( 2011) Cry For Justice Read online

  I am a hair above six-three and usually tip the scales at just above 225. I work out enough to eat and drink what I want without wearing it. Let’s face it, our systems are not static. Metabolic activity grinds down substantially after age forty. I was already on the wrong side of that magic figure so for me at least, with my appetite and alcohol consumption needs, plenty of exercise is the only answer to not only remaining fit, but to avoiding the encroaching flabbiness of middle age. My skin is tanned and a bit leathery from too much sun, and a thin scar on my left cheek runs from just above my upper lip back almost to the jawline a souvenir from a rocket-propelled grenade blast. A few other scars: three slashing knife wounds to my torso, two shrapnel scars on one leg, and a smooth depression on my lower left abdomen from a 7.62mm Chinese round. According to the docs and the airport metal detectors, there is also some shrapnel along my lower back that has to stay there, the remnants of war. The other scars are of a different sort and don’t show. And they have little to do with time spent in inhospitable places. I’ve been told that my mind is sometimes mired in a soup of dark memories that tends to simmer, especially at night. I sometimes hear the faraway melodies of my childhood and, riding on them, my mother’s suffering and the silent tears of an ailing woman who did her utmost to hide the disease that was quietly consuming her. In the end, she pushed away everyone who ever cared, choosing instead to die alone. I really never knew my mother well, and yet, I missed her quiet presence.

  But none of that mattered much today. I had been looking forward to this day for months. When your life is hooked in with someone else’s, especially someone in a demanding profession, planning anything longer than a three-day getaway to the Upper Keys is tough. And if she’s passionate about her career, the chances of finding a week that you both have free in the same decade are fairly close to nil. It seems that in our modern day society the high school years, even the college years, offered better odds of not only finding that special someone, but time to enjoy the companionship. After those early years, dating becomes substantially more difficult and unpredictable, sort of a hit or miss game. Timing, professional demands and peripheral commitments always get in the way. Still, somehow, after a lot of tinkering and countless compromises, Nora and I managed to find five days when we both could get away.

  I parked the bike in the sheltered slot under the eaves of the stuccoed five-story building that housed my law practice. With its clean, sleek lines and neat rows of rectangular windows, the building is a more modern take on the pseudo art deco style so prevalent in Miami Beach.

  Pulling off the helmet, I took a moment to glance at the skies, which had darkened to wood-smoke gray. The breeze seemed angrier. A single cool raindrop splatted on my forehead. I quickened my pace, and as I approached the double glass entry doors my cell phone rang. It was Nora.

  “How’d it go?” she asked cheerily.

  I told her the meeting had worked out as expected: the parties had settled, and everyone went home a winner. I left out the part about how I had convinced Mr. Lord to reconsider.

  Then came the pause that I had long since learned to recognize as the segue to whatever was really on Nora’s mind.

  “You were involved in recovering money stolen by stockbrokers and crooks, right?”

  “Not sure I’m following, love.”

  “Did it ever get dangerous?”

  “Sometimes. Why?”

  “Just a sec...” She was always saying that. “Just a sec” meant she was doing something else or pondering how best to say something that may not be properly received or understood.

  “Dangerous how?” she finally said.

  “Well, shocking as this may sound, crooks tend to take an unkind view of anyone nosing around in their business. They’re kind of protective that way.”

  “I see...”

  “Nora, what’s this all about?”

  “I know it’s a lot to ask, but I have to.”

  “Oh?” Already I wasn’t liking the direction of the conversation.

  “It’s about one of my patients’ daughter.”

  Not wanting to lose the cell phone connection in the elevator, I still hadn’t gotten past the front doors to the building. “What about her?”

  “Well, it’s kind of involved. This patient was very dear to me. I’ve known her for many years. She apparently took her own life recently and her daughter her name is Amy Kelly (her mother changed her last name) well, she believes her mother didn’t kill herself. She thinks her stepfather may have killed her and made it look like suicide.”

  She paused and stayed silent for a long moment. I still didn’t understand why she was telling me about this woman. Nora’s an oncologist sad stories, terminally ill patients and death are her stock in trade.

  “And you’re telling me this because…?”

  “Well, her daughter, Amy, tells me this man apparently also took her mother for a ride stole everything she owned. Mortgaged her house, cleaned out her bank accounts, investments, and retirement accounts. Everything. She was left destitute and facing eviction. Then, poof, he just vanished. Apparently, it was too much for Mrs. Kelly to bear. She became a recluse. And now this. Isn’t that so terrible?”

  “Sure is,” I said as I took one last gander at the approaching clouds. A sour mood came over me. Our vacation plans were looking less certain by the moment. “How much money are we talking about?”

  “I don’t know. Amy doesn’t really know, either. She and her mom had a very strained relationship and barely spoke, but I’d say it has to be a large sum. Her house in Palm Beach was on a point on the Intracoastal. The property was large, perhaps a couple of acres. I’d say it was worth somewhere north of ten million dollars, maybe more. So however much he stole, it had to be a lot.”

  “And I ask again; why am I hearing about this?”

  “I’d like you to talk to Amy.”

  “Sorry, love. I’ve got enough on my plate right now, and I don’t do that kind of work anymore. She should go to the cops.”

  “She did.”

  “And?”

  “They can’t help. Her mother’s death was ruled a suicide, and the rest of it was all perfectly legal.”

  “Did the mother grant power over her affairs?”

  “She did,” Nora hurriedly added. “She was very ill, Jason. MS, also late-stage cancer. She was on powerful painkillers. She signed a power of attorney, put this man in charge of all her affairs. I mean, he really screwed her!”

  I went inside and stood in the elevator lobby. The sheer enormity of all the dumb things people do never ceases to amaze me. People fail to see, not because they’re blind or the other person is a great actor, but because they can’t bear to acknowledge the obvious. So they turn a blind eye to the little telltale signs screaming that not all is as it seems, that if it looks too good to be true, it probably is. There are no victims, just willing participants.

  Nora pressed on. “The thing is, there’s a family heirloom missing apparently, a tapestry that had been in her family for generations.”

  “Let me guess,” I interrupted. “This is all about the sentimental value of a stolen early-seventies macramé, right?”

  A moment of silence, then: “You can be such an ass sometimes.”

  “An endearing quality of mine, as you know.”

  She ignored me.” I’d like you to meet her.”

  “Sorry, can’t,” I replied.

  “Can’t? Or won’t?” Her voice had taken on a certain edge.

  “Okay, whatever: won’t.”

  I juggled with the question: elevator or stairs? If I took the elevator, chances were good that I would lose cell signal, thus ending the conversation. But I knew Nora: she would just call back. May as well tackle this now. “I’m sorry, babe, but this is just not my line of work anymore. You know that.”

  Another long silence.

  “Would you do it as a favor for me?”

  “I’m sorry. I can’t. Not now, anyway.”

  “Wh
y not?”

  “I’ll tell you why: I’m on vacation. No, we meaning you and I are on vacation! Weather or no weather, we’re headed to paradise. You with me so far?”

  “Let me ask you something,” she said. “Up in New York, with the law firm, how lucrative was it to go after these types of cases?”

  “They usually paid off,” I said as I walked across the marbled-floored lobby to the stairs. May as well get some cardio to go with the indigestion. “Look, Nora,” I said in a sharp, clear tone that I hoped would convey that we had reached the end of this conversation. “It’s not as easy as it sounds. Finding those assets is a very long and tedious process, not to mention expensive. And I don’t even come close to having the resources. If this guy’s as good as he sounds, he’s gone deep. He’s probably vanished by now, along with most of what he took. He’s probably hidden the money in a dozen different ways.”

  “So what do you expect me to say, Jason? I’m sorry you aren’t even willing to talk to this girl? Is that it?”

  When she got a bite on something, she was like a badger: shake her all you want, she wasn’t letting go. I needed a new plan.

  “Nora, listen to me. I’ve been down this road dozens of times. I know it sounds easy, but it isn’t. Unfortunately, we live in a very dynamic global culture now, practically without borders. On top of that, these crooks are not your run-of-the-mill bookkeeper stealing from the petty cash drawer. These guys are very savvy highly sophisticated. They’re after millions billions in some cases. Think of hedge fund manager Stamford, or Gerald Payne, or the Ponzi king of them all, Madoff.

  “With that kind of money, these crooks can surround themselves with armies of lawyers. Plus, they’re in it for keeps. They know they have only so much time before the gig is up. One day a client will want his money back, and that’s the beginning of the end. So the smart ones, they take the time to map out their exit strategy well in advance, they hide the stolen assets very well and usually out of reach. Not that it always works, though. These days the government has better wire-tracing capabilities. Everything leaves a paper or electronic trail. But by the time the client finds out something’s wrong, the money, stocks, bonds, gold, art, macramé heirloom, or whatever is gone. What’s left is often located offshore, out of U.S. jurisdiction, laundered and dried so many times that not even the SEC or Treasury with all their sophisticated bag of tricks can make sense of it all. Those are the sad cases. All the client can hope for is a conviction, because after expenses and attorneys’ fees, there’ll be damn little else to recover.” I took a deep, hopeful breath. I had delivered an unbeatable summation.

  “Then, you should be very interested in talking to Amy,” she said.

  Good Lord, she was relentless! It was time to change the subject. “Nora, I haven’t seen you in five days. Why don’t we talk about it later? Say, after a shower and dinner?”

  “Oh, no,” she said. “That’s not gonna work this time, cowboy. First we talk, then you see her, and then maybe, just maybe, we’ll see about you getting lucky.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Think melanoma carcinoma.” In other words, she meant business.

  I remained silent.

  “Do this for me, please? Just talk to her; hear her out. You won’t be able to turn her down if you do, Jason. Trust me.”

  “Why is that?” I instantly regretted asking.

  “Remember 1987? The big market crash?”

  “Yeah?” I said, breathing a little from the five flights and leaning back against the stairwell door. I wanted to wind this up before going into my office. I did remember. The crash exposed several fraudulent schemes, where hundreds of investors lost a lot of money. In 1987 it took longer than it should have to uncover the extent of the crimes committed against the investing public, but eventually the perpetrators’ flimsy web of lies came crashing down and the truth came out. There were high-profile arrests, with the crooks perp-walked out of their Wall Street corner offices and past the news cameras. The press went on a feeding frenzy, keeping the criminals’ faces plastered on the front pages for weeks while consigning the tales of the ruined victims to the back pages. Prosecutors pounded their chests and promised justice and stiff sentences; lawmakers jockeyed for the limelight. But the actual victims of the fraud were lucky to see two cents on every dollar lost.

  “Well, Amy’s dad was one of those sent to prison.”

  “Is that right?” I was still unimpressed.

  “Her father was Samuel Reichmann, the man accused of scamming close to two hundred million dollars from his clients. Remember him?”

  I did. Reichmann was the Madoff of his day. He died without revealing what happened to some twelve million dollars the government and dozens of lawyers wanted back. He claimed the missing funds were legitimately his, arguing that he had earned it all before the alleged crime. Not surprisingly, prosecutors disagreed. They wanted to take everything from him and put him on the street in his underwear. He was to be an object example of what would happen to those who betrayed their fiduciary trust. If the missing money had been invested all these years, it added up to a princely sum.

  “If what she wants to recover is part of the money her father stole, then it’s no good,” I said. “It didn’t belong to him, and it doesn’t belong to her, either.”

  “The issue isn’t money, Jason. Not everything is about money.”

  “See, that’s where you’re wrong,” I said. “For these people, it’s all about the money who has it, where it came from, and how they can get a piece of it.”

  “Look,” she said, the edge gone from her voice as quickly as it came, “yes, her father stole millions. But what she wants belonged to her mother, and her mother alone. It’s an heirloom that had been in the family for decades. It has special significance for her.”

  I said nothing.

  “Jason, I wouldn’t ask if it weren’t important. This girl needs help. I don’t know anyone else who can help her like you could. Just talk to her... please?”

  “The heirloom is the missing rag, right?” I hated myself for asking.

  “Yes!” Nora replied with renewed vigor. She could smell victory. “I don’t know much about it, but she told me her father apparently placed some sort of insurance in it. ‘For a rainy day,’ she said. In case something went wrong.”

  “Insurance?”

  “Amy thinks it may be something valuable.”

  “She thinks?” I said, the words dripping with skepticism. “This is grand.”

  “Look, Jason, let her tell you herself. Her mother was very well off before she married Reichmann. She was born into substantial wealth. I bet whatever insurance he tucked away for Amy may have been in anticipation of what he was about to do.”

  “So she’s really missing two items, then: The old rag and something her father supposedly stashed, right?”

  “Like I said,” Nora replied, “let her tell you herself.”

  I remained silent. I didn’t want to get involved in this. I had the nagging sensation that there was a hell of a lot more to this than anyone knew, and that I wouldn’t like whatever about it that was bothering me. But what else could I do? And after all, what could it hurt to sit and just listen nothing more-- to the girl’s story?

  “Look, Jason, I know this is not what you do anymore. I get it. But this girl needs guidance. From someone who knows what to do in this kind of case. That’s you. At least point her in the right direction.”

  I remained quiet.

  “Just talk to her, please? For me?”

  “Shit. Fine,” I muttered. “But no promises.”

  Three

  It was almost five o’clock when I ended the call with Nora, already ruing my decision, and finally walked into the office.

  Rene Encantos, my receptionist, office assistant, and doer of all needful things, was seated as usual at her desk, ear pressed against the phone. Smiling, she put the receiver down and indicated that Samuel Raj, the man who does all the investigate work requi
red in my practice, was waiting in my office. Rene, with her dark olive complexion and sinister-black shoulder-length hair that somehow always looks perfect, has a look that could easily be described as luscious an unfair and exotic beauty that, when she was younger, must have made angels weep. Those looks and the air of dignified sophistication about her gave my office a certain element of credibility that I could not easily afford otherwise. She has managed my front office since the day I moved in. She’s in her early fifties, hardworking, divorced, with a grown daughter who went to Georgetown on an academic scholarship and was now at George Washington University Law School. She was tall at a five ten and was blessed with a shapely frame that gave her a slim athletic build. She also possessed a charming smile that could sooth and disarm anyone but the most belligerent of clients. With the black pumps she wore today she was tall enough to easily look at me leveled eyed. It was hard to look at Rene and not think of the what-ifs, but somehow, I had managed to wrestle and tame the evil within and had thus far, anyway refrained from spoiling a great working relationship and a valued friendship.

  Compared to the handsome penthouse offices of Flannigan, Rubinstein, and Fountain, my hole-in-the-wall was nothing special. Just three comfortable offices: one for me, one for Consuelo, my law clerk, legal assistant, office manager, and critic at large, and the third, a “general use” room. I had long ago given up the idea of bringing in a younger lawyer to work with me and grow the practice, so Consuelo had turned the last office into a fairly decent lunch area complete with a double-door refrigerator, microwave, espresso/cappuccino maker, flat-screen TV, and a round four-chair breakfast table. A potted palm and several orchids she tended daily added a homey touch. Separating my office from Consuelo’s was a conference room that sat up to twelve adults. No frills and no bravado what you saw was what you got: a lawyer more concerned with results than with bling.