Megan glared at Shelby, deep-set eyes firing at her over round, protruding cheeks and a pink button nose. She looked like an angry rabbit. Shelby felt sympathy for her. She had gone from giddy fiancee to the object of widespread ridicule, and had every right to feel cheated by it. After a few seconds, when it became apparent that Megan had no intention of answering, Roberge answered for her. “My wife’s first name is Megan.”
Shelby continued. “Thank you. As I was saying, if we have time today, I’ll move on to Mrs. Krygier’s deposition. Otherwise, we’ll do hers tomorrow.”
Krygier’s attorney interrupted. “I can’t see why we can’t finish both of these today.” He was probably not much older than Shelby, a senior associate on the scent of partnership, the taste of blood tantalizingly close. He dressed for success—a double-breasted suit, lilac tie, light pink shirt.
Shelby knew he was testing her. “I hope you’re right. And if you’re clients are cooperative in answering my questions, we might be able to finish today. If not, it might take longer. Or we might have to go see the judge.”
Roberge’s attorney leaped to his feet, bellowed in his best courtroom voice. “Are you threatening us? Because we’re not going to stand for it.” Shelby tried not to laugh—she knew this was just a show for his clients, an attempt to intimidate the young female lawyer. What would he do next, go urinate in the corners of the room?
Shelby ignored the outburst, turned to the stenographer. “I believe it’s time to begin the deposition of Roberge Krygier. Please put us on the record.” Roberge’s attorney wouldn’t be so bellicose now that his words were being transcribed.
Shelby ran through some background questions for Roberge, gauging him as she slowly worked her way to the issue of his relationship with Charese. As she questioned him, she watched him carefully. He answered her questions quickly, as if trying to portray an attitude of impatience, or even indifference, to the proceedings. But she peaked under the table once, under the pretense of picking up a file, and saw his leg bouncing up and down nervously.
After about fifteen minutes, Charese slipped her a note. When he puts his hand on his chin, it means he’s lying.
Shelby moved to the good stuff. “Mr. Krygier, did you have a sexual relationship with Charese Galloway?”
“If you’re referring to Charles Galloway, the answer is yes.” Roberge had not once looked at Charese. And Megan refused to look at anyone; she just stared at a painting on the wall and played with her wedding ring, sliding it up and down her finger.
“You’re not familiar with the name ‘Charese Galloway’?”
“I am. It’s the name Charles started calling himself when he decided he wanted to be a woman.”
“And did you support Charese in that decision?”
Roberge put his hand to his chin. Shelby noticed he had small, flabby fingers, which surprised her because he was otherwise thin and a little taller than average. “Not really. But hey, whatever turns him on.”
“Isn’t it true that you asked Charese to wear women’s clothing when the two of you attended events with your family?”
“Yeah. It was easier than telling them I was gay.”
“So you just introduced Charese as your girlfriend?”
“Yes.”
“You never referred to her as your fiancee?”
“No.”
“Never told her you would marry her if she had a sex-change operation?”
“No.” Hand back on chin.
“I see.” Charese passed Shelby another note. Buffy is wearing the engagement ring Roberge gave me. It’s his grandmother’s. It’s the same one I’m wearing in the picture that was in the newspaper. “So you never did anything to make Charese think that the two of you were to be married?”
“Nothing I’m aware of.”
“You know that you’re under oath, don’t you Mr. Krygier?”
“I do.”
Shelby reached into her briefcase, pulled out a stack of photographs. As she did so, she looked under the table again; Roberge’s leg was bouncing like a jackhammer. “Mr. Krygier, I want to show you a photograph—it’s the original of a picture that appeared in the local newspaper recently.” Shelby handed the photo to Roberge. “Do you recognize it?”
“Yes.”
“Who’s in the picture?”
“My father, myself and Charles.”
“Could you look carefully at Charese’s left hand, specifically her ring finger.”
Shelby waited a few seconds, but Roberge did not respond. “Mr. Krygier? Do you recognize the ring on Charese’s finger in that picture?”
Roberge again remained silent, his head down. Suddenly Megan jumped from her seat and grabbed the picture, stared at it, then threw it on the floor. She glared down at Roberge. “You bastard! That’s my ring! You gave me a fucking hand-me-down ring?!?”
Megan ripped the ring off her finger and hurled it at Roberge; it struck him on the cheek, then bounced to the floor. “You’re a lying piece of shit, Roberge Krygier!” Roberge remained in his chair, motionless, his head bowed, while the stenographer transcribed the entire exchange.
Megan ran from the room, slammed the door.
The slam of the door jolted Roberge from his cower. He exploded out of his seat like a greyhound out of the starting gate and raced around the conference table in pursuit of his wife.
As he reached the door, Charese called to him. “Hey Roberge. If you catch her, tell her that I’m sorry I didn’t have a chance to wish her luck in her new marriage. She’s gonna need it.”
Roberge stopped at the door, spun around and pointed a fat finger at Charese. The finger shook, and Shelby could see a vein bulging in his forehead. The words came out from behind clenched teeth. “Fuck you, Charles. You’re nothing. You’re nothing but a little piece of shit.”
CHAPTER 27
[March 1, 1990]
Bruce heard a soft knock on his office door. “Come in.”
Puck’s secretary, Jan, entered and smiled. Lately, she seemed to look for opportunities to visit his office. Today was the first spring-like day of the year, and, warm as it was in the office, her blouse needed one or two more buttons at the top and her skirt one or two more inches at the bottom. She was always looking for opportunities to see Bruce. Now she was giving him opportunities to see a bit too much of her.
He smiled at her. Not bad for north of forty. “Hi, Jan. Have a seat for a minute—I was just about to take a break.”
She glided over to a side chair and languidly sat down, her skirt riding even higher up her legs. Bruce saw upper thigh, then a flash of red panties. They matched—exactly—her lipstick and fingernail polish. Jan watched his eyes and re-crossed her legs, and again a red target flashed in front of Bruce’s eyes. He sighed quietly and forced himself to resist the urge to charge. In the battle between skilled matador and raging bull, the odds were long on the bull. More importantly, what he wanted from her was between her ears, not between her legs.
He eyed her appreciatively. He wanted her to think that he was making small talk just as an excuse to look up her skirt and down her blouse.
“So, how did a nice girl like you end up in a place like this?” It was a terrible line, but he wanted to play the role of the clumsy, inexperienced stallion.
“Well, first of all, I’m not so nice.” She smiled coyly at Bruce, who bit his lip and smiled shyly in return. “But if you must know, I’ve been here since I graduated secretarial school, well, many years ago.”
“Have you always worked for Mr. Puck?”
She turned away and her face darkened slightly. Bruce guessed she would have preferred to continue the flirtation rather than discuss her boss. “No, only the last seven or eight years.”
“What’s he really like? I mean, what does he do for fun, other than scan the harbor looking for shipwrecks?”
Jan let out a single, sharp laugh. “Fun? Mr. Puck? For fun he comes into the office on the weekends and plays with the computer. That’s really
his whole life—his law practice and computers. He’s got this firm as high-tech as any firm in the city. Oh, and he also reads crime novels—he’s really into forensics, you know, fingerprints and that kind of stuff.”
His interest in forensics made sense to Bruce—he had that anal kind of personality. But the computers surprised him. “Puck’s into computers?”
“Big time. One of the older secretaries said that he wanted to be a scientist, but his old man—the original Puck—forced him into the law practice.”
“He always seems pissed at the world.”
“You’re telling me.” She snorted. “And it’s been worse the last few months. He’s lost a few big clients because of the economy, and he’s not exactly taking it well.”
“Any family?”
“None that I know of. He lives in an apartment building on the waterfront and drives his Mercedes to work every day. And I mean every day, including weekends. Once a year he takes a vacation to London, but that’s it.” She shifted gears, angled her head teasingly. “And what do you do for fun?”
Bruce almost didn’t answer; he had been thinking about the London comment. Could the London vacation be related to the Lloyd’s of London correspondence? He read recently that Lloyd’s was having financial problems due to pollution claims, problems so bad that its shareholders—the famous “names” of Lloyd’s—might have to write hefty checks to cover the losses. If Puck was a “name,” it wasn’t a great time to also be losing clients….
He refocused on Jan. “What do I do for fun?” He smiled. “I pry into my boss’ personal life. When I’m really in a crazy mood, I steal pens from his office.”
Jan smiled politely, but Bruce could tell she had hoped for a response with a little more innuendo. She got up to leave. “Be careful, then. I’m in charge of the pens. And you should see what we do to pen thieves.”
Bruce knew he would surprise her with his answer. “Let me guess—you write all over them?”
Jan stopped in mid-stride and turned slowly around. “Yup. Then we stick you in a bubble bath to clean you up.” She winked and sashayed out of the room.
CHAPTER 28
[March 2, 1990]
Bruce was in Malden, a working-class suburb of Boston that had seen better days. It was one of those sunny late-winter days that fooled you into thinking spring might be around the corner. Bruce stuffed his hands into his trench coat, turned away from the wind as the auctioneer concluded the foreclosure procedure.
Bruce had noticed a rotund, loud-voiced woman talking to bidders and taking notes during the. She had even interrupted one bidder as he was about to make a bid. So he was not surprised when, after the auction, she wedged herself between Bruce and the auctioneer.
“Name’s Bailey Gray,” she announced. “Write for the Herald. Doing a story on foreclosure auctions. Ask a few questions?” Her hair was pulled back from her round face, and she was carrying a large plastic cup of coffee which she sipped from through a straw on those rare occasions when she wasn’t either talking or scribbling on her notepad.
Bruce instinctively adopted her clipped manner of speech. It was an interpersonal skill he had learned while working as a telemarketer his senior year of high school. “Not at all. Bruce Arrujo. Nice to meet you.” Bruce offered Bailey an easy smile and an outstretched hand.
“Been to four of these auctions now. No action. Bank took back each one. Anyone ever buy anything? Not much of a story so far.”
“See your point. Doing some kind of ‘how-to’ story on buying foreclosures?”
“Trying. Editor is tired of doom and gloom real estate stories. People don’t want to keep reading that they lost fifty grand on their house. But so far, nothing to write about.”
“Properties in places like this aren’t going to sell at foreclosure.” The paralegal, whom Bruce trained personally, did all the work on this case—Bruce merely showed up to supervise the auction itself. “A few properties sell downtown, or in the nicer suburbs.”
“Yeah? Who buys ’em?”
“Put it this way. Not Mr. and Mrs. Smith buying their dream home for half-price. Doesn’t happen. Too risky.”
“Could you explain what you mean?” She primed her pencil.
“Sure.” Bruce took a few seconds to word his answer correctly—he wanted to be clear and quotable, yet he wanted his answer to be intimidating. “The only people who should buy property at foreclosure sales are professional real estate investors. By professional I mean people who devote themselves full-time to researching the properties and who can afford to walk away from ten or twenty thousand dollars if the property ends up having problems. Remember, bidders at foreclosure sales don’t get to inspect the inside of the properties, don’t know if the title is clear, and don’t have time to arrange a mortgage before closing. Then, if they do close, they have to evict the previous owner or tenant. The entire process is fraught with risk.”
Bruce waited as Bailey scribbled for a few seconds, stubby finger tight on the tip of her pencil, lower lip tucked under her coffee-stained upper teeth. “Thanks. Well said. So you think people should just forget about auctions?”
“Actually, no. I would recommend that people call the banks after the auctions and try to buy the properties then. The banks don’t want to keep the properties, and after the auction a buyer can structure a normal transaction that minimizes the risks.”
Bailey looked disappointed. “Maybe good advice. Not a very juicy story.”
“Well, there is one guy who buys a lot of property. I could introduce you. Pretty interesting.”
“How so?”
“Goes to the auctions on rollerblades. Stands right there on the sidewalk in them and bids. Expert on buying foreclosures. Taught himself how to do title searches. Knows all the brokers in town, gets the scoop on all the properties. Got good money behind him, too. Entrepreneur type. An American Original.”
“Name? Might be the angle I’m looking for.”
* * *
Bruce returned to the office and phoned Pierre.
“Hi, Bruce, good to hear from you. What’s up?”
“There’s a reporter from the Herald who’s doing a story on buying at foreclosures. I hope you don’t mind, but I gave her your name, told her you were the expert in town. I also told her about the rollerblades. I think she wants to profile you.”
“Of course I don’t mind. But you told her I was the expert?”
“Yeah. I mean, you are. You’re the best prepared and, as far as I know, you’ve bought twice as many properties at foreclosure as anybody else.”
“You mean ‘twice as many,’ as in two?”
Bruce laughed. “I don’t mean to be technical, but do you know anybody else who’s bought more than one?”
Pierre paused for a second. “No, I guess I don’t. All right, so I’m the expert. What does she want to talk to me about?”
“Well, she wanted to do a story telling readers how to buy at auction, but I discouraged her because I think it’s too risky for most people. My advice was that they wait until after the auction and try to make a deal with the bank then.”
“That’s probably good advice. Anyway, of course I’ll talk to her.”
“Good. I figured the publicity wouldn’t hurt.”
“Course not. Hey Bruce, mind if I ask you a question?”
“Shoot.”
“You’ve been incredibly helpful to me. Mind if I ask why?”
“Well, first of all, I think you’re a decent, honorable guy. Not many people would have sacrificed their commission like you did when you thought Howie was overpaying for that building. But it’s not like I don’t have selfish motives. The way I see it, you’re going to be a big player in Boston real estate for a long time, and you’re going to need a lawyer. Hopefully, you’ll think of me, which might help my career, too.”
Bruce felt good saying it, even wished it could have been the truth.
CHAPTER 29
[March 14, 1990]
Pierre
had mixed feelings about waking to the sound of the birds singing in the tree by his window. On the one hand, spring was historically the best time of the year to sell real estate. His brokerage business was virtually nonexistent, and he could sure use a little mid-March flurry. On the other hand, those same spring buyers might become competitors of his at foreclosure sales. In the past few months, he had witnessed more and more activity at the auctions. People were slowly getting more comfortable with the process and finding ways to minimize the risks.
Pierre was getting more comfortable as well. He no longer limited himself to Bruce’s auctions. He was still cautious, but a few of the larger auctioneers had been able to persuade some of the banks to give bidders assurances on title matters. And Pierre had been able to further cultivate his network of rental brokers who, unbeknownst to the landlords in town, seemed to have a key to every building in Boston. He still had to assume some risks, but at least he could bid feeling comfortable about title and property condition.
But even Pierre’s increased comfort level was a two-edged sword. A small group of individuals had begun traveling the auction circuit on a regular basis, attending ten to fifteen auctions per week. Pierre was part of this group, and he had already gained a reputation as a well-connected and savvy bidder. In fact, some bidders had begun to ride his coattails—if Pierre bid, they figured it was probably safe for them to bid as well. They simply raised his bid by a hundred dollars—if it was worth $123,000 to Pierre, it stood to reason that it would be worth $123,100 to them.
And then the Herald story had hit. The story featured a large picture of Pierre in his rollerblades standing outside a Back Bay brownstone, and referred to Pierre as “the most experienced and successful foreclosure bidder in the city.” Pierre had officially become the largest fish in a small pond….
[Boston Law 01.0] Unlawful Deeds Page 17
