[Boston Law 01.0] Unlawful Deeds

by David S. Brody

  “Mr. Arrujo. Come to my office.”

  Bruce strolled down the hallway to Puck’s office. Jan was at her desk, but was on the phone and gave only a polite wave. He knocked on Puck’s door, and stood and waited. After almost a full minute, Jan hung up the phone and motioned for Bruce to enter.

  He opened the door, took two steps into the room, and froze. Puck was not alone—the two other partners on the firm’s management committee were seated in wing chairs in front of Puck’s desk.

  Puck’s voice boomed, freezing Bruce in mid-stride. “Pardon us, Mr. Arrujo. I do not recall telling you to come in.” The two other senior partners turned and looked disdainfully at Bruce.

  “I’m sorry sir. Jan told me to come in.”

  “Mr. Arrujo. Kindly remember that this is my office, not Ms. Fountain’s. Now leave.”

  Bruce felt the blood rush to his face, fought back his anger, and turned and walked out. Jan was no longer at her desk. He wondered if she set him up. He thought about going back to his office, then decided to wait it out. But he had a bad feeling about this.

  Ten minutes later, Puck ushered the two other senior partners out of the office. Without looking at Bruce, he commanded, “Come in.”

  Puck sat down at his desk and glared at Bruce. He did not invite Bruce to sit. “Mr. Arrujo. I have just been discussing your situation with the other members of the firm’s management committee. I will get right to it. Law enforcement personnel have—indirectly—contacted us. They believe you may have been involved in the recent theft at the Gardner Museum.”

  Bruce tried to remain impassive, but he noticed his toes had curled up inside his shoes, and he was having trouble getting enough oxygen into his lungs. “I don’t know what to say, sir, other than to say that they are mistaken.” It came out pretty calmly, Bruce noticed. Probably because it was true. But Bruce was finding it difficult to speak.

  Puck ignored him, which was fine with Bruce. He wanted Puck to do all the talking. “Our sources have also made us aware of past art thefts that you may have been involved in. Naturally, the firm’s reputation is of paramount importance in these types of matters. Unfortunately, the firm’s hands are tied at the moment. If we fire you, our sources in law enforcement will be revealed, and therefore compromised. So we will do nothing at this time. But we will be watching you, Mr. Arrujo. Carefully. Now leave my office.”

  Bruce considered trying to defend himself, then thought better of it. He was having trouble breathing, never mind speaking coherently. He left Puck’s office and walked straight to the elevator. He jogged the eight blocks to his Beacon Hill apartment; it would normally be an easy run, even in a suit, but this time he had to stop twice to catch his breath. When he finally reached his apartment, he kicked off his suite and pulled on a pair of shorts and a T-shirt. Ten minutes later both his main sail and his lungs were filled with wind, and his Laser was skimming across the surface of the Charles River, tacking its way into the breeze.

  Bruce forced himself to concentrate on sailing. The concept of tacking always astonished him: the wind was blowing north to south, yet the boat was able to harness the wind’s energy and sail almost exactly south to north. It was a fascinating accomplishment. And an apt metaphor for his present situation.

  He let his thoughts run free. Had Gus tried to save his skin by giving the cops a false scent—Bruce’s? Probably not, because anybody who knew of Bruce’s history knew that he and Gus had been partners in crime ever since Bruce acted as the lookout while Gus stole hockey cards from the corner store in fourth grade. So Gus could hardly escape scrutiny by having the police focus on Bruce. A more likely explanation was that the police were suspicious of Gus, and Bruce had become a suspect by association.

  Had Gus figured out a way to deliver the paintings to the Columbian drug lord, even with the cops watching him? If so, Gus and his partner owed Bruce a favor. A big one.

  Bruce brought the boat about, pointed at the Boston skyline. The setting sun reflected off the west-facing windows of the office towers. He squinted into the glare, and his eye quickly settled on the top floors of the tallest office tower, the home of Stoak, Puck & Beal. It was clear now that his time at the firm was limited. He would eventually be cleared of any involvement in the Gardner theft, but his history had been revealed, and it would forever taint him both at the firm and in the close-knit and conservative Boston legal community. The firm would find an excuse to let him go in the next few months, and that would be the end of his legal career in Boston.

  But at least he had those few months—probably until the October performance reviews. If they were going to fire him, Puck would have done it already. But the firm was in an awkward position—Bruce had received glowing job performance reviews only a month earlier, and he was still one of the highest billing associates in the entire firm. The firm was already sensitive to its reputation as a sweatshop—it wouldn’t want to add to it by firing a highly regarded associate for no apparent reason. And it would be too embarrassing for the firm to admit that one of its associates was an art thief. The firm would instead slowly build a case against him—orchestrate a client complaint, force a decrease in billable hours by withholding assignments, lay the blame for a lost case at the feet of Bruce’s poor research skills. It would be easier that way: Pay him for a few months, then fire him based on a recent record of poor performance.

  End of career. End of plan. End of dreams.

  Damn. He had been so careful over the past five years, fought so hard to cover his tracks, worked so carefully to position himself for the big score. And now he was being brought down by something he didn’t even do. Thanks a lot, Gus. Thanks a whole fucking lot. And you’re damn right you owe me one.

  The wind shifted as Bruce approached the Boston side of the river, and he let out the sail and skimmed along the shoreline, heading up-river toward the Massachusetts Avenue bridge. He couldn’t see Fenway Place from the river, but he knew it was there, just beyond his reach behind the brownstones that lined the Back Bay streets. Almost a century ago, before the highway system blocked the navigational routes, he could have veered off the Charles and onto the Muddy River, a small tributary that flowed through the Fenway section of the city. In fact, he could have sailed right up to the grounds of what was then the Gardner mansion and was now the Gardner Museum. Once there, the only object that would have stood between Bruce and the Fenway Place buildings was the imposing structure of the Gardner itself. Just as it did today.

  Bruce leaned down to peek under the sail at the sun now almost completely set on the western horizon. It was almost dark. The wind had almost completely stilled itself. He was almost out of time.

  CHAPTER 40

  [June 7, 1990]

  Reese was still steaming over his confrontation with Shelby Baskin—what a little uppity bitch she had turned out to be. And how did she know Krygier’s lawyers were going to make another settlement offer? The more he thought about it, the more he came to the same conclusion: She must have spoken to them and threatened to expose more embarrassing information or material about Roberge. When they called, he would make every effort to find out what it was.

  His secretary told him Krygier’s attorney was on the line. Here was his chance.

  “Reese Jeffries speaking.” He stood, turned away from the clutter on his desk and peered out his office’s soot-caked window into an adjacent alleyway. No doubt the attorney on the other line had views of the harbor or the Charles.

  “Reese, I just wanted to let you know that we’re trying to put together a settlement offer, but we need more time. Can you give us a couple more weeks before doing anything?”

  Doing anything? What more was there to do? Shelby must have threatened them with something. Reese needed more information. “Before I answer you, can you tell me what the delay is?”

  “Well, the old man Krygier went ballistic when he found out about the video.” Video? “He won’t give Roberge a penny to settle. Roberge has some money, but not enough. So Roberg
e is trying to get the money from his mother. But that’s creating quite a family tiff, if you know what I mean.”

  Reese sucked in, swallowed. “Does the mother know about the video?”

  “No. Roberge told his father about it, but not his mother. The one thing they agree on is that there’s no reason the mother should know about the little Mexican boys.”

  Little Mexican boys! No wonder old man Krygier went ballistic. The fallout from the Herald story was just starting to fade away; the last thing he would want would be another dose of embarrassing publicity. “Well, I suppose we can give you another two weeks to get things straightened out.” And to give me time to figure out how to get hold of that video. “Is that acceptable?”

  “Yeah, that’s fine. And I appreciate it. Talk to you in two weeks.”

  Reese rocked back and forth, toes to heals. He had to get his hands on that video. Krygier was wounded, but had survived the Herald story and was still leading the fight to repeal rent control. But a video of his son with little boys would be fatal. He would be radioactive—politicians and business leaders would do whatever they could to distance themselves from him and his causes. Rent control would survive, and Reese would be a hero. Maybe even get appointed to fill the next vacancy at the Housing Court. Judge Jeffries. Judge Reese Jeffries.

  Then he remembered the threats made by Shelby. He could defend himself against the charges that he failed to convey the settlement offer to Charese—it was just his word against hers. And even those colleagues that might not believe him would understand his actions: Sometimes it was necessary to sacrifice a pawn like Charese in order to defeat a general like Krygier.

  But the sexual charges were another thing entirely. The mere allegation of sexual misconduct would tarnish his reputation forever. He had been careful to cultivate his image as a progressive and sensitive “Man of the Eighties”; even his extra-marital affairs were conducted in a manner so as to leave no ill feelings or bitterness—he couldn’t think of a single woman who was upset over the end of their affair. There were too many militant feminists in the crowd he ran with to risk allegations of being a sexual predator. Allegations like that would likely destroy his career. Not to mention his marriage. And forget about becoming a judge.

  Ideally, he could both expose the tape and silence Charese. That would be a home run. He picked up the phone—it was worth a shot.

  “Charese. Hi, this is Reese Jeffries, your lawyer.”

  “Oh. Hello.”

  “Listen, I know that Shelby has convinced you that I’m a terrible person and all, but I’m still your lawyer, and I just heard from Roberge’s lawyer a few minutes ago. I have some good news.” He stopped there—he wanted Charese to take the affirmative step of asking him what it was.

  Charese was silent for a few seconds. Finally, as Reese expected, her hopes overcame her disdain. “What kind of good news?”

  “They are preparing a settlement offer.” He almost said “another settlement offer,” but stopped himself. “And I think it should be a good one. But, they want me to assure them that I have the video.”

  Charese sounded surprised. “You know about the video?”

  “Of course. Little Mexican boys and all. But they want to make sure I have the only copy before they settle the case. So can you bring it down to the office?”

  He waited five or ten seconds, but she did not respond. “Charese, are you there?”

  Finally he heard the intake of breath. “Listen, Mr. Lawyer. I carry that video with me at all times. That’s the only copy, and if you think I’m giving it to you, you’re crazy.”

  Boy, Shelby had really poisoned her toward him. But at least now he knew where the video was. “Okay, I understand. Now, about that Bar Overseers complaint....”

  Reese heard the click of the phone, then a dial tone.

  * * *

  Five minutes later, Shelby picked up the phone and called Reese.

  “Nice try. Did you really think Charese would give you the video?”

  “I really have nothing to say to you.”

  “Well, I have something to say to you. That little stunt of yours is going to cost you. I’ve been thinking—why can’t we both settle the case and file the Bar Overseers complaint? It’s not like we need your help anymore. Charese has the tape, not you. So maybe I’ll just tell Charese to file the complaint and then we can go settle the case without you.” Shelby could hear Reese’s breathing get heavier, heard him swallow his saliva. She was just bluffing, but Reese didn’t know that. The last thing Charese needed was another long, drawn-out legal action where she would be under constant attack by Reese’s high-priced lawyers.

  “Wait, Shelby. That’s not necessary. Let’s talk about this some more.”

  Shelby quietly hung up the phone.

  CHAPTER 41

  [June 8, 1990]

  For the first time in his life, Roberge could not persuade his mother to help him out of a jam. She had always understood his sensitive nature, sided with him, protected him from his father. But this time, she was resolute. She would not disobey her husband. She would not give him the two hundred thousand dollars he needed to pay off Charese.

  “I’m sorry, Roberge. You know I love you very much. But I have never seen your father so adamant—and he is a very adamant man, as you know. He says he will leave me if I give you the money, and I believe him. And Roberge, I love your father and don’t want to lose him. This is your problem. You’re just going to have to handle it without our help.”

  Roberge was torn. His father had always been stubborn and pig-headed, sometimes to his own detriment. If the video came out, it would damage the entire Krygier family, both financially and socially. Usually he and the other family members could count on his mother to counsel his father to be practical in these situations. But since she didn’t know about the video, she was unaware of the risks to the family name and fortune. However, if Roberge told her about the video, he ran the risk of completely alienating her. And it was a substantial risk—he doubted his mother would have much tolerance for her son’s sexual exploitation of little boys. She would probably still refuse to give him the money, and he would have alienated her for nothing. He went back to begging.

  “But, Mother, I don’t have the money to settle the case. You know that. I’m really in a bind here.”

  “Well, then, you may have to consider bankruptcy or something. I simply can’t help you this time. Good-bye, dear.”

  Bankruptcy. If only it were so easy. But bankruptcy wouldn’t help him keep his job, and it wouldn’t prevent Megan from leaving, and it wouldn’t prevent his father from writing him out of the will. He’d be bankrupt with no job, no wife, and no inheritance.

  Damn you, Charese. Damn the day you entered my life.

  CHAPTER 42

  [June 13, 1990]

  Bruce waited in his office for Pierre and Howie. It was still two days before the official closing date, but Bruce had finished the legal work early and the RTC was more than willing to accommodate an early closing.

  Howie was flying in on the red-eye from San Diego. The plan was for Pierre to pick him up at the airport, come to Bruce’s office to formalize the partnership details, then drive to the RTC offices in Lowell at one o’clock for the closing. Howie would then stick around on Thursday and Friday to help Pierre organize the management of the property.

  Pierre and Howie arrived a little before ten. They met in the same conference room with the spectacular views of the city. Bruce doubted he would get many other chances to entertain clients here. “As you guys requested, I have prepared the partnership agreement for the deal. Most of it is just boilerplate language I took off of the generic agreement the firm uses. Of course, I tailored the business terms to reflect this particular deal. I sent the drafts to you a couple of weeks ago, and you’ve each had a chance to request changes and ask questions. Before I sent the agreement to you, I had a senior partner in the firm—Mr. Puck—look the agreement over just to make sure I didn’
t miss anything. Before you sign it, are there any last questions?”

  Howie and Pierre shook their heads. Bruce had drafted a lengthy and complex document that was, he knew, beyond either of their capacity to completely comprehend. But he also knew that the document accurately reflected their business arrangement and their deal with Felloff, who had agreed to accept a position as a silent limited partner as a means of securing his right to his consultant’s fee.

  Bruce continued. “Now, remember, the property will be owned by a trust, with Howie as the only trustee. So as far as the world knows, Howie is the owner. But the beneficiary of the trust is the partnership, which is comprised of Howie, Pierre and Sebastian Felloff, with Felloff’s interest a silent one. The only people who will know the true owners are the three of us and Felloff. And the IRS—they know everything.”

  Howie chuckled at Bruce’s comment, but Pierre was unusually quiet. Howie apparently also noticed. “Hey, Pierre, what’s wrong? We’re about to do the biggest deal of our lives. You getting cold feet?”

  Pierre forced a smile. “No, no, nothing like that. My stomach’s just bothering me a little. I’ll be right back.”

  * * *

  Pierre slipped into a bathroom and splashed cold water on his face. His financial pressures were continuing to wear him down, and he was about to sign a document that required him to work almost full time on a project that wouldn’t be paying him a penny’s salary for almost a year. Sure, he might make a million dollars on the deal, but only if he didn’t go bankrupt before the deal started paying off. The bank had begun to foreclose on his Brookline condo, and the leasing company had come and repossessed the telephone equipment and furniture in his real estate office. All that remained in the office was a single phone, an old desk and a couple of metal folding chairs. And to top it off, Valerie had a cough and fever. He and Carla hoped it was nothing, but they were holding off bringing her to the doctor because their insurance had lapsed. Every time Valerie coughed, Pierre was racked with guilt. If she wasn’t better by tomorrow morning, they would take her to the doctor, cost be damned.