The American Trap, page 2
Well, no, I don’t understand. Or rather, yes, I get the sense of the deal that is looming. David E. Novick is suggesting that I become his informant within the firm. I am jet-lagged, and have not slept for twenty-four hours, and I am still at the mercy of the handcuffs that shackle me to this iron bar. What should I comprehend exactly? He makes no attempt to help me, remains vague, makes no precise request except to repeat incessantly that I must not tell anyone. To me, this is just unthinkable.
As he tries to silence me, I recall being in one of Alstom’s training sessions for senior managers. Ironically, this was shortly before my arrest. The seminar focused on the legal risks of our profession. We were given a small business-type card with the phone numbers to call in the event of arrest, including Keith Carr’s, the group’s general counsel. We were told to carry this little card with us at all times, and should we ever be confronted by a judge or a police officer, never to waver from the two rules instilled during these coaching sessions:
1. Do not say anything.
2. Call Alstom’s legal department, which will immediately send a lawyer to the employee in question.
I remembered the lesson and resolved not to fall into the attorney’s trap; at least that’s what I believed at that moment. In utter loyalty to Alstom and without imagining for a second what it would cost me, I applied the precepts given by my company’s legal department and declined. I needed to alert them, and that’s what I explained to the attorney.
‘Listen, I have never been arrested before, I don’t understand what you want. I therefore ask you to allow me to inform my company as well as my consulate.’
Poker faced, the attorney signals to an investigator, who hands me my BlackBerry, confiscated during my arrest. I immediately attempt to reach Keith Carr. In Paris it is 5 a.m., and the phone just keeps ringing. However, I am able to reach Tim Curran, the head of Alstom’s power division in the United States, with whom I had an appointment the next day in Windsor, Connecticut. I briefly summarize the situation to him. He is flabbergasted.
‘What is happening to you is unbelievable. This is completely absurd. We’ll get you out of there fast. I’ll notify headquarters immediately.’
Tim Curran comforted me somewhat. The attorney has gone and two police officers search and conduct a complete inventory of my suitcase. I still have the right to make one more phone call. I hesitate whether to call Clara, my wife, and then I decide not to. Why worry her? At this point, I am absolutely convinced: it is only a matter of a few hours. I’ll soon be released. David E. Novick may well have shown himself to be uncompromising, but no matter how much he insists that Alstom has been under investigation for almost three years; that the group has not responded to any of the Department of Justice’s injunctions; that it has not heeded any of the questions asked, and has played dead – I just don’t believe it. Or rather, I do not want to believe it. I am firmly convinced, and would put my head on the line to prove it, that my company will come to my aid as soon as possible. I know I can count on the CEO; he has total faith in me.
A few weeks before I left for New York, I had dinner with Patrick Kron. He had invited me, plus a few Asian-based executives, to a sumptuous reception in Singapore, at a very special venue: the Marina Bay Sands, the most sought-after restaurant in the capital. Footage of this establishment has circulated worldwide. It is a rather wacky building with a gigantic flat roof on the fifty-seventh floor, which projects over the ocean like the bow of a boat. Keith Carr was also present. For several years now, Alstom had been developing a large part of its energy activities in Asia, to the extent that Kron was even considering partially transferring the group’s headquarters to Singapore. An entire extra floor was rented at the end of 2012 to accommodate part of the Parisian workforce. Kron was a regular visitor to the premises and rumours started to circulate within the company. It was alleged that the CEO was considering taking up tax residence there. Admittedly, Singapore’s tax rate is particularly attractive (maximum 20 per cent excluding allowances); the head of Alstom’s Singapore office, Wouter Van Wersch, began prospecting the city in early 2013 to find a pied-à-terre for Patrick Kron.
To tell you the truth, I didn’t really care about any of that. Though I wouldn’t describe our relationship as being particularly close – even if we had got used to one another – Patrick Kron and I had what you might call a courteous relationship. In fact, one week before my trip to New York, I had accompanied him back to India to meet the managers of Reliance Industries, the largest private Indian conglomerate owned by the Ambani family. Patrick Kron is first and foremost a salesman, an outstanding negotiator, who quite happily globetrots alone, reaching out to his partners directly. He can be uncompromising, and sometimes almost rude, but he also knows how to ingratiate himself to clients. He made his mark among his troops in the field, rather than at headquarters in his own office, sometimes even bypassing the internal pecking order.
During that illustrious dinner at Marina Bay Sands, Keith Carr, loyal Kron fan, whom I have known for many years as he was previously in charge of the Power sector to which I reported, approached me and whispered: ‘Fred, do you remember the Tarahan case and the American investigation for which we also carried out our own investigation?’
‘Yes, of course. Why, what’s going on?’
‘Not a lot; you have absolutely nothing to fear yourself. The internal investigation cleared you completely. But certain other individuals should be a little concerned.’
At the time, I thought it was a little strange that in the middle of a cocktail party he was talking to me about this case, whereas we had never mentioned it before, even in 2010 or 2011, when I was interrogated as part of the internal audit.
But right now, in the FBI office, this conversation springs to mind, presumably because I’m dialling Keith’s number again.
At the second attempt, he finally picks up. The conversation is very short, but I remember every word.
‘I don’t understand, I don’t understand . . . it’s incomprehensible,’ repeats Keith, who seems as stunned as I am. ‘We are in the process of finalizing an agreement with the Department of Justice. It’s just crazy what’s happening to you.’
‘Well, maybe, but the US attorney doesn’t seem to know about this deal. Or he doesn’t believe in it . . . He keeps telling me that I am here precisely because Alstom has failed to cooperate for three years and they have lost patience. Besides, you made it clear to me a few weeks ago that I had nothing to worry about. So why have they arrested me?’
‘It’s completely baffling. We’re so close to an agreement that I shall be boarding a plane in a few hours. I am expected in Washington today, to strike a deal with the DOJ. Having said that, in light of what has just happened, I am reluctant to go to the United States. First, I will consult our lawyers. But don’t worry. Above all, stay calm. Once I’ve contacted our law firm, we’ll send someone to you. In the meantime, say nothing to the attorney, nor to the FBI. For tonight, it’s a little late, but we’ll get you out of there on bail tomorrow and then we’ll see what strategy to deploy.’
And then he hung up. There is no doubt whatsoever: I’ll hear from him in the early hours tomorrow; he won’t desert me, he’ll be at my side until the end. The company I have served for so many years simply would not abandon me. I’d have to be crazy or paranoid to even consider it.
As Keith’s comforting words resonate in my ears, the prosecuting attorney returns to the interrogation room.
‘You don’t want to cooperate. Okay, it’s your choice.’
‘No, I’m willing to shed light on my role in this case, as I don’t think I have much to reproach myself for, but I do need a defence lawyer as I have absolutely no knowledge of how the American justice system works, or indeed of my rights. I think any non-US citizen would react in the same way.’
My explanations make no impression on Attorney David E. Novick. Unwavering, he continues: ‘So, I will transfer you to a prison in Manhattan. You will spend the night there. Tomorrow you will appear before a judge of the district court of Connecticut. You will have the right to meet with your counsel before this hearing. The judge will decide whether or not you remain in detention. If you wish, you can also make a phone call to your family to inform them.’
Stay calm. That’s what Keith Carr advised.
Keep it together, play it cool. In any event, I have no other choice. Should I call Clara? The attorney seemingly prompts me to do so. Maybe he’s trying to unhinge me? Of course, she’ll be worried sick. And her distress will weaken my resistance. A classic when it comes to psychological pressure. The cops, I later learn, call it ‘tenderizing the meat’. I think on my feet. I should be released tomorrow evening at the latest. The country that let out on bail Bernard Madoff or even O.J. Simpson for alleged homicide is not going to maintain me in detention, a French citizen, a corporate executive who, quoting the US attorney, did not have a ‘decision-making role’ in the Tarahan project targeted by the US judiciary. So no, I won’t call my wife. I would rather tell her about my misfortune when I get out.
Politely, I decline David E. Novick’s proposal. However, I demand that the French consulate in New York be notified. Novick immediately dials a pre-recorded number on his phone. Apparently, he has it all worked out. He knows exactly who to call at the consulate on a Sunday evening at midnight.
He passes me the handset and the person who answers is obviously ‘on call’. The person I am speaking to asks my identity and specifies that he is just ‘taking note’. Then Novick seizes the phone again to tell the consulate that I will be heard tomorrow, Monday, by a judge at the court in New Haven. The attorney has now finished with me for the evening.
Ron and Ross are back on the scene. They take an inventory of all my belongings (computer, laptop, clothing) in my small roller suitcase. Then we pass through the armoured doors, fingerprints are taken from all ten fingers, plus there is a photo session lasting a good half-hour. Then, back into the elevator, again entering it backwards, after which we drive to the nearby Manhattan prison.
The two inspectors don’t leave my side during the whole admission procedure. Then, before leaving, Ron mutters: ‘Good evening, Mr Pierucci. What I tell you is going to make you nervous, but I want you to know that tomorrow morning you will be so glad to see us.’
To be honest, I’m not sure if this is a strand of sadism or a friendly warning. I’ve never set foot in a prison before. At the entrance, two guards order me to undress. They take everything: my watch, my wedding ring, my shoes. I’m completely naked and so disoriented that I lose my command of English . . .
‘Turn around, squat and cough,’ the guard orders me, in an accent that I can barely understand.
Cough, I get that. But squat? I don’t remember what that means.
‘Squat and cough,’ repeats the guard angrily. ‘Squat and cough!’
Seeing my dumbfounded look, he mimics what I must do. I have to crouch (squat), spread my legs and cough. I comply while the guard stands behind me.
He’s checking to see that nothing falls out of my butt.
Squat and cough. Since then, I have retained the expression. I had to comply with this humiliating procedure dozens of times during my incarceration. That evening, as if in a trance, I discovered the US penitentiary system. The guard orders me to put on an orange jumpsuit. I then wait more than two hours, standing, handcuffed, with my hands behind my back. The prison has run out of English admission documents. There are some in Spanish or Chinese, but none in English . . . Once we get the papers back and fill them out, I’m taken to the cell. In fact, I later find out that they have put me in ‘the hole’, where the most dangerous prisoners are placed in solitary confinement. It is almost 3 a.m. A guard pushes me inside. I am surrounded by darkness but it’s not totally black. No, it’s grey. A tiny neon light casts a gloomy glare. The guard closes the door. I then realize that I’m still shackled in the back. For the first time, I start to panic. I can feel the anxiety mounting. They’re going to leave me handcuffed all night! Suddenly, I hear a banging sound. A small hatch opens in the door, and the guard shouts at me to step backwards. I obey, walk to him in reverse mode and he removes my handcuffs through the hatch.
Ross and Ron were right. The first night in detention is gruesome. The stench of the cell, its suffocating crampedness. I can’t see anything, but I can hear. From all directions I hear violence and blood-curdling screams, as if they are fighting and slaying each other. I haven’t eaten or drunk since my arrest. It’s impossible to sleep. But this detention is merely an interlude. I spend the night trying to remember the facts surrounding the Tarahan contract ten years ago and revising my schedule. Okay, so I have missed my first morning of appointments in Connecticut. It’s not the end of the world. I view the pages of my schedule. I just have to reschedule this meeting to late morning and this one to early afternoon. By playing tight, I should be able to complete my entire programme in twenty-four hours instead of forty-eight.
I will be back in Singapore in three days and back home as planned on Friday. Meaning that, this weekend, I will be able to take my young twins (Raphaella and Gabriella, seven years old) to their friend’s birthday party, and the older twins (Pierre and Léa, fifteen years old) to their football match. It seems dumb in retrospect, but this thought reassures and relieves me. I doze off for a few minutes.
Chapter 3
The first hearing
Who would have thought it? In the early morning, I am indeed glad to see the two FBI investigators again. After a further strip search, I am transferred in shackles to the New Haven Court, a two-hour drive from New York. During the journey I feel like I’m returning to an almost normal life. Ron and Ross bring me coffee and bagels, and they are more than happy to chat. They are both thirty-five years old. Ron has three children. He’s a tall, beefy guy, passionate about scuba diving. As for Ross, he’s the father of a little girl. They are both very keen to discover France. We are now talking as if we were old acquaintances.
When we first arrive at the court, Ron and Ross park outside and await instructions. We are early and therefore wait a good hour, sitting in the car, until my two guards are told finally that the hearing will not be held in New Haven but in Bridgeport, about thirty minutes away in the opposite direction. Off we go again. Before I return to their custody, Ron parks his car and Ross gives me my phone. It means it’s my last chance to make a phone call to a family member if anything goes wrong at the hearing. It’s noon here, so midnight in Singapore. I decide to call Tim Curran, the head of Alstom’s power division in the United States.
I need to update him about the conversation I had with Keith Carr the day before. I haven’t forgotten that the latter is due to arrive in Washington later today. It seems obvious to me that Tim Curran will be monitoring the situation with the general counsel. That’s what I’m asking him to do at any rate.
I say goodbye to Ross and Ron, who hand over to a marshal, who locks me in a courtroom cell. The hearing to examine my request for release on bail is about to begin. First, I finally have the right to meet with the legal counsel appointed by Alstom. I enter a small box and meet Liz Latif from Day Pitney. A young woman of about thirty-five to forty years of age.
My first impression of her does not fill me with confidence. She is unfamiliar with Alstom’s case and does not seem to be familiar at all with the offence I am charged with, i.e. violation of the Foreign Corrupt Practices Act, the extraterritorial law that gives the Department of Justice the right to incarcerate anyone, regardless of nationality, from the moment they are suspected of having committed the offence of bribing a foreign public official, which may be linked in one way or another to the United States’ territory. Liz Latif informs me of some facts.
‘It was Alstom’s lawyers, Mr Pierucci, who contacted our firm this morning to ask us to assume our defence, as they are not allowed to do it themselves.’
‘Why is that? It would have made more sense for them to take ownership of my file?’
‘Yes, but there is the risk of a conflict of interest . . .’
‘I don’t understand; just include me in the deal that Alstom is making with the Department of Justice on the Indonesian case: that seems to me the least they can do. Where is the conflict of interest between Alstom and myself?’
‘It’s not as straightforward as that, Mr Pierucci; however, you should know that Alstom has agreed to pay for your defence.’
I then attempt to obtain from Liz details of the charges against me. It is not easy to converse in the small box reserved for meetings between detainees and lawyers, as we are separated by a wire grille. She tries to show me some papers by pressing them against the wires. Obviously, I can’t read them properly. Moreover, I note that she has not had time to read the indictment.
‘But what exactly is the accusation against me? Did you at least get to see the main lines of the file?’
‘One case of corruption, and money laundering.’
Money laundering! An offence usually attributed to arms traffickers, or drug dealers! Where the hell did they get that wild accusation? Liz, seeing me enraged, tries to reassure me.
‘Either way, they are not going to discuss the merits of the case today. I’m simply going to ask for your release. I shall suggest bail of a hundred thousand dollars, which should be ample to convince the court. You should know that you were indicted by a Grand Jury and that your indictment was kept under seal until your arrest. It is no longer confidential, and the DOJ will certainly be contacting the press today. You should also know that you are not the first Alstom person to be prosecuted. One of your former colleagues, when you were based in the United States, David Rothschild, has already been indicted and cross-examined by investigators. He agreed to plead guilty and negotiated a maximum five-year jail sentence.’
Rothschild pleaded guilty and is facing a sentence of five years, maximum! I turn completely white this time. Suddenly I become brutally aware of the gravity of the accusations and especially of the potentially disastrous consequences both for myself and for my family. But I hardly have time to reflect on these before an usher beckons us. The hearing begins. It is presided over by Judge Garfinkel, who after asking me if I understand English well enough, gives the floor to my defence. It takes less than a minute for Liz Latif to argue for my release on bail of $100,000 plus electronic tagging.
