by Rob Sangster
During the next six hours, Jack thought about the upcoming meeting. Calder’s staff must have gone through all of Peck’s files by now, so Calder would be ready to back off. The price Jack had paid for Peck’s crimes had been heavy, but at least it wouldn’t get worse.
During the drive down the peninsula to Hillsborough the air began to smell fresher, the sky looked bluer.
He was a few minutes early, so he sat in the top row of bleachers looking down at the sawdust and dirt ring where six teenage girls were being instructed by a young man in a black turtleneck. Hooves thudded rhythmically as horses circled the ring. The musky smell of sweat was laced with the sharp tang of urine.
He spotted Calder entering the far end of the arena and saw him catch the eye of a girl with long black braids, wearing a red T-shirt. She smiled, and then her attention went back to her instructor.
Calder climbed the bleacher steps to where Jack waited.
“Mr. Strider,” he said brusquely and sat down. “I’ve had my best men investigating the circumstances of H. Peckford Strider’s death. Now I’m going to tell you what we’ve learned, part of it anyway. Pacific Dawn started its final voyage from the port of Salina Cruz, Mexico, a refinery town south of Acapulco. It was loaded with tin, zinc, and sugar. Even though your father owned that ship, we still can’t prove he was criminally responsible for the deaths on board. In fact, he had structured his whole importing business to avoid personal liability for anything. So the million dollar question is why would he kill himself?”
“I’ve asked myself that a hundred times,” Jack confessed. “The only answer I’ve come up with is that he was a respected judge about to be tainted by a tragic event. He’d have been humiliated. Maybe that was more than he could take.”
“You’re wrong. Pacific Dawn had made many trips carrying human cargo, so I decided to find out what had happened to all the people who had reached San Francisco alive. The ship’s crew couldn’t, or wouldn’t, tell us anything except that vehicles showed up to take the human cargo away. So I started over, looking at everything we had. I found out that my investigator who examined your father’s home computer had been blocked by password protection. I brought in our IT specialist to break through the password. That gave us access to almost all of the folders, and we found nothing useful in any of them. According to the IT guy, your father must have had a professional encrypt the remaining three folders. It took quite a while for my man to decipher the encryption, but he finally cracked it.” Calder paused and studied the girls cantering around the perimeter of the ring, and then looked back, eyes full of contempt. “That’s how I found out why your father pulled the trigger.”
The sounds of the arena vanished from Jack’s consciousness. Calder’s tone warned him to brace himself.
“It’s all there,” Calder said. “Peck Strider bought girls in Mexico and brought them to San Francisco, Sacramento and San Jose. They were kept in secret dormitories with handlers who raped them repeatedly to break them down, to control them. Then they were delivered to johns and special parties. They were little girls, mostly under fourteen. The computer memory held photographs of them having sex with—well, it was revolting.” Calder’s eyes glittered with hostility.
“Shut up!” Not my father. Jack slammed his fist on the bench. Kids in the arena looked up at him, startled. He glared at Calder, willing him to back down.
Calder was unfazed. “That computer was a cesspool, including an e-mail your father sent to a man in Salina Cruz. Your father threatened to stop buying from the man if he kept sending girls who had contracted HIV. That means those girls have been spreading the virus all over the Bay Area. Maybe some of the judge’s buddies at the yacht club who sent gin and tonics over to his table got HIV from his little girls.”
“I don’t believe you. My father would never have been involved in any of that.” He didn’t believe Calder because he couldn’t.
“You will. In my office I told you we had an autopsy performed on your father, but I hadn’t received the results at that time. When I got them they showed that he had HIV. He knew that if he were jailed he’d be given a physical that would reveal HIV. So in addition to human trafficking, the world, including other inmates, would know he’d been having sex with girls under 14 years old. That’s why he killed himself.”
Calder’s words entered Jack’s ears, but his brain couldn’t make sense of them. Then he remembered Peck saying to Anita, ‘I’m afraid you’re already a dead woman.’ That meant . . . Dear God, it couldn’t be! Peck had known he was HIV positive, and he’d had sex with Anita anyway. Anita had schemed to make a killing by marrying Peck. Instead, he had doomed her.
“Normally,” Calder said, “I wouldn‘t reveal this much about an ongoing investigation. In this case I want you to know I intend to prove you made blood money out of this. I will never drop this investigation.”
Calder stopped and looked at his wristwatch. Then he said, “Right about now, vice squads are raiding those dormitories to rescue what’s left of the . . . girls.” His voice choked off for several seconds. “This will be on every front page and on every television news program in California tomorrow. I want everyone who might be infected to get the warning.” He stared at Jack with what felt like X-ray vision, then stood. “Does it sound like I’m taking this personally? I damn sure am. See my daughter down there? She’s the same age as those poor girls who—”
He was so furious he couldn’t finish. He started down the stairs, then turned back to face Jack. “When my family emigrated from Mexico, my father changed my name from Ricardo Calderon Ramirez to Rick Calder. Bastards like your father have exploited my people for decades. It’s payback time.”
Calder’s animosity was like a heat wave. Peck had done the crime but, if Calder got his way, Jack would do the time.
Chapter 11
June 13
8:30 a.m.
SITTING IN HIS office at S & S with the door closed, Jack was still rocked by the filthy scenario involving his father that Calder had dumped on him, the same father who had always berated him, had never found him good enough.
He’d read the article in the morning Chronicle, so he wasn’t surprised when the call came summoning him to Sinclair’s office. He walked slowly down the corridor. When he arrived, Mrs. Pounders nodded curtly, and he entered.
Sinclair, seated behind his desk, looked up, eyes narrow over his glasses. “Hell of a thing. Couldn’t be more damaging.” He held up the front section of the Chronicle between two fingers, as if he’d just pulled it from the garbage bin. He didn’t invite Jack to sit.
“This is the worst thing I’ve ever gone through,” Jack said.
“I meant for the firm. I had a call today from a guy I haven’t heard from since the Berlin Wall came down. And from a French son-of-a-bitch I knew in . . . well, doesn’t matter. Just a shame that my firm’s name was mentioned so prominently. I’ll make Rick Calder wish he hadn’t dragged me into this.”
“The fallout will be bad for a few days, but then—”
“You have no idea how bad,” Sinclair interrupted, angry. “It’s my name on the door.” He slammed his hand on his desk.
Sinclair’s office door opened. Stan Simms stood framed in the doorway, filling it side-to-side. He shook his head, giving Jack a menacing look. “For Christ’s sake, why is Strider still here? I said—”
“Hold on, Stan. I’m just finishing a discussion with him. I’ll bring you up to date in a few minutes. Getting excited is bad for your—” He gestured at Simms’ huge body. “—everything.”
“I’m not kidding about this,” Simms shot back and closed the door behind him loudly enough to register his disapproval.
When he looked back, Sinclair’s face showed his exasperation. “That’s a sample of what I’ve been getting this morning, Jack. Your presence in the firm is killing me.”
/> “That article is about Peck, not me. And you knew about his problems when you hired me.”
“Just a damn minute,” Sinclair snarled. “I knew nothing about the scandal delivered to my breakfast table this morning—child whores, HIV, and all the rest. Simms has called a meeting of the senior members of the firm to move that we fire you. He thinks he can scare up enough votes from old farts worried about protecting their fat bonuses.”
Suddenly the walls were closing in. He’d walked away from Stanford Law. Now Simms was trying to get him fired. This time he’d fight. If he didn’t, everything he’d worked so damned hard for would go up in smoke.
“I can tell from your face,” Sinclair said, “that you’re thinking about going to war with us over this. Not only would that be a bad mistake, but it won’t be necessary. I’m the managing partner, and I won’t be stampeded by Stan Simms or anyone else. But I have to give Stan something, so I’ve come up with a solution that will satisfy everyone.”
Jack doubted that any solution that worked for him would be acceptable to Stan Simms. He waited for Sinclair to continue.
“One of our overseas offices might be the place for you. I thought maybe the Paris office.”
Sinclair’s hard eyes warned him that nothing was open for debate. If he didn’t accept, Sinclair was ready for an execution. Besides, Paris wasn’t exactly a hardship post.
“That might be best all around,” Jack agreed.
“Good, good. I was sure you’d see it my way. As I said, I had the Paris branch in mind, but then I had a better idea. When I bought a law firm in Buenos Aires a few years ago, I got its field office in Mexico City as part of the deal. I’ve steered a lot of clients to them, Americans doing business in Mexico, but I don’t trust the managing partner. That’s where I’m sending you.”
The corner of Sinclair’s mouth lifted slightly, and Jack mentally cursed him. Sinclair had trapped him, dangling Paris to get his agreement, and then switching to Mexico City.
“So it’s settled. Now here’s the situation. One of our biggest clients, Palmer Industries, has its main hazardous waste treatment plant in Juarez, Mexico. Right now they could be headed for big trouble. A Mexican government agency is hell-bent on putting them out of business, locking the doors. That makes me so mad I’d like to go down there and kick some ass.” He shook his right fist. “Then, after I saw the morning paper I realized that you’re the right man to protect that plant, to stop the bureaucrats cold. Your ‘brand’ as an environmentalist has taken a hit around here, but should still be okay down there.”
“Sounds like you’re sending me into exile,” Jack stated tightly.
“Not at all. Your environmental credentials are money in the bank for that client.” Sinclair stood. “I’ll send the files to your office and set up a meeting right away with Arthur Palmer. Oh, and I’ll tell him to bring his brother Edward.”
“How soon will I be transferred to Mexico City?”
“Immediately. You’ll be working out of that office, but it won’t exactly be a transfer. You’ll be on assignment to pull Palmer Industries out of the ditch. You’ll report only to me.”
Another crossroads. Maybe it really was time to walk away.
Before he could open his mouth, Sinclair said, “Jack, your future is in your own hands. Pull off a big win for Palmer Industries, and I’ll stash you in the Mexico City office for a year or so until the climate is less toxic around here. Then I’ll bring you back. I could even make you head of a new department dealing with water and environmental issues. But I want to be clear about one thing. If you blow this, we go our separate ways.”
He came from behind his desk and put a hand on Jack’s shoulder. “Remember, you owe me a big one.”
For what, being manipulated like a puck in a pinball machine? On the other hand, despite all the heat, instead of firing him outright Sinclair had found him a safe haven.
“All right, we’re done here. Mrs. Pounders will send you the details.”
As Jack reached the door, Sinclair called after him. “By the way, you know the judicial appointment that twit in the governor’s office talked to you about? Well, that’s off the table now. Tough break.” Sinclair turned away and reached for the phone.
How in God’s name had Sinclair known about that?
Chapter 12
June 16
3:00 p.m.
JACK HAD FOUND plenty of work to do during the couple of days after his meeting with Sinclair, but he now had only one client who mattered, Palmer Industries. Until he could meet the Palmer brothers, he felt like he was treading water. Finally, the call had come to join Sinclair in his office.
Minutes after Jack seated himself in Sinclair’s office, Mrs. Pounders entered and announced quietly, “Sir, Mr. Arthur Palmer and Mr. Edward Palmer have arrived.”
She was a buxom lady wearing a gray tailored blouse. Silver hair in a tight bun, Mrs. Pounders had the air of a woman who never used her first name. She looked only at Sinclair and paid no more attention to Jack than she would to a floor lamp.
Sinclair, from behind his desk, glanced at her over the top of his half-glasses. “Invite the gentlemen to join us.”
Arthur Palmer walked in first, keen eyes scanning the room like a hawk alert to the possibility of a pigeon within reach. An expensive black suit failed to disguise his lanky frame. He nodded at Sinclair, squinted at Jack without a greeting, and strode directly to the great expanse of window-wall. “Storm coming,” he said sourly.
Edward came in smiling broadly, suit coat open, revealing a bulging belly. The crown of his head looked more than bald. It looked polished.
Sinclair stood and gestured toward Arthur. “Jack Strider, meet Arthur Palmer, head of Palmer Industries. His brother Edward here is Chief Financial Officer.”
Edward stepped up to pump Jack’s hand.
“Strider,” Arthur grunted and walked over to a long bookcase. When he pulled on the spine of a volume in a row of Pacific Law Reporters, a chest-high three-foot long section of false casebook covers swung out, revealing a well-stocked bar. “I need a damn drink,” he announced. Choosing Glenlivet, he poured a tall glass half-full, tossed in three ice cubes, looked at the glass, and fished one out.
Jack had inferred from reading the files that Arthur Palmer provided the high-octane energy that powered the corporate motor. Edward was the cautious mechanic who kept the motor tuned. Their need for legal counsel over the years had been similar to that of most major corporations except in one important way. The company had been cited repeatedly for violations of federal and state environmental protection laws and had paid hundreds of thousands of dollars in legal fees to defeat enforcement. They were environmental barbarians he’d rather see prosecuted.
But the cold reality was that to keep his Supreme Court dream alive, he needed the job at S & S, and that meant working with Arthur Palmer, even if the man had a personality like a T-Rex. Jack would give Palmer Industries the best defense he could, as long as he could change the company in the process. It was the only way to get his career back on track.
Was he rationalizing? Selling out? Doing something he’d regret? No, he had the tools to turn this into a win-win.
Mrs. Pounders returned, setting a sterling tea service on an oval table and adding two ginger cookies beside each teacup. She backed away, closing the door with no audible click.
“Come over here, gentlemen. We’ll sit around this old table of mine.” Sinclair gestured with a casual courtliness that made Jack think of President Kennedy inviting guests to be seated in the Oval Office. As they settled in Chippendale chairs, Edward’s chair creaked in protest. “Don’t worry, Edward, that chair has supported you for years. It won’t let you down now, and neither will I.”
“I need all the support I can get.” Edward’s smile showed he took no offense at the joke at his e
xpense. “Our problems in Mexico have pegged my blood pressure in the red zone.”
“As I told you on the phone, I’ve assigned Jack to deal with those problems.”
Arthur’s mouth looked like he’d bitten an unripe persimmon. “Hold on, Justin, this guy Strider isn’t even on your letterhead. I don’t need some goddamn amateur giving me advice.”
Sinclair chuckled. “Always ready to give a man the benefit of the doubt, eh, Arthur? As for Jack being an amateur, in one sense you’re right. As a Stanford undergraduate, Jack rowed single shell in the Olympics. A damned good amateur I’d say.”
“I don’t care if he paddled around the goddamn planet,” Arthur said. “The Mexican government didn’t challenge us to a canoe race. They’re trying to shut down our goddamn plant.”
Sinclair was unperturbed. “As I was about to say, Jack clerked for Chief Judge Warner on the Eighth Circuit, then taught international business law, riparian rights—that means water law, in case you don’t know—and environmental policy. Youngest person to win a Distinguished Professor award.”
That almost persuaded Jack that Sinclair respected him, but not quite.
Arthur took a drink and banged his glass down hard on the table. “All very nice, but his father was a . . . well, we all read the paper. It would look like hell for someone named Strider to represent Palmer Industries.”
Sinclair’s glance at Jack conveyed the message that Arthur’s reaction was exactly what he’d predicted. Peck was a millstone around Jack’s neck, and a negative for the firm. Then Sinclair surprised him.
“Forget what his father did,” Sinclair said. “Jack will be working in Mexico, far away from the San Francisco Chronicle. And let’s not be hypocritical, Arthur, there’re no saints in this room.”
“All right, damn it, I’ll go along . . . for now.” Arthur took a long swallow of Glenlivet. “Strider, guys like you always do their homework, so you know we moved our plant to Mexico because the union went on strike at our main operation in Concord. That piled up tons of carcinogenic and toxic waste we treat for manufacturing plants from Boston to San Diego. We were looking at a dozen lawsuits, maybe even—” Arthur practically spat the word. “—bankruptcy.”
