by Mike Farris
And I couldn’t believe what I had found. By the time Robin arrived, I could barely contain my excitement. As she pulled up a chair and sat next to me, I handed her the articles I had printed.
“Here’s what I’ve got so far,” I said. “A while back, Tripp flew from Dallas-Fort Worth to Denver to Seattle, each leg on consecutive days. He came back the same way, also on consecutive days.”
“He’s a helluva convoluted flier, isn’t he?”
“It serves a purpose if you’re trying to cover your tracks. Now, here’s what I found in the paper on those dates.”
I singled out an article and showed it to her. “This was near the middle of the front section, dated the day after he got back to Dallas.”
Dateline Seattle, the headline read, Government Contractor Found Dead; Foul Play Suspected.
“Now, just a couple of weeks after that, he flew from Dallas-Fort Worth to Chicago to San Jose to Honolulu, then back.” I handed her another article. “The article’s dated two days after he got back, but it happened the day he arrived in Hawaii.”
The headline: Military Whistleblower Presumed Drowned on Oahu’s North Shore.
“And we already know he was in New York the day Jim Halloran got killed when he was supposed to testify about corruption in government contracting,” Robin said.
“See a pattern? Government contractors, military whistleblowers?”
Robin stared at me, disbelief painted on her face. “See what you can find in his expense statements the day J.D. Douglas got killed.”
“The Dallas lawyer?”
“Yeah. It’s just a hunch, but he represented a bunch of government contractors in Iraq and Afghanistan.”
I pulled up the newspaper article on the computer to get the date, then rustled through the stack of expense statements. “He flew to Oklahoma City that day and back the next.”
“Did he rent a car? It’s only about a three-hour drive.”
“Yeah.”
“Any way to find out how much mileage he put on that rent car without a subpoena?” she asked.
“I doubt it. If we could, though, are you thinking we’ll find enough miles to drive to Dallas and back?”
“Like I said, just a hunch, but he’d want to establish an alibi, like being out of town. And he damn sure wouldn’t want to drive his own car around J.D.’s neighborhood.”
I sat back, stunned. I was having a hard time processing all this information. “Do you realize what we’re saying? He’s just a lawyer, for crying out loud. He’s a real one, too. And, as much as I hate to admit it, a damn good one. I know that for a fact because I’ve seen him in trial.”
“That doesn’t mean he can’t moonlight. Tell me again what he did in the army. Did he have any special skills?”
“I don’t know.”
She read over the headlines again then looked up. “I know some people. Let me make a few calls.”
I grabbed a stack of documents from my briefcase. Billing statements. “And here’s the really fun part. On those three days he was gone to Seattle, he billed seventy-five hours. He’s got it split up among six different files, but he’s billing twenty-five-hour days.”
“And no one knows what he’s doing since it’s on different files.”
“Over half of it goes to Lacewell Industries, the rest to other clients.”
“Let me see those.” She took the billing statements and studied them. “At least he’s smart enough to actually bill for meetings in the cities he went to.” She singled out one and handed it to me. “Same thing for when J.D. got killed. He billed twenty-five hours to Lacewell for those two days, including a meeting in Oke City. Around fifteen thousand dollars.”
“But who knows for sure whether he really had meetings there? I guess we could track that down but probably not without tipping him off. Either way, it still makes perfect cover. Who’s gonna question a lawyer flying around the country on business?”
“This is just too incredible to think about,” she said. “Do we really think he’s going around killing people, or are we just letting our imaginations run away with us?”
Ask me that a month ago and I’d have laughed in her face. But two carjackings had a way of altering my sense of humor.
“All I know for sure is that he’s got more hours in a day than the rest of us do,” I said.
“I guess we’ll have fun at his deposition. He’s got some splainin to do.”
Chapter Forty-Three
Army Captain Albert Ross, looking barely old enough to be out of high school, sat in his office tucked away in a remote corner of Fort Hood in Killeen, Texas, just over two hours’ drive from Dallas. Robin stood behind him, reading over his shoulder as he pecked away on the keyboard, eyes glued to the monitor.
“I should have asked before,” Robin said, “but how’s your mom?”
Ross glanced back at her, a smile on his boyish face. “Yeah, you should have. If you’re going to call in a favor, you should at least start by raising the memory of why I owe you one.”
Robin laughed. “Not so subtle, am I?”
His face turned serious. “You don’t have to be. I don’t know what we would have done after Dad died if it hadn’t been for you. As far as I’m concerned, I owe you a lifetime of favors.”
He turned back to the keyboard. “But I sure don’t know why you think this is such a big favor. You probably could have gotten this same information with an FOIA request.”
“It’s called the Freedom of Information Act, not the Freedom of Fast Information Act.”
“Point taken.” He leaned in closer to the monitor. “Okay, here we go.”
The name TRIPP MALLOY came up on the screen, followed by his service record. “West Point, class of 1972, deployed to Vietnam from ’72 until the war ended in ’75. Honorable discharge in 1982.”
“That’s about when he would have started law school,” Robin said.
“Did you know your man was a sniper in Nam?”
Robin’s interest level kicked up a notch. “Now that I didn’t know.”
“Sixty-four kills. Got a couple of medals for it.”
“What did he do between ’75 and ’82?”
Ross keyed in a request. Almost immediately, a box appeared on the screen: ACCESS DENIED.
“What’s that mean?” Robin asked.
“It means those records are confidential. Could be anything from secret operations to working for the CIA. Let your imagination run wild.”
*
Don Wallace arrived at his office about mid-morning on Monday. He hung his coat on a hanger behind the door, then sent his secretary for coffee. While he waited, he thumbed through the stack of mail on his desk. His secretary returned moments later, coffee cup in one hand and a small envelope in the other.
“This came for you this morning, hand-delivery,” she said.
Wallace took the small envelope. By squeezing it, he could tell it contained something in bubble-wrap. He dismissed his secretary then tore open the package. Pulling off the bubble-wrap, he uncovered a single micro-cassette. Unlabeled. Unmarked. No note enclosed.
He pushed the eject button on his desk recorder and popped in the tape, then pushed play and leaned back in his chair to listen. The first sounds were muffled, multiple voices creating an indiscernible background noise. Then one voice speaking distinctly.
Wallace perked up. He knew the voice.
Alvin Peoples.
He listened carefully, straining to make out the words. With care, he could understand everything.
“By now y’all know what happened today,” Peoples was saying. “Federal marshals showed up with a court order from Judge Capps, and they seized our billing records.”
Wallace pushed the stop button. He stared at the tape player, picked up the envelope again, and studied it. Just his name in all block capital letters. Nothing else.
He pushed the play button again and listened. Frozen with attention, he stared at the tape player as the voices continued.
He was listening to a partners’ meeting at Black West & Merriam.
My God!
Chapter Forty-Four
While Robin was at Fort Hood, I had been busy running down information for her to use when she deposed Tripp the following week. Calling in a favor from the nephew of a friend of mine, I got the wireless phone company records she’d asked for when she called to report on what she had uncovered. Tripp’s background as a sniper was certainly interesting, but it seemed like we’d reached a dead end with his confidential files.
“Don’t give up yet,” Robin said. “I’ve got a computer nerd friend I’m gonna talk to. If anyone can get into those files, Jeffrey can.”
The doctors were discharging Meg that afternoon and, with Robin gone, I offered to drive Meg to Robin’s house and get her set up. She was sitting on the edge of the bed when I arrived, fully dressed and ready to go. Because she was still having problems with her left leg, the therapist had equipped her with a set of crutches—the kind with a handle-grip and a cuff that encircled her forearm.
An orderly arrived with a wheelchair. I tried to help Meg into it, but she waved off my efforts. Putting her weight on the crutches, she pulled herself up, pushing with her good leg, swung off the bed, and into the chair.
“I get around on my own pretty good,” she said.
I nodded. She clearly didn’t need, or want, my help.
With the orderly pushing the wheelchair and me carrying her crutches and overnight bag, we went silently down the hall, took the elevator to the ground floor, and went outside. I retrieved the car and pulled up to where she waited in the wheelchair.
I opened the door for her, but this time I knew better than to offer help. I had to admit she moved pretty well getting out of the wheelchair, walking to the car, and getting in. Supporting herself on the crutches, she stepped with her right leg then dragged her left foot to catch up. She had good movement in the leg but merely lacked control. The therapist and her doctors were optimistic that, though she might never be one hundred percent again, she would regain most of that control through time and a lot of work.
Meg didn’t say much as I drove. Instead, she leaned against the door and looked out the window. I opted not to intrude on her thoughts, whatever they might be. We had not yet spoken of my previous invitation to stay with me, or of her rejection of that invitation. At the end of the fifteen-minute drive, I pulled into Robin’s driveway.
I got out, grabbed Meg’s bag from the back seat, and raced around to open her door. She had already opened it and was struggling her way out by the time I got there. She stood unsteadily for a moment then balanced herself and walked forward. I followed, unsure what to do when she reached the front steps. There were only two, but even two might be difficult. I decided to stay behind, ready to catch her if she faltered, but wouldn’t move to assist her unless she asked.
She moved faster than I expected with her step, drag, step, drag. She had learned well in therapy, and she knew how to apply what she learned. She paused when she reached the stairs, but only for an instant. Then she raised her crutches to the first step. Using her arms, she lifted her body to catch up. She repeated the process on the second step and found herself on the front porch. Years of tennis playing had made her strong.
I unlocked the door and ushered her inside. The house was small, but tidy, beautifully appointed. Robin had kept the original hardwood floors throughout, which added an elegant touch. I was reminded of the floors in Tripp’s house, though his mansion had four times the floor space as did Robin’s house. I pointed Meg through an arched doorway to a hall that led straight to the back. The first door to the right opened into a guest bedroom that would be hers.
The small bedroom had been updated from the rest of the house. Flowered wallpaper on a pastel background cheered the room. A double bed, complete with down comforter that complemented the wallpaper, angled out from the corner next to a window. The wall next to the doorway held a large, antique wardrobe that doubled as a closet.
I dropped Meg’s bag on an oriental, hand-carved chest that stood guard at the foot of the bed. Then I gave her the key Robin had left me.
“Robin said to make yourself at home,” I said.
Meg nodded but said nothing. She went to the bed and sat on the edge.
“There’s a TV inside the wardrobe.”
She nodded again.
“Robin said she’d be home early and y’all could prepare for the depo.”
Another nod.
“Do you need anything else?” I asked.
“You’d better get back to the office.”
I debated for a moment whether to kiss her, but I was picking up definite signals. I opted against the attempt. At least that way I could tell myself that she would have kissed me if I had tried. But if I actually tried and she turned me away, it would remove all the ambiguity.
I preferred the ambiguity.
Chapter Forty-Five
Even with Robin by her side offering moral support, being back in Black West & Merriam’s offices terrified Meg. She had not set foot there since that day, months earlier, when she had packed the last of her personal belongings and Bay had helped carry them to her car. Her world had quickly unraveled after that.
She and Robin walked to the conference room, Robin rolling two briefcases on a cart while Meg struggled with her crutches. Familiar faces passed in the hallway, but no one acknowledged her presence, much less offered a friendly word or a sympathetic smile. Nor did Meg expect them to. After all, she had become their enemy.
Even the conference room seemed hostile. Meg had begged Robin to force Tripp to give his deposition at her office, but Robin talked common sense to her. The standard practice was to depose the opposing party at his, or his lawyer’s, office. Robin acquiesced to the custom, knowing she could then force the firm to take Meg’s deposition at Robin’s office. If Black West’s conference room seemed hostile with Tripp on the hot seat, Meg could imagine how hostile it would feel if she were the witness.
The court reporter was already set up at one end of the massive conference table. Robin used the same reporting firm for all her depositions, so the reporter was a friendly face—the only other friendly face Meg would see that day. She wished Bay could attend, and she longed for his comforting presence. But she knew he couldn’t offer aid and comfort in his own firm’s conference room, in the presence of his partners and their attorneys, while she was suing that very firm and those partners. For that matter, since he was a partner in the firm, technically she was suing him, too.
The appointed hour for the deposition arrived, and the Black West contingent failed to show. An old ploy—make the other side sweat by making them wait. After fifteen minutes, Robin called Alvin’s office and inquired as to their whereabouts. Alvin’s secretary told her that Mr. Peoples and Mr. Malloy were still meeting with their lawyers, but that she would let them know that Robin was waiting. Robin told her to tell them that they had five minutes, or she would put a certificate of nonappearance on the record then call the court and ask for an expedited hearing on a motion for sanctions. Then she politely thanked her and hung up.
Three minutes later, the Black West contingent arrived. Tripp Malloy, Alvin Peoples, and Oscar Hamilton entered first. They were followed by their lawyers: Steve Szulc and James Carpenter from the Houston firm of Szulc Carpenter & Addison, and Mike Bowman and Nat Fisk from Bowman & Fisk in Dallas. Robin had told Meg that two firms would be representing Black West: a criminal defense firm from Houston—the swirled hair and Italian-suited Szulc and Carpenter—and a civil firm—the more conservative Bowman and Fisk. Apparently the Justice Department raid had the firm worried about criminal charges, and they weren’t taking any chances.
The lawyers for the firm shook hands with Robin out of professional courtesy, but Alvin—without his trademark cigar—Oscar, and Tripp stood back and folded their arms. No one spoke to Meg, who had already taken her seat next to Robin, facing the window. Her crutches leaned against the ne
xt chair. Self-conscious about her scars, she tried not to draw attention to herself. She thought Tripp made a deliberate effort not to look at her face.
Most of the blinds had been closed, blocking out the morning sun, which seemed brighter and hotter in December than it did in summer. Everyone sat while Robin unloaded a stack of documents onto the table then placed a videotape on top. Tripp stared at the videotape. It looked to Meg as if he paled at the mere sight of it, more so than when he’d first looked at her then turned away.
After everyone was settled, the court reporter put Tripp under oath, then Robin started her questioning. Meg knew that lawyers usually spent the first part of their examinations painstakingly going through background information. She also suspected that everyone expected Robin to follow that same approach. She suppressed a smile, waiting for their reactions when Robin revealed her penchant for the unorthodox.
After having Tripp state his name, Robin said, “Mr. Malloy, on the same day that the United States Justice Department served a subpoena on your law firm for your billing records, you destroyed evidence. Why did you do that?”
It seemed as if everyone on the other side of the table spoke at once in a virtual Tower of Babel of confusion.
“Objection,” Bowman said. “That’s irrelevant.”
“That gets into the criminal investigation,” Szulc said. “It’s not a part of this lawsuit.”
“Tripp, don’t answer that,” Oscar said.
“Gentlemen, it is relevant to this lawsuit,” Robin said. “The documents Mr. Malloy destroyed were among those that I listed in my Request for Production of Documents and that I subpoenaed for this deposition, most of which have still not been produced. I’m entitled to know what happened to those documents.”
