“Ian’s my friend,” Tom said, his voice shaking. “We played together when we were kids. He said those things because he was hurt, Gary.
We shouldn’t have sent Trudy over there last night. You heard what he said. He knows we’ve been using him.”
“Using him,” Gary repeated. “Maybe we wouldn’t have had to hit the Quick-Mart today if you hadn’t given Trudy a lid of Willie’s best weed.”
“You’re the one who wanted Ian out of the way,” Tom protested. “We planned on hitting the Quick-Mart last night, remember? Trudy was supposed to occupy Ian while we used the spare set of keys and took his Firebird. Then you smoked five joints and passed out. Only a fool would pull off a robbery in broad daylight.”
“Shut up and get the stuff,” Gary snarled. “I’m the one who makes the decisions.”
Tom felt as if he were standing in front of a speeding train. He knew it was coming, yet he was powerless to stop it. “Ian doesn’t listen to the news, Gary. More than likely, hell never know there was even a robbery. He has a short attention span, remember? That’s part of his disability I bet he won’t even remember driving us to the Quick-Mart. Since you knocked him out, Ian will be lucky to remember his name.”
“There’s a skating rink not too far from here,” Gary told him, acting as if he hadn’t heard anything his brother had said. “They have lockers.”
“A skating rink!” Tom exclaimed, slapping back in the seat. “Don’t tell me we’re going to put the take from the robbery in a locker at a skating rink? That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard. And what about Ian? Are we going to cut him up and put him into a locker too?”
“Using this jerk was your idea.” Gary found some leftover napkins in the glove box and pressed them against a cut on his left forearm. “The skating rink will work fine. As soon as we stash the gun and cash at the rink, we’ll come back and pick up Ian. Then we can dump him at his apartment and steal a clean car. With any luck, it shouldn’t take us more than an hour. His mom’s storage lot is right around the comer from his apartment. We have to go to his apartment anyway to pick up the key to the lot.”
“No way,” Tom said, shaking his head. “We should take Ian with us now. What’s the purpose of driving to the skating rink, then all the way back to his apartment?”
Gary pounded his right fist against the steering wheel. “Keep talking like a moron,” he said, “and I’ll smash your head through the window.” He stopped speaking, gulping air When Gary lost control, the reaction was as physical as it was emotional. He sweated buckets, his nose ran, his eyes watered. “What if someone saw us driving away from the Quick-Mart and copied down the license plate? What about that, little brother? As soon as we get another set of wheels, this rattletrap of Ian’s is history.”
“No one saw us,” Tom pleaded. “I kept my eyes on the street while the clerk was handing over the money. We fired off a round, remember? If anyone saw us, the cops would have busted us before we made it out of the parking lot.”
“You wouldn’t see a cop if he was parked right next to us,” Gary told him. “You’re only a few notches above your pal, Ian. You never pay attention. The clerk could have easily got a make on the car. Follow my plan and everything will be fine. Maybe we’ll jump on a plane and leave town. I’m sick of Ventura anyway”
“The police might find Ian before we get back,” Tom said. “He could come to and start talking.”
“It’s Sunday afternoon,” Gary told him. “The playoffs are on right now. The cop assigned to cover this area is probably holed up somewhere watching the game. None of these buildings are even finished. What reason would the police have to waste their time coming around here?”
Gary stared at the figure on the ground, Ian’s legs were twisted to one side, his arms spread out at his sides. “He probably won’t wake up for hours. Get the sack out of the trunk like I told you. I want to have the gun on me in case we have a problem.”
Tom followed his brother’s instructions, opening the trunk of the Firebird and removing the brown sack containing the rumpled bills and the decoy gun. He cursed the day they’d bought that awful thing. Gary liked gadgets, though. Before they’d been thrown out of their parents’ house, his brother had been addicted to an interactive war game on the Internet. The gun in the game was said to be identical to a high-powered weapon used by real terrorists.
Willie Crenshaw, their drug connection, had been the one to show them the new gun. Several of his friends had stolen a storage container off a loading dock in Long Beach. Willie and his friends had expected to find appliances, clothes, antiques—things they could sell on the street or hock at a pawnshop.
After they pried open the container and discovered that what appeared to be a shipment of cell phones were actually guns, Willie and his friends had known instantly that they’d struck gold. On the street, a firearm was one of the hottest commodities. And a gun that resembled a cell phone! Never had anyone seen anything even remotely similar.
Gary had been certain Willie was trying to pull a fast one. To prove the gun worked, their friend took them to a field and let them test fire it, setting up a row of tin cans. Not only did it work, the gun was accurate, although the shooter had to be able to site a target without the use of a scope. At the time, Gary and Tom had already pulled off four robberies. The last place they’d hit, however, had been a disaster. The owner of the market had whipped out his own gun and started shooting at them.
Gary had been so hot on the new gun, he’d traded Willie their Jeep Pioneer on the spot, believing the uniqueness of the gun would allow them to move up to businesses with more cash. The crucial point in a robbery occurred the moment the robber pulled out their weapon. Many of the clerks or business owners were also armed, which made robbery a dangerous business. With the cell-phone gun, the victim didn’t know what was happening until it was too late.
The Quick-Mart was the first time Gary and Tom had used the new gun. The drawback was that they had to fire off a round to prove the gun was an actual firearm, a situation they had not anticipated. Due to the manner in which the decoy gun was constructed, it couldn’t be outfitted with a silencer. As soon as they opened fire, they had to flee the scene immediately.
Willie wasn’t just their drug connection. He was another kid from the neighborhood. Willie had been transferred into special-education classes around the same time as Ian. Unlike Ian, however, he’d dropped out of school in the tenth grade. He’d been bumming around ever since, working at menial jobs and dealing. His primary occupation was growing and distributing marijuana. Willie was proud of the fact that he’d never resorted to selling hard drugs. His primary problem was he’d been selling dope in the same town for far too long. Even the cops knew he was a dealer. At the moment, he had several outstanding warrants for possession with intent to distribute.
Once Willie sold whatever guns he had on hand, he’d be out of business. Gary had thought of even greater possibilities. He had befriended a man in San Diego several years back who was a gunsmith. Having served a five-year sentence in prison, this individual claimed to have connections with organized crime. Gary was thinking ahead, considering the possibility that their friend in San Diego might be able to duplicate the new gun. Then they’d never have to worry about money again.
Gary’s voice rang out. “What’s taking you so long?”
“The key got stuck in the trunk,” Tom lied, walking over and bending down next to Ian. He placed his ear against Ian’s chest to make certain his heart was beating. He also probed his scalp, wanting to see if there were any deep wounds from the broken glass.
“Leave him alone,” Gary yelled at him. “If you mess with him, he might come around. That’s the last thing we need right now.”
Tom climbed into the passenger seat. “At least you didn’t kill him,” he said, removing the gun from the sack and handing it to his brother. “After we take him to his apartment, we should call an ambulance. We don’t have to tell them our names. All we
have to do is give them Ian’s address and say he’s unconscious.”
Gary stared at the gun in the palm of his hand, a look of pleasure spreading across his face. “You may be right,” he said. “Ian could wake up and call the police.”
Extending his arm out the window, Gary pointed the decoy gun at Ian, his thumb floating an inch above the keypad that served as a numerical trigger mechanism. Tom couldn’t believe this was happening. He knew Gary possessed an explosive temper, yet he’d never thought he was capable of killing someone, particularly a person they’d known all their life. Was this really his brother—the man sitting next to him salivating at the thought of depressing one of those buttons?
“The more I think about it,” Gary said, his voice eerily calm, “Ian has had a really tough time. No matter what happens with us and the holdups, things are only going to get worse for him as he gets older. We might be doing him a favor if we just killed him.”
SEVEN
Thursday, February 8, 2001, 8:45 P.M.
DOUGLAS KUHLMAN was speaking to his attorney from a pay phone at the Los Angeles County jail. After graduating from MIT, he had spent most of his adult life working in air-conditioned, nicely appointed offices where the only sounds were the tapping of computer keys, a few words spoken by a co-worker, or an occasional telephone call. The noise level inside the jail was maddening. Doug placed a hand over his ear, trying to hear what his attorney was saying. He wondered if half the inmates were deaf or if they just liked to shout. Then there were the other sounds—the electronic whine of the cell doors, heavy footsteps on the tiled floors, the blasting television sets in the common areas.
“Are you saying there’s no possibility of me getting out of this place?” Doug yelled. “How can the judge deny me bail? I didn’t kill or shoot anyone. My cell mate was released on bail the other day, and he’s on trial for rape. What the hell is going on here?”
“It’s not just the nature of the crimes,” Jack Cozzens answered, carefully enunciating his words, “as I’ve been attempting to explain. The problem is the multiple jurisdictions involved. The child-stealing charges occurred in Ventura County, therefore, they placed a hold on you. LAPD was the first agency to arrest and arraign you. This means they get to keep you until you’ve been sentenced.”
“You’re supposed to get me cleared, not sentenced.”
“We’ll use the word adjudicated, then,” Cozzens said, even though he thought Kuhlman was out of his mind if he thought he was going to get out of this mess without serving time. “May I continue?”
“Tell me where we stand now,” Doug said, anxiously looking up at the clock on the wall. “And make it fast before my time runs out. We have to report for lockdown in fifteen minutes.”
“The DA in Los Angeles has placed a hold on you for forty-two counts of felony embezzlement.” At sixty-eight. Jack Cozzens had been a practicing attorney for forty years. Most of his colleagues spent their days on golf or tennis courts. Cozzens had advanced osteoporosis, and now had to use a wheelchair. Renowned in the legal field, representing men like Doug Kuhlman was his hobby From his experience, men like Kuhlman assumed because they were educated, intelligent, and highly successful individuals, the system should afford them special treatment. “Every time you zapped a penny from Telinx’s accounts, you committed a felony. You’re lucky the DA didn’t file even more counts. Usually they hit you with the full boat, thinking they can pressure you into entering into a plea agreement. I’ve already spoken to Elaine O’Connor, the supervisor in the Crimes Against Property unit. The DA prosecutes the case, but O’Connor makes the decisions, understand?”
A woman, Doug thought, clenching his teeth. Just what he needed. Facing criminal charges of this magnitude when your ex-wife was a prosecutor was bad enough. Now another woman was involved in deciding his fate. “When did you meet with her?”
“Yesterday,” the attorney told him. “O’Connor is willing to negotiate but only if you plead guilty to all forty-two counts, as well as the aggravated white-collar crime enhancement, which could tack on an additional five years to your sentence.”
“To each count?”
“No,” Cozzens explained. “The enhancement can be applied only once during each criminal proceeding. It can, however, be applied to the other companies you victimized as these cases will be tried separately. That’s why the number of jurisdictions involved poses such a problem. In addition, subsection (c) of the same code allows the court to impose a fine double the sum of what was taken.”
“This is a nightmare,” Doug said, incredulous. “You’re telling me that if they determine that I took five hundred grand, they can fine me a million bucks as well as add five years to my prison sentence.”
“The cap is five hundred thousand per criminal proceeding,” Cozzens told him. “Let’s focus on the crimes committed against Telinx, which is what we’re dealing with at present.”
“Fine,” Doug said, biting his lip.
“L.A. essentially wants to clear their cases, so they can hand you over to the authorities in Ventura. That’s the only reason they’d even consider offering you a deal.”
“What kind of deal is that?” Doug said. “According to what you just said, they want me to plead guilty to all forty-two counts, plus this enhancement.”
“I’d personally try to settle if I were you,” Cozzens said thoughtfully. “I’m not certain if the DA was unable to get the proper documentation from Telinx to file on every offense you committed, or if they simply decided it wasn’t worth tying the court up since so many other law enforcement entities have placed holds on you. There’s nothing to preclude them from filing more counts, you realize.”
“Great,” Doug said, feeling as if his head were about to explode. “You’re basically telling me that I could have raped someone and had a better chance of seeing daylight. Am I right?”
“I wouldn’t phrase it precisely that way,” Cozzens told him, chuckling under his breath. This was the part he enjoyed, explaining the ambiguities and absurdities in the criminal justice system to people like Kuhlman, who thought they would never have to face the consequences of their actions. “The judge has the option of sentencing you concurrently or consecutively, so that’s a major consideration.”
“How much time are we talking about?”
“Approximately nine years,” Cozzens answered. “That’s a concurrent sentence. You hear the word consecutive fall out of the judge’s mouth and you can multiple that figure by forty-two.”
“You can’t be serious?” Doug said, in such a frenzy he couldn’t do the math. “I might as well have killed someone. The way you’re making it sound, I could spend the rest of my life in prison.”
Doug had been upset even before he’d spoken to Cozzens. Leah had cried again today. Neither Mike nor Leah had visited him once since his incarceration. Joanne claimed she couldn’t take the time off from work to drive them to Los Angeles, and by the time the weekend rolled around, she was too exhausted. He knew she was punishing him, wanting him to know what it felt like to be deprived of his children. Keeping Leah away from him, however, was hurting their daughter more than him. Leah had told him she’d been planning to run away when she’d taken Joanne’s car, then decided she couldn’t survive on the small amount of money her mother gave her as an allowance. He’d reassured her that he could get her whatever money she needed, but he didn’t want to encourage her to take off on her own. Although he hadn’t said anything to his daughter, for obvious reasons, he had given thought to hiring someone to take the children again and care for them until he was free. Before he did anything drastic, however, he had to figure out where he stood in the legal arena.
The situation with Mike was another cause for concern. Over the past month, his son had barely said two words to him. If Joanne had only been reasonable, Doug told himself, he wouldn’t be in this predicament. His ex-wife had tracked him down at the worst possible time, just after he had worked out the remaining problems on a series of revoluti
onary new operating systems.
“The Denver authorities have also placed a hold on you,” Jack Cozzens told him, thumbing through the papers on his desk. “Let’s see, the pleading they sent me today lists ten felony counts. I also received some documents in the mail from Switzerland and Italy the other day. I haven’t had time to look them over yet.”
“I’ve got more money than you could ever imagine,” Kuhlman said, his heart doing a tap dance inside his chest. “I could put my hands on fifty million if you can get me a ticket out of here. I didn’t say fifty thousand, Cozzens. I said fifty million!”
Cozzens let out a long sigh. “Under the circumstances, I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that statement.”
“The money will come in clean,” Doug told him, cupping his hand around the phone. “Remember the company I told you about. Computer Innovations International, the one I sold a software security system to just before my arrest?” This is what really chapped him. He’d seen an entire universe of opportunity unfolding in the area of Internet gambling. In order to study how they were operating the on-line gambling sites, Doug had started betting sporting events and horse races. Working at Telinx had grown stale, and Joanne had been immersed in her work as a district attorney or busy taking care of the children. Before he knew it, he had forgotten about developing the security software to protect such enterprises and found himself sucked into the emotional roller-coaster ride of chance.
“Let me give you some advice,” Cozzens told him. “We’re talking off the record here. Man to man, so to speak. I won’t even bill you for the time. All I want is for you to listen carefully to what I’m about to tell you.”
Doug glanced over his shoulder, waiting until one of the guards had walked past. “Go ahead,” he mumbled. “I’m listening.”
“I’ve already done some checking on this company,” Cozzens said, his tone sharper now. “People always tell guys like you that you can get away with this stuff. Then when the shit hits the fan, they bail out so fast it makes your head spin. They’ve got nothing to lose, and in some situations, everything to gain.”
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