The Reformers: A Matt Blake Novel (The Matt Blake legal thriller series Book 2)

by Russell Moran

  “What’s the problem, Jack?” I said, “Why don’t you just give him unqualified immunity? It’s a slight risk. Like you said, you don’t think he’s a bad guy, just a guy with information.”

  “Of course I’m going to give it to him, Matt. I asked to step out with you just to convince his lawyer that he won a big point. It’s always easier to deal with someone whose ego has just been stroked.”

  I cracked up. I can learn a lot from Jack Logan.

  “Jack, you’d be a hell of a lawyer in private practice. If you ever get tired of the FBI, Blake & Randolph would like to have a career chat with you.”

  “That’s after I’m done trying to recruit you into the FBI, Matt.”

  We walked back into the interrogation room.

  “Okay, Mr. Jamison, I’ll grant Mr. Bertone unqualified immunity.”

  Jamison, always prepared, reached into his briefcase and took out a document of immunity. Then Jack handed him a detailed non-disclosure form. Jamison read it.

  “Mr. Jamison, the matter we’re going to discuss concerns highly classified issues of national security. I’m sure you won’t mind signing this agreement not to disclose anything you hear today.”

  “Does that include the evening TV news? I’m quite fond of publicity.”

  We all laughed. Bill Jamison is also known for his sense of humor. Jack and I sat down across from Phil Bertone.

  “Mr. Bertone, I want to let you know that you’re not the target of any investigation, and even if you were, as your attorney here can advise you, I have granted you unqualified immunity for anything that you may say here today.”

  Bertone nodded.

  “To get right to the point, sir, what can you tell us about an organization that may be known as the NFL?”

  Jamison laughed. He played two seasons as a wide receiver for the Bears, and was quite familiar with the NFL.

  Jack looked at Jamison. “It’s not the NFL you’re familiar with, counselor. It’s an acronym for Not For Long, or at least that’s what we think it means.”

  “Yes,” said Bertone, “NFL stands for Not For Long. It’s a group of people, a hell of a lot of people, who are dedicated to waging war against radical Islam.”

  “How did you come to know about this group, Mr. Bertone?”

  “They tried to recruit me. My name, Bertone, is the name of my stepfather. My original father, who died a few years ago, was named Abdalla. On my birth certificate my name was Omar Abdalla. I became Phillip Bertone after my stepfather formally adopted me at the age of five.”

  “Are you a Muslim?” I asked.

  “No. and since my name change at the age of five, I can’t even say I’m a Muslim in name only.”

  “And did there come a time when you were approached by someone from the NFL organization?”

  “Yes, about two years ago. A guy called me and asked if we could meet for coffee. He said he was writing an article about the experience of teaching at a university. It seemed like a harmless request, so I met him at a coffee shop on campus. He asked me endless details about my interactions with Islam. I told him, like I’m telling you now, that although I was born Muslim, I never practiced the faith.”

  “Then why did he ask you about your interactions with Islam?” Jack asked.

  “When I learned about my birth, something my folks never hid from me, I began to have an interest in Islam, not from a religious point of view, but I became fascinated how a theological position could lead so many people to hatred and violence. I wrote a few articles about it. No big deal, just local newspaper feature articles.”

  “In your opinion, could your articles label you as a reformer?”

  “Sure, but since I wasn’t a Muslim, I think it’s more accurate to say that I’m a critic.”

  “Did this man indicate how they found you?”

  “Yeah, from my articles. He said they also checked my birth records and found that I was born a Muslim. It gave me the creeps to know that my life had been examined under a microscope.”

  “Did the man give you any other reasons why he wanted to recruit you into the NFL?”

  “Yes, my military background. I was a lieutenant in the Army and served with the Rangers. After a tour in Afghanistan I was assigned to Ranger School as an instructor in advanced weapons. That’s when the guy really started to open up to me about the NFL. According to him I had all the stuff they were looking for—a former or disaffected Muslim, a critic of Islam, and a military man. He was very interested in my Army background. He said that military training was a prerequisite for induction into the upper ranks of the NFL. He said that the organization included hundreds of former SEALs, Marines, and Army Rangers like me. Strict discipline is a key to the NFL. And strict secrecy. After he interviewed me he called a few more times to try to recruit me. He then asked if we could sit down for another meeting. At that time he told me how sorry he was that I didn’t want to join them, and then he gave be a stern no-shit warning. He told me never to divulge what he discussed with me. If I did, I would be ‘taken care of.’ I’ll never forget the look on his face when he said the words ‘taken care of.’ And here I am disclosing everything. Does my face look as scared as my stomach feels?”

  Oh my God, I thought. Am I looking at the next guest of the FBI Witness Protection Program?

  “Don’t worry Mr. Bertone,” said Jack, “this meeting is absolutely confidential.”

  I looked at Bill Jamison. Maybe Bertone shouldn’t be worried, but his attorney sure as hell was.

  “Now here’s the big question, Mr. Bertone, can you give us the name of the NFL man who tried to recruit you?”

  “Sure, he said his name was Gary Boyle, but I’m sure it’s a made-up name,”

  “You’re probably right, but can you tell us any more about him?”

  “He was physically nondescript. I think he was about 5’11’—Holy shit, wait a minute.”

  “What’s wrong?” I said.

  Bertone pulled out his smart phone and started thumbing through it.

  “I just remembered that the waitress in the coffee shop is a friend of mine. She’s a nut for snapping photos. Here it is. She emailed it to me after the first time I met with Boyle.”

  He held up the photo for us to look at. A perfect side view of the mysterious Mr. Boyle.

  “Mr. Bertone, can you email that to me right now, please?” Jack said.

  “Just a minute, Agent Logan,” Bill Jamison said, leaning forward in his seat. “I don’t want that photo to be traceable to my client. He’ll email it to me and I’ll send it to Agent Logan.”

  As I said, Bill Jamison is one sharp lawyer.

  “I have one final question. Can you tell us anything about the name from which they get the acronym NFL, the words Not For Long?”

  “Sure, it means that the days of radical Islam are numbered. We hear all about the Islamic State wanting to establish a caliphate, and even their desire to institute Sharia law in places in America. Not For Long is the NFL’s way of saying that they intend to put a stop to radical Islam. And they don’t mean to waste time.”

  After our meeting with Mr. Bertone was over, Jack and I sat down for a debriefing. The Gulfstream waited for Jack’s return to New York.

  “Today was a bigger success than I could have imagined,” Jack said. “We actually got a photo of the NFL recruiter. When I get back to the office I’m going to have it run through our facial recognition software. I think it’s time to celebrate. Scotch, gin, or vodka?”

  “I don’t drink,” I said, “but I’d love a glass of orange juice.”

  “You don’t drink? That probably explains why you’re such a sharp attorney.”

  “If you saw me in my drinking and drugging days, you wouldn’t think I was so sharp. So, Jack, you’ve gotten your first big lead to this shadowy outfit. Maybe you’ll even be able to infiltrate. But now what?”

  “Now what? Matt, you understand that I can’t discuss that with you, but I can make a comment.”

&n
bsp; “Go right ahead, Jack.”

  “I have no fucking idea.”

  Chapter 38

  After six weeks of studying entertainment law and the publishing industry, I felt confident that I could represent an author, specifically Dee or Al Yamani. Meanwhile, Dee had plugged in her contacts in publishing, which were quite extensive. I really hoped we could get Al a book deal.

  Dee called me from her office at the university.

  “Matt, fabulous news. I just got a call from Suzie Cohen (Dee’s agent). She said that Random House is interested in Al Yamani’s new book My Journey Home. They love it.”

  “Are they just interested or do they want to make a deal?” I said.

  “They offered Al an advance of $50,000, a super number for a first timer. I told Suzie that you would be in touch with them.”

  ***

  Armed with my newly acquired knowledge of entertainment law, I picked up the phone and called the acquisitions editor at Random House, as prearranged with Suzie Cohen. Negotiating a book contract is quite different from negotiating a personal injury case. In a PI case, if you’re not satisfied with an offer, you can take the case to a jury. In a book deal, you don’t have that much flexibility, especially with an unknown author. The publisher can simply tell you to shove it. So I politely engaged the acquisitions editor, a pleasant woman named Nancy Bolling. I kept her on the phone for an hour, a tactic I learned from my dad. “As long as they’re talking, they’re willing to deal,” my father would always say.

  I had three major demands, which I referred to as “requests” of Ms. Bolling. First, Al’s real name would not be used, rather a pseudonym, George Rudden, his name from the Witness Protection Program. Next, I wanted a higher royalty share, more than the eight percent that they offered. Finally, I wanted to split the electronic rights for an ebook, and I insisted that we get the right to set the ebook price. My study and reading told me that traditional publishers would often overprice an ebook so as not to compete with the hardcover. The result is often tepid ebook sales.

  Without boring you with the details of our negotiation, here’s the deal I got for Al (George). They readily agreed to Al’s pseudonym George Rudden. They bumped the royalty by a half a point to eight and a half percent. And they agreed to split electronic sales. They wouldn’t agree to let us set the retail price.

  Dee and I called “George” on his secure phone at the WPP house in New Jersey. We were on speaker phone.

  “Random House wants to buy your book for $50,000, Al. Sound good?”

  “Holy shit,” Al said. “You’re the greatest lawyer in the world, Matt.”

  “Hey, Al, Dee had most to do with this. You will be addressed by your pseudonym, George Rudden. Your editor at Random House will be in touch in about two weeks. I’ll send the papers to you and we’ll go over them on the secure line.”

  From all of my reading into the culture of writers, including self-published authors, I’m amazed that people actually believe that luck has nothing to do with literary success. Bullshit. Luck has everything to do with it, especially for a first-time author. If Al didn’t have Dee and her agent on his side, he would probably be one of the many thousands of aspiring authors whose manuscripts sit in a “slush pile,” never to be read. Sometimes life isn’t fair. But it was more than fair to my client this time, and that’s all I have to be concerned about. I felt good. Al Yamani, a guy I referred to as a scumbag a few months ago, will soon be a published author.

  Chapter 39

  I walked down the street toward our apartment building. I was exploding to give Matt the good news, the good news on top of what we already knew about Al Yamani’s book. Random House wants to buy the paperback rights. Why Matt turned off his friggin cell phone is beyond me. Just as well. I prefer to give him good news in person.

  “Matt, honey. I’ve got some great news,” I shouted as I walked into our apartment.

  “Matt?”

  Where the hell is he? It was just past 7 p.m. and he had said he’d be home early. I walked over every square inch of our large apartment. No sign of Matt. No sign of anything out of order. I tried his cell phone again. Just a message that the owner was not available. I texted him (again). Nothing. This is nuts, I thought. I last spoke to him this morning and he said he’d be home no later than 6. Okay, this is bullshit, I thought. So his cell phone is turned off. Maybe its battery went dead. He’s only an hour late. I’m acting like a jerk. But this isn’t right. This is so not like Matt.

  Eight p.m. came and went. I sat in front of the TV trying to distract myself by clicking around to different channels. I’m not one to freak out easily—well, sometimes, maybe—but this was getting serious. I tried to remember if he said anything about visiting a client or some other chore. Nonsense. I have a memory that never quits. He had said nothing other than he’s be home at six, two hours ago.

  I called his father.

  “Hi Jim, I mean dad, it’s Diana. Sorry to bother you at home but I’m a bit on edge. Matt was supposed to be home two hours ago. His cell phone has been off all afternoon. Do you have any idea where he might be?”

  “Hi, hon,” said my father-in-law. “The last time I saw Matt was around 11 a.m. I’m sure there’s a simple reason for this, but you have me a bit concerned too. Hey, call Woody. If there is one person on earth who can track somebody down it’s him. Oh, and Diana.”

  “Yeah, dad?” I said, as I felt a tear run down my face.

  “Call me the instant you hear something, okay? Meanwhile I’ll call Jim Randolph to see if he knows anything.”

  Okay, it’s time to get a fucking grip. I wiped my tear away and started to organize my thoughts. Jim is right about calling Woody. But before I do I need to get my shit together. It’s Friday night, and that thought plagued me. Before Matt and I met, we both spent a long time in the wilderness of booze and drugs. Friday nights, we both agreed, were especially dangerous to a recovering drunk. Matt and I are almost religious in our devotion to staying clean and sober. In our more than three years of marriage, sobriety had become a part of us, a deep part of our relationship. Could Matt have fallen off the wagon? The literature of recovery is filled with stories of a “former” alcoholic stopping by an old haunt for “just one drink”—can’t do any harm, right? Could my Matt have done that? Could he be on a bar stool somewhere, fucked up and trying to figure out what to do next? Why am I torturing myself with this crap? I’m torturing myself because of one thing—I don’t know where he is.

  “Woody, it’s Diana Blake. Sorry to bother you at home, but something’s come up.”

  I brought Woody up to date on my concerns. Concerns? My fucking head was exploding. As the good investigator that he is, Woody asked me a lot of questions. He has the biggest contact list in the world, and he knows who to call. Woody is a widower and lives alone, so at least I wasn’t taking him away from his family.

  “I’m not only going to make phone calls, Diana. I’m going to personally check out a few places.”

  “Places?”

  “Yes, hon, you know what I mean. Now don’t go getting your pretty head in an uproar. I’ll call you in less than an hour to let you know what I’ve found out.”

  When Matt was in his drinking days, Woody would often pick him up at one of his favorite bars and help him home to bed. Woody’s not just a great investigator. He’s a good friend.

  A half-hour passed by when the phone rang.

  “Yes?” I yelled.

  “This is the March of Dimes calling about our fund raising drive. May I speak to the homeowner?”

  “Fuck you!” I screamed as I slammed down the phone down on the counter, almost breaking it. Okay, stop this shit. It’s time to be an adult. It’s time to be here for the man I love—wherever the hell he is.

  I put on sweats and went into our gym. I clicked on the TV and mounted the stationary bike. Both Matt and I have found that an intense physical workout is a great stress reliever. I have no idea what show I watched, but I peddled the bike l
ike a herd of tigers was after me. At 9:10 my cell phone rang, and I saw that it was Woody. I stopped peddling and hit the answer key. I don’t know if my heart was pounding from my workout or from anticipating Woody’s call.

  “Yes, Woody,” I said breathlessly.

  “I’ll get right to the point, Diana. Nobody saw him at any of his old familiar haunts, so I hit my contact list. Good thing a lot of people in the police department owe me favors.”

  “Woody, hon, you said you would get right to the point.”

  “Meet me at the cab parked by the entrance to your building. I’m there now.”

  “What? Why?”

  “We’re going to Stroger Hospital to visit Matt.”

  ***

  I didn’t have time to shower after my workout so I just toweled off as best I could, put on a fresh sweat suit, and wrapped my head in a towel. I ran onto the sidewalk and saw the cab with Woody standing next to it having a cigarette. Shit, it was cold. Woody opened the door for me and I climbed in.

  “Talk to me, Woody.”

  “Matt was found about two hours ago lying on a sidewalk in Evanston. No, he wasn’t drunk, but he’d been drugged heavily. And no, it wasn’t a recreational drug. Somebody did this to him.”