escape hatch buried beneath the thirteen pages of legalese. If one existed, Bruce was simply not experienced enough to identify it.
Bruce walked to the men’s room, splashed cold water on his face and spoke to the reflection in the mirror. “Stop thinking like a lawyer, you idiot.” He had only been at the firm for three weeks and he was already analyzing problems like a nerdish law student, trying to find shades of meaning in words and the placement of commas. But law was theoretical, it only became real when applied to a set of facts. The solution to most legal problems, Bruce had learned long ago, lay not in the law itself but in the facts. He would leave the technical scrutiny to others.
In Howie’s case, the law (as stated in the contract) was clear—if he got a mortgage commitment from the bank, he would have to either close on the property or forfeit his $100,000 deposit. But the facts were still fluid. Would Howie get his mortgage commitment? Pierre had said it was imminent, but could anything be done to change that? Bruce returned to his office and telephoned Howie. It was only 5:00 Pacific time, and Howie was still in the office.
“Hi, Howie. This is Bruce Arrujo calling from Boston.”
“Oh, yeah. Hi. Pierre mentioned you might be calling. Thanks for helping out. Did you get the Purchase and Sale Agreement I faxed you?”
“Sure did. That’s why I’m calling. The agreement is pretty airtight, assuming you get your mortgage commitment. But you haven’t gotten it yet, right?”
“Right. The bank said it looks fine, but they just wanted a couple of more things from me before giving the final approval. I was going to send the stuff to them by overnight mail tonight.”
“What kind of things are they looking for? And what bank is it?”
“It’s Bank of Boston. Let’s see. They want copies of my 1986 and 1987 tax returns—they already have 1988. They want a letter from me explaining why I missed a few student loan payments in 1981. And they want copies of my last six monthly Merrill-Lynch statements to show that the $400,000 I’m using for the down payment is my own money.”
Bruce didn’t immediately respond; he was studying the notes he had just taken. “The 1986 and ‘87 tax returns—what do they show for income?”
“High enough to qualify for the loan, if that’s what you’re thinking. Maybe $120,000 in ‘86 and $140,000 in ‘87.”
“And the Merrill-Lynch stuff. It’ll show the money in your account?”
“Yeah. It’s been sitting in a money market account while I wait to close.”
“That leaves the student loan. Why didn’t you pay?”
“I don’t remember, it was my first year out of grad school. I was, like, 26 years old, didn’t have a job yet. I probably paid the rent instead. When I got a job, I caught up on the student loans.”
“Were you living in San Diego at the time?”
“Yeah. I was teaching Spanish part-time while I looked for a job. Why?”
“I’m just thinking out loud.” Was there a way of somehow making Howie’s explanation for missing the loan payments so offensive to the bank that they would turn down his otherwise solid loan application? “Howie, will you be there for a while?”
“Yeah. Another hour or so.”
“Good. Check the fax machine in about half an hour. Then call me.”
Bruce turned on his computer. The combination of the Bank of Boston and Howie teaching Spanish had sparked an idea. He typed the following:
Dear Sir/Madam:
You have asked me for an explanation for why I did not pay my student loans for three months in 1981. I did not pay these loans because the bank that held these loans was acting as an imperialistic tool of the oppressive United States government. This bank had been making predatory loans to Latin American countries in the hopes that these countries could default on their payments, which would give the U.S. government the excuse it needed to install Fascist dictatorships in these countries in the name of “fiscal responsibility.” I could not in good conscience bring myself to support these efforts by sending money to the bank when the bank—as an obvious agent of the Reagan administration—was acting in such an imperialistic manner. By withholding these payments, I considered myself a “conscientious objector” to the illegal U.S. foreign policy in Latin America.
Sincerely,
Howard Plansky
Bruce faxed the letter to Howie, and waited for the phone to ring. Five minutes later it did.
Howie was laughing when Bruce answered the phone. “This is brilliant. Absolutely fucking brilliant!”
“I thought you might like it.” Bruce couldn’t help but laugh also.
“Except one thing, Bruce. Who would believe that a left-wing crazy would become a capitalistic landlord?”
“Good point, Howie. But do you think the Bank of Boston will even think it through that much? I mean, they do a ton of business in South America—that’s what made me think of it. I bet they get this letter and spit out a denial of your mortgage application in about ten minutes. Who would make a loan to you after reading that letter? To a banker, that letter is blasphemy.”
Howie was still chuckling. “You know, it just may work. It’s a crazy idea, but it just may work. I’ll never get another loan from Bank of Boston, but there are plenty of other banks out there. Besides, it’s the only chance I’ve got, right?”
CHAPTER 11
[October 21, 1989]
It was cold, but it was also Saturday night, and Charese knew that if October was cold, November and December would be colder. Not to mention that next weekend was Halloween weekend, and Charese knew from experience that trying to turn tricks with masked johns was just asking for trouble. When she first left home as a teenager she had been forced to survive off the fruits of her body. She had been wrong in assuming those days were behind her.
She pulled her waist-length fake fur around her and buttoned the bottom two buttons. The top two buttons she left open, revealing what little there was of her breasts, covered only by a red silk teddy. Her breasts had been steadily growing, but the hormone pills took time to work and she still considered herself small-busted. Later, perhaps, she would get implants. If she decided to go through with the operation.
Her legs, on the other hand, were perfect. Long and sleek. She played them up by wearing four-inch heels and a short matching red leather mini-skirt and fishnet stockings. It would be cold, but she hoped she could do a couple of quick blow jobs on passing motorists heading up Arlington Street to the Massachusetts Turnpike, then go home to a warm bed. She prepared a thermos of hot coffee and walked the six blocks to the corner of Columbus Avenue and Arlington Street. She set the thermos down and leaned up against a telephone pole, one leg languidly extended toward the street. Her stomach began to churn. It had been more than ten years since she had sold herself—it wasn’t really like riding a bike.
And what about this whole AIDS thing? She had been on the sidelines during the entire epidemic because she had been faithful to Roberge. Would the men mind if she insisted on a condom? Would they expect it? Even for a blow job? She figured she would give a blow job without a condom; as for actual intercourse, well, the guy would be disappointed if he expected that anyway.
Maybe she should have gone to one of the gay clubs and looked for a trick there. It would have been safer because no one would be surprised to find she was actually a man, but she couldn’t bear the thought of running into one of Roberge’s friends and having Roberge learn how she was supporting herself. So here she stood, shaking a leg at passing cars and offering blow jobs for $50.
She had some early luck—a middle-aged Asian man driving a luxury sedan pulled over and quickly agreed to her price. They drove together to a schoolyard parking lot, where Charese skillfully performed with her tongue and lips. The man ejaculated quickly, the taste of semen filling Charese’s mouth. She had never minded the taste, and tonight actually found herself aroused by it. The arousal at first amused her, then saddened, her. What has become of me when I get turned on by giving blow jobs to strangers?
She took the money and walked back to her thermos of coffee. She poured herself a cup, both to warm herself and to take away the taste in her mouth. She refreshed her lipstick, and again dangled her leg toward the street. But her heart wasn’t into it anymore, and after a half-hour of unsuccessful efforts she picked up her thermos and headed home. As she walked, she repeated the question over and over again in her mind, the words keeping cadence with her choppy stride: What is happening with that damned lawsuit?
CHAPTER 12
[October 23, 1989]
Bruce sat on a park bench in the Public Garden. As the leaves blew around him in the evening chill, he sipped on a bottled water and reflected on the past few weeks.
He and Marci had laughed their way through the Children’s Museum. They blew bubbles with the children, crawled through mazes, played Monopoly on a 1930s game board. When Bruce was a child, he and Grandpa often engaged in rainy-day Monopoly marathons. The loser had pay the winner a dollar, and address the winner as ‘Your Highness’ for the rest of the day.
They returned that night to Bruce’s apartment, but he resisted the urge to make a pass at her (although he did chuckle at the thought of her addressing him as ‘Your Highness’ as he stood naked in front of her). Bruce knew that sleeping with a woman led to certain expectations, expectations that would have to be either fulfilled or dashed within a few weeks. He wanted to take it slower, figuring that Marci’s real estate knowledge might be useful for the next few months at least.
Since that date, he had seen Marci three or four times for lunch, and took her for a Sunday afternoon sail on the Charles River. He was interested in her insights into the real estate market. Many so-called experts were citing demographic trends and historical models to argue that the real estate industry had become insulated from the cyclical nature of other economic sectors, and that prices would never again fall. Marci, however, offered a different perspective. A few of the more conservative property owners in town had begun selling their buildings, taking ninety or ninety-five cents on the dollar. And many others were no longer adding to their portfolios. Marci didn’t agree with their positions, but then again it was her job to be optimistic about real estate values.
In between dates with Marci, Bruce had continued to generate impressive income for the firm, accruing 50 to 60 hours of billable time per week. Nobody had reason to suspect that these bills were inflated. Bruce made a point of being in the office every day between 7:30 and 10:00 in the morning and 4:00 and 7:00 in the afternoon. These blocks were prime “face time” and, along with Saturday mornings, were the times the partners popped their heads into offices to see who was putting in the hours.
All in all, less than two months into his tenure at the firm, he had managed to put himself in an ideal situation. Outside the firm, his association with Stoak, Puck and Beal cloaked him in respectability. And, between Marci and Pierre Prefontaine, he had made some good contacts in the real estate community. Within the office, he had won the confidence of Bertram Puck, who gave him plenty of work servicing the firm’s larger institutional clients. And he had carved out a block of time during the middle of the day when he could pretty much come and go as he pleased—he simply slung an extra suit jacket over his chair and left his light on, just as he would if he were in the library or conferring with another attorney down the hall. Finally, and most importantly, the firm’s arrogance was proving to be the p
erfect cover for his activities. It would simply never occur to the partners that a lowly first year associate would pull off a scam right under their noses.
CHAPTER 13
[October 24, 1989]
Before she was even out of bed, Charese received a call from Shelby. “Listen, Charese, we need to meet.” It was a Tuesday, Charese thought.
“Is it about my case?” Charese cursed herself. No, idiot, Shelby’s calling for fashion tips. “Actually, can you hold for a minute?” Charese ran to the bathroom and splashed water on her face, then to the kitchen to pour a cup of coffee from a pot that she had set to automatically brew the night before. The kitchen clock read 10:25. “Sorry, I’m back.”
“Good. I only have a minute between classes. Are you free to meet for lunch?”
“Of course. At the office?”
“No, we can’t meet there. Do you know 33 Dunster Street in Harvard Square? Say, 1:30?”
“Sure. I’ll be there.”
“Oh, and please don’t tell Reese. I’ll explain when I see you. Bye.” The line went dead.
Charese put down the phone. It made no sense, but her intuition told her to trust Shelby. And Harvard Square was a great place to people watch.
Just after noon, Charese left her Clarendon Street apartment in the South End, walked north a few blocks and then east down Columbus Avenue toward the Boston Common. Her plan was to walk to Park Street station, then take the Red Line across the river into Cambridge. It was a brisk autumn day, but the walk would be good exercise, perhaps the last chance for a stroll before the winter set in.
Charese arrived at the Park Street station a half-hour later, chilled but not really cold. She took the escalator down and recalled her ride up the same escalator just two months earlier for her first meeting with Reese. Unlike her completely feminine persona that day, her appearance today was neither dominantly female nor male. She wore a purple sweatshirt and blue jeans over tennis shoes. She had shaved and applied a little make-up to cover the razor stubble, but otherwise hadn’t done anything to her face.
[Boston Law 01.0] Unlawful Deeds Page 7
