Beyond Suspicion, page 14
“Let’s hear it.”
“Here’s a good example. Let’s say you’re going to have to testify at an evidentiary hearing, and I’m preparing you beforehand for the prosecutor’s cross-examination.”
“I know the drill. Answer only the question asked. Don’t volunteer information. If a question can be answered with a simple yes or no, answer it that way.”
“Exactly.” She glanced at Jack’s wristwatch and asked, “Do you know what time it is?”
“Rosa, I know that game. I’m only supposed to answer the question asked. So, if you ask me if I know what time it is, the answer is not ‘It’s ten-fifteen.’ The answer is ‘Yes, I know what time it is.’ That routine is so old, I think I’ve seen it on L.A. Law, The West Wing, The Practice, and, if I’m not mistaken, two or three times on Law amp; Order.”
“Leave it to television to give you the wrong answer.”
“What?”
“Do you know if your watch is accurate?”
“I set it myself.”
“Do you know that it’s accurate? To the second?”
“To the exact second, no.”
“Let’s say you’re standing outside Westminster Abbey and staring straight at Big Ben. If somebody asks you if you know what time it is, do you know that Big Ben is accurate?”
“I have no way of knowing that.”
“Exactly right. Unless you’re Father Time, if someone asks you what time it is, your answer can only be what?”
Jack paused, then said, “I don’t know.”
“You got it, my friend. And that is the way you deal with the IRS.”
Jack didn’t say anything, though it struck him as a little too cute. There was a knock at the door, and Jack’s secretary poked her head into the room. “Jack, you have a call.”
“Can you transfer it into here?”
“It’s personal.”
He assumed that meant Cindy. He excused himself and followed his secretary down the hall to his office.
“It’s not Cindy,” she said. “It’s your old boss.”
“Chafetz?”
She nodded. Jerry Chafetz was a section chief at the U.S. attorney’s office. He’d been Jack’s mentor back when Jack was a federal prosecutor. Maria had been Jack’s secretary since his days with the government, so they all knew each other.
“What does he want?” asked Jack.
“Not sure. I told him you were in a meeting, but he was emphatic that I interrupt. And he was even more insistent that I not announce who it was in front of Rosa.”
Jack entered his office alone and closed the door. He stared at the blinking hold button for a second, then answered.
“Swyteck, how are you?”
Jack managed a smile. They were old friends, but there was something about working for the government that seemed to put friends on a last-name basis.
“Been better, Chafetz. I have to say, the timing of this call is pretty peculiar, even from an old friend like you.”
“Timing’s no coincidence. I hope you already know this, but I didn’t have anything to do with your computers being seized.”
“You’re right. You didn’t have to say it.”
“In fact, no one in Florida was behind it.”
Jack’s pulse quickened. “This was ordered out of Washington?”
“It’s the organized-crime strike force.” He’d almost sighed as he said it.
“They think I’m with the mob?”
“I can’t tell you what they think.”
“Who’s the bag boy?”
“Sam Drayton. Pretty big player, but I’m so pissed at him right now I can hardly see straight. This predawn-raid bullshit isn’t the way to treat a former prosecutor like you.”
“I can fight my own battles,” said Jack. “Don’t get yourself caught in a bureaucratic crack over this.”
“I’m not crossing any lines. All I did was get you a meeting.”
“A meeting?”
“Somehow, you fit into Drayton’s strategy. I can’t tell you how, but I was at least able to convince Drayton that your come-to-Jesus meeting ought to be sooner rather than later. It just isn’t right for him to string you along like a common criminal.”
“So, does Drayton want to offer me a deal?”
“All I’m saying is that you need to meet with Drayton.”
“Fine. Rosa’s my lawyer.”
“You can’t bring a lawyer. You can’t even tell her we’ve talked.”
“He wants me to go unrepresented?”
“You’re a criminal defense lawyer and a former prosecutor. You’ll hardly be outmatched.”
“It just isn’t reasonable.”
“What Drayton has to say can’t be said in front of your lawyer or anyone else. It’s for your ears only, and this is your one and only chance to hear it. Those are his terms, not mine.”
Jack fell silent, concerned. He’d seen the rivalries between the strike force and local prosecutors before. The stench of internal politics was almost bubbling over the phone line. “I appreciate our friendship, but don’t be sticking your neck out too far, all right?”
“Don’t worry about me. This is all about you.” There was an urgency in his voice, an edge that Jack almost didn’t recognize. “You don’t even have to respond to what Drayton tells you. Just listen. Think of it as free discovery.”
Jack glanced out the window at downtown Coral Gables, mulling it over. Experience had taught him that it was best not to overanalyze some opportunities. At some point, you had to trust your friends, go with your gut. “All right. Where?”
“Downtown.”
“When?”
“As soon as possible. Drayton’s here today only.”
“Give me an hour.”
“Great. See you then.”
“Yeah,” said Jack. “Can’t wait.”
26
•
At eleven-thirty, Jack was at the Federal Building in downtown Miami. It was familiar territory.
Chafetz was the man who’d convinced him to become a federal prosecutor, and he was the reason Jack had stayed with the U.S. attorney’s office far longer than originally planned. At the time, Chafetz was in the special investigations section, a trial-intensive team that handled complex cases ranging from child exploitation to gang prosecution. It was hard work, high stakes, and never boring. A perfect fit for Jack. He and Chafetz worked side by side, liked each other’s style, liked each other. But nothing lasts forever. Chafetz was promoted to section chief, and Jack moved on to private practice. They tried to stay in touch, but it just wasn’t the same after Jack started working the opposite side of the courtroom.
Chafetz led Jack to a conference room near his office. Two men were inside, waiting. From the hallway, Jack could see them through the window on the door.
“I’ll take Drayton, you can have the little guy.”
Chafetz smiled, then turned serious. “I wish I could prepare you better, but you and I don’t need anyone accusing us of exchanging favors on the side. Just remember, whatever happens in there, it isn’t my show. It’s Drayton’s.”
“I know what you’re saying. It’s no secret how Drayton operates.”
“You know him?”
“Only by reputation. A conceited tight-ass who thinks anyone who lives outside the 202 area code just fell off the turnip truck.”
“Dead on, my friend. Just do me a favor. Don’t mention turnips in the meeting, all right?”
“Come on, you know me better than that.”
“I’m serious. This wasn’t easy to pull off.”
Jack wasn’t sure how Chafetz had convinced Drayton to lay his cards on the table sooner than he otherwise might have. But things like this didn’t happen just because you said “pretty please.” He looked him in the eye and said, “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.”
He opened the door, Jack and he entered, and the introductions followed. First was the portly guy with tortoise-shell glasses, a crew cut, and virtually no personality. The letters “IRS” might just as well have been tattooed across his forehead. At his side was Sam Drayton. Instantly, he struck Jack as a walking fraud. It was well known that his wife was a millionaire, but he still wore the cheap, off-the-rack suits of a government lawyer because that was the image he wanted to cultivate. The wristwatch was a forty-dollar Timex, and the pungent cologne smelled like some homemade concoction of Aqua Velva and a three-dollar jug of berry-scented massage oil that could have masked the odor of a moose in a spinning class. Jack would have bet his liberty that Drayton had never paid more than six dollars on a haircut.
All of that is fine, if that’s who you are. But there’s nothing more pretentious than a wealthy lawyer who has to work at being a regular Joe.
Jack took a seat at one end of the table, opposite Drayton and his IRS agent. Chafetz excused himself and reached for the door.
“Hey, Chafetz,” said Jack as he flipped him a quarter.
He caught it in midair, puzzled.
Jack said, “My turnip truck is parked out front. Feed the meter, would you?”
They exchanged glances, the way they used to communicate silently as cocounsel in a courtroom. “Sure thing,” said Chafetz as he left the room, suppressing his smile.
The others looked at one another, clueless as to the inside joke. Drayton turned to the business at hand. “Thanks for coming, Mr. Swyteck.”
“I wish I could say it was good to be back.”
“We know it’s an inconvenience. Especially in light of what happened to you this morning.”
“You mean those thieves who took my computers?”
“No. I mean that bruise on your jaw.”
“Seems that someone is really ticked off that I might blame the viatical investors for Jessie Merrill’s death.”
“We know. We’ve read the police report you filled out in the emergency room.”
“Seeing how you’re part of the strike force, am I correct in assuming that my little incident may have had something to do with an element of organized crime?”
“To be honest, we want you to help us pinpoint the exact criminal element involved.”
“I wish I could, but I can’t. Never got a look at who jumped me last night. And I’ve already told the state attorney everything I know about the threats against Jessie. Unfortunately, she didn’t get very specific.”
Drayton said, “We hear from a reliable confidential informant that the beating you took last night came on a direct order from a known underworld operative.”
“How does your CI know that?”
Drayton didn’t answer, didn’t even seem to acknowledge the question. He simply rose and went to the whiteboard, rolling a felt-tipped marker through his fingers as he spoke. “For about eight months now, we’ve had our eye on Viatical Solutions, Inc., or VS, as we call it.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“From the outside, VS appears to be nothing more than a viatical broker. The deals are structured like a legitimate viatical settlement, with one major difference.” Drayton marked a red dollar-sign on the whiteboard, then drew an X through it. “The money from the investors is always dirty.”
“VS is laundering money?”
“As if you didn’t know.” The prosecutor leaned into the table and said, “How did your name end up on an offshore bank account with Jessie Merrill?”
“She obviously put it there. How or why, I can only guess.”
“How did the investors pay her the one-point-five million?”
“I don’t know. That happened before she hired me.”
“Was it in cash or a wire transfer from another offshore bank?”
“I said I don’t know.”
“Perhaps it was a combination,” said Drayton, suggesting an answer. “Was it paid in a lump sum, or in installments from various sources?”
“I can’t answer that.”
“That’s unfortunate. Because if you can’t help us, we can’t help you.”
“Help me what?”
“It’s no secret that the state attorney suspects foul play in the death of Jessie Merrill. The way the evidence is playing out, you’re pretty high on the list of suspects.”
“Plenty of innocent people have found themselves on a prosecutor’s list of suspects.”
“No question. And if just half the glowing things your old boss says about you are true, then you probably will be exonerated. Eventually. But wouldn’t it be nice to speed up that process?”
“I’m listening.”
“The quickest way to get off the list of suspects is for you to convince the state attorney that someone else did it. We might be able to help you with that.”
“Are you sitting on evidence that Jessie Merrill was murdered?”
“This is a money-laundering investigation. All we can tell you is that the people we’re investigating-the people who we believe are in control of Viatical Solutions, Inc.-are certainly capable of murder. Your cooperation with us on the money-laundering investigation may well provide the jump-start you need to prove your innocence on the murder charge.”
“What do I have to do?”
“Just answer all our questions about the source of the funds, the structure of the transaction. Who did you meet with? How was the money transferred? From what accounts?”
“I told you, I wasn’t there.”
“And I keep coming back to the same question. Why is your name on that joint account? Just what secrets were you trying to cloak in the shroud of the attorney-client privilege?”
“I can only say it again: I don’t know anything about that.”
“Obviously, we don’t accept that. You have a pretty stainless reputation, but an argument could still be made that you and your client knowingly entered into a transaction that allowed these investors to launder one and a half million dollars in dirty money.”
“There’s no reason for anyone to believe that.”
“Yes, there is. I don’t care how clean you are. A married guy makes a mistake, there’s no telling what he might do for his girlfriend to keep her from sending an audiotape of their little escapade to his wife.”
Jack’s heart sank. Is there anyone Clara Pierce didn’t send that tape to? “That’s an old tape. Jessie and I dated before I was married.”
“That’s a likely story.”
“I didn’t have anything to do with that joint bank account.”
“We’ll see what your computers show.”
“If that’s why you seized them, you’re going to be sorely disappointed.”
“Computers are just one angle. Fortunately, we have ways of stimulating your personal memory.”
“Is that a threat?”
Drayton resumed his position at the whiteboard. “Simply put, you owe the Internal Revenue Service some serious money.”
“What?”
Drayton and the IRS agent were suddenly making goo-goo eyes at each other. “Peter, what’s the exact number?”
The bean counter flipped open his notebook. “Our latest calculation is in the neighborhood of three hundred thousand dollars.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“Hardly,” said Drayton as he wrote the number on the board. “You and Jessie Merrill were joint account holders on her one and a half million dollars. It’s our position that your half of that account is taxable income for legal services rendered. You owe income tax on seven hundred fifty thousand dollars.”
“Sorry to disappoint you, but I’ve already spoken to the PR of Jessie’s estate and disavowed any interest in my alleged half of those funds.”
Drayton’s eyes brightened. “Thank you for sharing that. Peter, make a note. It seems Mr. Swyteck has made a gift of his seven hundred fifty thousand dollars. So, in addition to income tax on that sum, he now also owes gift tax.”
The bean counter scribbled in his pad and said, “That brings the total closer to four hundred thousand.”
“You arrogant prick,” said Jack. “I dedicated a big chunk of my career to this office. And now this is what I get? Trumped up charges from Washington?”
“Calm down, all right? I didn’t want to have to threaten you, and I’m not going so far as to say you killed the woman. But there was something funny going on between you and Jessie Merrill. This is an eight-month investigation that needs your help. Fact is, you need our help too.”
“I don’t need anyone’s help. No juror in his right mind is ever going to believe I’m a murderer. I mean, really. If I wanted Jessie Merrill dead, would I kill her in my own bathtub?”
“Good answer, Mr. Swyteck. Did you think of it before or after you murdered Jessie Merrill?”
He knew that Drayton was just role-playing, stepping into the shoes of a state attorney on cross-examination. Still, it chilled him.
“You done?” said Jack.
“That’s all for now.”
He rose and started for the door.
“Hope to hear from you,” said Drayton. “Soon.”
“Hope springs eternal,” said Jack. He left the room, steadily gaining speed as he headed down the hall to the elevator.
27
•
A blast of chilly air followed Todd Chastan out of the autopsy room. He wadded his green surgical scrubs into a loose ball and tossed them into the laundry bag in the hallway outside the door. A soiled pair of latex gloves sailed into the trash. His pace was brisk as he headed down the gray-tiled hallway.
Dr. Chastan was an associate medical examiner in Atlanta. The office served all of Fulton County and, on request, certain cases from other counties. Chastan had spent nearly the entire morning exploring the internal cavity of a sixteen-year-old boy who’d botched his first attempted robbery of a convenience store. He’d left a loaded.38 caliber pistol, twenty-eight dollars, and about two pints of blood on the sidewalk outside the shattered plate-glass window. Just a few hours later, his young heart, lungs, esophagus, and trachea were resting on a cold steel tray. The liver, spleen, adrenals, and kidneys would be next, followed by the stomach, pancreas, and intestines. His brain had already been sliced into sections, bagged, and tagged. It was all part of a typical medical-legal autopsy required in the seventy or so homicides the office might see in an average year. Over the same period of time, ten times that number of examined deaths might be classified as “natural.”
