Death, Taxes, and Green Tea Ice Cream

by Diane Kelly

  We stepped up to the glass door. A personal check taped to the inside indicated someone named Scott Breckenridge had written Westside Wireless a check for $84.39 that was returned for insufficient funds. Shame on you, Scott. Of course I couldn’t be too high-and-mighty. If I didn’t get a job soon, I’d have trouble paying my bills.

  Nick pulled the door open and we stepped inside. The owner, Kenneth McPherson, looked up from his seat on a stool behind the counter. He was a wide, heavyset man with reddish-brown curly hair. He looked like someone who’d be cast in the role of a king in a stage play.

  He stood, his green eyes taking in the four of us. “Good evening. How may I help you?”

  Eddie and Tanaka introduced themselves to the shop owner and shook his hand.

  Nick extended a hand as well. “I’m IRS Senior Special Agent Nick Pratt.” He raised a hand to indicate me. “My associate, Tara Holloway.”

  Associate, huh? I liked it better when I was his partner, but I supposed “associate” was as good a word as any. It might imply I was still with the IRS, but, unlike Tanaka, this store owner didn’t need to know my sketchy history. And it sounded better than Nick introducing me as his little love bunny.

  After introductions were completed, McPherson held up a finger. “Give me just a minute to close up shop.” He stepped to the front door and locked it. He turned off the red neon “Open” sign and pulled down the retractable blinds.

  When he was finished, he stepped back behind the counter, reached down, and pulled out a box containing at least a dozen cell phones. He laid them on the counter. “These are the fakes I reported to Customs Enforcement.”

  Tanaka, Eddie, Nick, and I each picked a phone out of the box. They looked like typical touch-screen-style smartphones and bore the logo of a name-brand electronics manufacturer.

  Tanaka set his phone back on the glass countertop. “I was told that the customers who bought these phones from you had some problems with them.”

  “They didn’t just have some problems,” McPherson said. “They had every problem. Dropped calls. Apps that wouldn’t work. Defective batteries. You name it. All of these phones had problems during the first thirty days, so they were supposed to be covered by a manufacturer’s warranty. But when I sent the phones in for replacement, the manufacturer told me they hadn’t made the phones.”

  “Phony phones, huh?” I chuckled. Alone. Hey, I blame it on the sake.

  McPherson said he’d tried to call Tokyo Discount Telecom, the Japanese outfit he’d ordered the phones from, but could only reach a voice mail. “I must’ve left twenty messages, but they never returned my calls. I sent them a dozen e-mails, too. Nothing.”

  Tanaka cocked his head. “How did you first get in touch with Tokyo Discount Telecom?”

  “I received a catalog in the mail,” McPherson replied. “I normally like to deal in person with a local rep, but they offered much lower prices than any of the other wholesalers so I decided to take a chance. I ordered eight grand in phones and accessories from them. Now I’m stuck with a bunch of shoddy merchandise I can’t sell. I’m a small businessman. An eight-thousand-dollar loss is a big hit for me to take.”

  McPherson pulled the catalog out from a drawer behind the counter and handed it to Tanaka. Tanaka thumbed through it, with Eddie, Nick, and me looking over either shoulder.

  The last page of the catalog contained an order form with instructions directing the buyer to complete the form, scan it, and send it via e-mail to a specified e-mail address ending in “.jp” for “Japan.” Payment was to be sent via PayPal to TDT at the same e-mail address. The e-mail address was not preprinted but, rather, had been stamped on the page. No doubt TDT changed its e-mail and PayPal accounts as they were closed down by the U.S. government, but it was easy enough to open another. Besides, it took weeks for customers to realize they’d been duped and for the accounts to be terminated. By then, TDT would have defrauded many more victims. An international phone number was also listed on the catalog but was handwritten.

  The fact that business had been handled via e-mail could make tracking down the bad guys and bringing them to justice more difficult. Capturing a living, breathing person at a fixed business location was much easier than finding a criminal in the virtual world. What’s more, proving who had accessed a computer and hit the keystrokes could be difficult.

  These types of cases were often an exercise in futility and frustration. With Tokyo Discount Telecom based in Japan, its ringleaders operated beyond the reach of U.S. law enforcement. All agents could do here in America was put out fires after they’d already flared up and someone had been burned. Thus the need for agents to travel to Japan, dig up some dirt on the company, and convince Japanese law enforcement to take action on those in their country who ran the outfit.

  “Did you file a claim with PayPal?” Eddie asked McPherson.

  “I initiated a dispute, and Tokyo Discount Telecom denied that the products were fakes. When I tried to have the dispute escalated to a claim, I was told I’d missed the deadline. I’d had emergency gallbladder surgery and wasn’t able to access my e-mails for several days, so I missed the notice.”

  “Who delivered the phones to you?” Tanaka asked.

  While the headquarters of TDT might be out of U.S. jurisdiction, the local operatives would be fair game. Of course the shipping company might not have been a knowing party to the fraud. Heck, I couldn’t tell these phones were fakes and I held one in my hand. If they weren’t directly involved in the scam, how was a shipping company supposed to look at a bunch of boxes and know they contained counterfeit goods?

  McPherson shrugged. “I can’t say. The truck was just a plain white truck. I didn’t foresee any problems, so I didn’t think to get the license plate.” He pulled out a bill of lading that listed the items delivered, but it contained no information to identify the shipping company that had delivered the goods.

  We agents exchanged knowing looks.

  “Looks like the delivery company took pains to remain unidentifiable,” Eddie said.

  Nick looked up from the paper. “Is your delivery bay out back?”

  McPherson shook his head. “None of my products are large. Everything comes in through the front doors.”

  “Do you have security cameras?” Nick asked.

  McPherson pointed to four cameras, one mounted in each corner of the rectangular shop. All of the cameras were angled to focus on activity inside the shop.

  “Any cameras outside?” Nick asked.

  “No.”

  I walked to the door, turned the lock, and stepped out front onto the sidewalk, looking up along the roofline for security cameras from the neighboring businesses that might have picked up the truck’s license plate. Unfortunately, I saw none. Not surprising. The tenant to the immediate left was a barbershop, while the tenant to the right was a shoe-repair business, neither of which was likely a prime target for thieves. I went back inside. “Doesn’t look like any of the tenants have outside security cameras that would have picked up a license plate.”

  Tanaka chimed in. “Was the deliveryman wearing a uniform?”

  McPherson shrugged his meaty shoulders. “I don’t recall.”

  Tanaka made a rotating motion with his finger. “Can you pull up the security tapes from your inside cameras?”

  “Sure.” While McPherson stepped behind the counter, logged on to his computer, and waded through the data looking for the footage from the delivery date, I wandered around the store, checking out the accessories. The place stocked dozens of phone cases, some plain and utilitarian, others colorful, with lots of personality. A red one with a cute cartoon panda caught my eye. I pulled the package off the hook to take a closer look.

  “That’s him.” McPherson pointed at his computer screen before turning it to face the agents standing at the counter.

  I stepped up next to Nick. The four of us watched as an Asian guy who appeared to be in his thirties rolled a dolly through the front door. Four unmarke
d cardboard boxes were stacked on the dolly. No way to tell yet whether the delivery driver’s shirt bore a logo, since the boxes blocked his chest.

  On the screen, we saw him speak with McPherson, then the two disappeared through a narrow door in the back wall that led to the storage room. They reappeared seconds later, the dolly empty now. McPherson stopped the footage and we all leaned toward the screen zeroing in on the deliveryman’s shirt. Nope. No logo. Just a plain white cotton button-down.

  Eddie exhaled in frustration. “Unfortunately, the tape gives us nothing more to go on.”

  While the men mulled over the situation, I whipped out a twenty and held up the phone case. “I’d like to get this.”

  After McPherson rang up my purchase and made change for me, I slid the old scuffed cover off my phone and put my new cuter cover on. Much better. The phone might look like it belonged to an adolescent girl, but it was bright and cheerful.

  Nick turned to Tanaka and Eddie. “The deliveryman was Asian. You think that means he’s in cahoots with TDT?”

  Tanaka shrugged. “Maybe. Maybe not. It could just be coincidence.”

  We’d obtained all the evidence we could. We left the store with the catalog, leaving McPherson with our promise to let him know when arrests were made—assuming Eddie, Nick, Tanaka, and I could track down anyone involved.

  We gathered in the parking lot to debate strategy.

  Tanaka took the lead. “The MO here matches what I was told by the other victims. Orders by e-mail. Payments made online. It would help if we could nab someone here who might squeal.”

  “The delivery guy,” Nick thought out loud. “We’ve got to track him down.”

  They couldn’t very well have McPherson place another order. Since he’d already complained about the previous shipment and demanded a refund, TDT would know something was up if he ordered more merchandise.

  “Have some phones sent to me,” I suggested, partly to help out, partly to ensure my continued involvement in the investigation.

  “Won’t they be suspicious if an order is delivered to a home address?” Tanaka asked.

  “I’ll tell them I sell phones and accessories at Traders Village.”

  Traders Village was a year-round flea market in the neighboring city of Grand Prairie. My mother and I visited it at least once a year. The place sold everything from piñatas to purses, incense to Indian blankets, comics to computers.

  Tanaka’s head bobbed as he considered my suggestion. “That could work.”

  We followed Agent Tanaka back to the ICE office, where he, Eddie, and Nick set up new e-mail and PayPal accounts.

  I thumbed through the TDT catalog, looking over their offerings. “These phone covers with the flowers are cute.”

  Eddie rolled his eyes. “It doesn’t matter what we order. We’re just trying to nab the delivery driver.”

  I supposed he had a point. Nick completed the form, ordering some of the less expensive items like car chargers, hands-free headsets, and skins, along with six dozen smartphones. When he was done, Agent Tanaka scanned the order form into his computer, attached the form to an e-mail, and sent it off through cyberspace to the criminals in Japan. He followed it up with a payment from the secret PayPal account.

  Tanaka said he’d notify PayPal to close down TDT’s account ASAP. Of course, the chances of recouping the funds McPherson and the other victims had sent were slim to none.

  “I’ll let you know when they provide me a delivery date,” Tanaka told the rest of us. “We’ll want to follow the delivery driver, see what we can find out.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” Eddie said.

  A plan that included me. It felt good to be part of the action, even if it was in an unofficial capacity.

  chapter eight

  Lawyer Up

  The following morning, I arrived at Gertz, Gertz, and Schwartz twenty minutes prior to my 9:30 appointment. I checked in with the receptionist and sat down on a love seat in the foyer to wait.

  While I sat, I read through the civil petition again. Intentional assault and battery. Compensatory damages. Punitive damages. Ten million dollars. I grew more angry, more anxious, as I flipped through each page. My stomach felt as if it contained a rabid rat gnawing on the insides, trying to eat its way out.

  “Tara Holloway?” called a woman’s voice.

  I looked up to find a seasoned secretary addressing me from the doorway that led into the offices.

  I raised my hand reflexively, as if I’d been called on in class. “That’s me.” I stuffed the petition back into my briefcase, stood, and walked to the door.

  “This way, please,” the woman said, her demeanor pleasant yet efficient.

  I followed her through a virtual maze of hallways, passing offices that housed attorneys engaged in various lawyerly activities. Reviewing contracts. Arguing with opposing counsel on the phone. Reading case law online. Playing Fruit Ninja on their cell phone and watching dogs bark “We Wish You a Merry Christmas” on YouTube.

  The secretary and I stopped at a large corner office.

  “Have a seat,” the woman said, gesturing for me to step inside. “Mr. Giacomo will be with you shortly.”

  I slid into the office and took a seat in an overstuffed gray chair. The secretary left the door open as she walked away.

  I glanced around Giacomo’s office. The walls were painted a soothing shade of pale blue and sported abstract paintings in muted shades on unframed canvasses. The whitewashed desk was relatively the size of a pool table, though only a laptop, a legal pad, and a potted ivy sat on its expansive surface. The padded gray seat behind the desk was so wide and tall it appeared more throne than chair. No family portraits graced Giacomo’s desk or bookshelf, though I could hardly blame him for keeping his personal life private given that he represented thieves and drug dealers and murderers.

  And me, of course.

  Sigh.

  The bookshelf held a number of anti-governmental tomes, John Grisham’s The Innocent Man, Sinclair Lewis’ It Can’t Happen Here, and presidential candidate Ron Paul’s Freedom under Siege: The U.S. Constitution after 200 Years. I stepped over and picked up a book by Kristian Williams called Our Enemies in Blue: Police and Power in America. The pages detailed horrific cases of police brutality, making me feel confused and uneasy.

  Was I like those rogue cops? Had I hidden behind my badge and abused my power? It certainly didn’t feel like it. But being prosecuted by the very government I’d once worked for stung like a swarm of killer bees. How could the government I’d once been an integral part of and the country I called home turn their backs on me after I’d risked my life for them? I felt betrayed.

  An antique mantel clock sat on top of Giacomo’s bookshelf, the hands moving with a tick-tick-tick that seemed to be counting down my last remaining minutes of freedom.

  A moment later, Daniel appeared in the doorway. Daniel was tall, dark haired, and attractive in a clean-cut, boy-next-door-all-grown-up way. “Hey, Tara. How’re you holding up?”

  I slid the book back onto the shelf. “I feel like I’m going to lose my breakfast.” Gross, but true. The Fruity Pebbles I’d eaten had become a fruity boulder in my stomach, a boulder sitting on top of a bubbling, acidic volcano.

  Daniel rested a hand on my shoulder. “Don’t worry, Tara. Giacomo will take the prosecutor to the mat.”

  Lord, I hoped so. If he didn’t, I’d soon have a cellmate and an orange jumpsuit. “I appreciate you arranging this appointment.”

  “What are friends for?”

  A man walked into the office with a dainty mug of steaming hazelnut-scented coffee in his hands. His black hair was cut short on the sides, his bangs, which he’d left a little longer, peeking out from under a green-and-red elf hat with a shiny silver bell on the tip. In addition to the holiday headgear, he wore a trendy gray suit with a fitted jacket and narrow legs, along with stylish square-toed dress shoes and a lavender shirt open at the collar. No tie. A small amethyst, apparently chosen to
match his shirt, punctuated his right earlobe. He smelled good, a spicy, musky combination I recognized as the classic Calvin Klein Obsession for Men. His cheeks were soft and smooth, clearly the result of salon facials and expensive skin-care products. The fingers wrapped around the coffee mug were tipped with nicely buffed nails.

  I wasn’t entirely sure what to expect given Giacomo’s alleged reputation as a hairy-assed criminal defense attorney, but the relatively hairless man standing before me certainly wasn’t it. He looked like a Caucasian version of Prince from the Lovesexy album cover. He stood five foot five at most. He was thin and small boned, too. I’d bet the guy didn’t weigh more than 140, if even that.

  He was a runt. Then again, so was I. And my stature only made me try all the harder. Besides, court battles weren’t about brawn; they were about brains, fought not with muscle but with minds, through legal strategy, clever argument, and precedents. I tried to keep an open mind.

  “Hello, Anthony,” Daniel said.

  “Daniel.” Giacomo nodded, then jerked his head toward the door, the bell on the end of his hat giving off a tinkle-tinkle as he dismissed his coworker. “Git.”

  Daniel offered me a small wave and left.

  The attorney turned to me now. His brown eyes bore a gleam of intelligence and determination that told me I was in capable, if well-moisturized, hands.

  “Anthony Giacomo.” He stuck out a hand barely bigger than my own, but he shook with a confidence that reassured me. He cocked his head. Tinkle-tinkle. “You look scared.”

  I managed a feeble smile. “Is that all? Because I’m absolutely terrified.”

  He set his mug on his desk and pointed a finger at me. “You need a hug.” He proceeded to do just that, wrapping his arms around me and giving me three soft pats on the back. “There, there.” He released me and stepped back. “I mentioned I charge extra for hugs, right?”