The Substitution Order, page 29
“Okay,” Blaine replies, nodding in agreement. “For instance, if an individual had researched people, places and things, or escape routes, that history is just waitin’ to get lifted by unfriendlies.”
“True,” I answer. “As I learned the hard way.”
“I’ll be in Harrisonburg tonight and in the mornin’. Money’s frat’s havin’ a party. I’ll take care of business then. Different stores for different computers, cash transactions.”
“Perfect.”
“Can I ask a question?” He sets his backpack on the ground. “Most of this I understand, but how does hijackin’ this law firm’s Web page hide your disappearance?”
I pause. I pocket the bank envelope. I glance at the maintenance shed. “It just does,” I answer under my breath.
“I mean, I’m not tryin’ to be a busybody, but the fun for me—other than helpin’ a quality friend—is building the whole contraption and then watching it work. Scoping the lackey Flanagan’s bank account to see if his bribe check has landed is a smart strategy, and havin’ access to his e-mail could certainly pay off if you need that travel permit you mentioned or a pass to get a jump on the cops, but this law-firm play’s a mystery.”
“If we actually do this, I’ll explain it then. Fair?”
“Cool. I hope we don’t have to. It’ll be pretty friggin’ bleak here without you.”
“You solved your college mess yet?” I ask.
“January is what I’m plannin’. This semester, I’m taking the math and science classes they fucked me over with. I checked directly with Tech’s admissions office myself—I’m enrolled in the courses I need. Finally. Dollars are always an issue, but I should be okay. Thanks again for your help.” He leans sideways and takes hold of a backpack strap. “Oh, while I’m thinkin’ about it, would you write me a recommendation for when I move to Blacksburg? I’m gonna put in applications at different restaurants, maybe even a legit Subway. And I’ve closed down my weed business. Last of the Northern Lights is travelin’ to Big Money’s frat tonight, then I’m retired.”
“I’d be pleased to write you a letter.”
“Thanks. Maybe Luther will be runnin’ this joint himself come January.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
AN IMPORTANT DEPOSITION in a civil case usually includes plenty of gamesmanship. On September 29, when Margo and I arrive at Hunton & Williams’s Richmond office—their tower, as the physical address makes clear—we’re greeted by an aloof receptionist and left to wait in the lobby for fifteen minutes, even though we’re intentionally late ourselves. Naturally, we didn’t alert M. D. Jenkins that we wouldn’t be on time. A paralegal finally comes to retrieve us, hands us visitor badges and guides us into a massive conference room that features a view of the James River. The top-floor vista is costly and dazzling, and the room swallows us whole; it could comfortably hold a hundred people. I’m certain the firm has various smaller spaces, but using the major-league setting to ant us is part of Jenkins’s program. Sharon, a freckled lady in her early twenties, brings us bottled water and delivers a plate of fruit and pastries. “Would you care for coffee?” she asks.
“Do you have espresso?” I reply, hoping she’ll report my peevish response to Jenkins.
“Uh, no. Sorry. Just regular.” She’s dressed in black tennis shoes, black pants and a neat white shirt.
“What kind?” Margo asks. “Who’s the roaster?”
“I don’t know,” the girl answers. “I’ll check for you.”
“We’d appreciate it,” I say. “Thank you.”
The deposition then unfolds like a 1960s soul review. First, the court reporter enters and offers “Hellos” and “Good mornings” and unpacks her equipment and mics the table. Next, a young associate appears and apologizes for the delay. “Mr. Jenkins will be here shortly. One of our corporate clients was hit with a temporary injunction late yesterday, and Mr. Jenkins is on the phone with Judge Cavedo, trying to get that resolved.” The associate’s name is Mark. He has a tatty goatee and round glasses. He tugs and shapes the whiskers at his chin while he spins the exaggeration about Jenkins’s absence. He leaves and a secretary arrives and arranges a fresh legal pad and three fancy pens on the table, ready for the maestro. The pens are dark blue. Hunton & Williams is scripted on each of them in gold letters
Ten minutes later, the star of the show, M. D. Jenkins, strides through the door, goateed Mark and the secretary in tow. He’s carrying two cups of coffee. “Good morning, Ms. Jordan. I’m so sorry to keep you waiting. I sent Sharon around the corner to Starbucks. Hope this helps make up for my wasting your time.” He approaches Margo and serves her the coffee, places a napkin on the table and sets down a cup. “House Blend. The kids here tell me it’s the best. Coffee’s just coffee for an old philistine like me. I buy the big red tub of Folgers. Sharon can bring you cream and sugar if you’d like.”
He circles behind us until he’s on my left. “Mr. Moore, good morning and nice to meet you. Regret it’s under these circumstances. Here’s your double espresso.” I take the cup, and we shake hands. The coffee production is Kabuki theater, but Jenkins gives the impression he’s sincere and humble, an aw-shucks fellow in a three-grand suit who just happens to be the best litigator in Virginia, quite a lawyerly gift, and a gift that no doubt will endear him to a Patrick County jury.
“Thanks,” I say. “I appreciate it. We were late as well. How about you comp me one of those big-city pens as a souvenir, and we’ll call it even?”
“Make that two pens,” Margo quips.
Jenkins laughs. According to the Internet, he’s sixty-three. His teeth are white and immaculate. His hair’s a mixture of black and gray, close-cropped, a cut that requires a weekly trip to the barber. He’s wearing suspenders and a bowtie that’s definitely not a clip-on. “Fair enough. Probably the best deal I’ll make all week.” He settles in behind his legal pad, passes us each a pen, reaches into his coat pocket and digs out a yellow pencil with a sharpened tip and full pink eraser. He’s across the table, cater-cornered to me. There’re thirty chairs on each side of the polished mahogany showpiece and a single seat at each end. He jots something near the top of his pad, then addresses the secretary: “Would you please let Miss Culp know we’re ready?”
The woman who enters is the same woman who came to my office and entrapped me, but her appearance is much different today. The July Melanie Culp was wearing a baseball cap, glasses, an oversize shirt, leggings and tennis shoes. Her hair was gathered into a ponytail, and she had mousy brown bangs curtaining her forehead. Her makeup was basic, and she seemed reserved and often spoke without making eye contact. The current Melanie Culp is dressed in a stylish, fitted pantsuit and modest heels, the glasses are gone, and her hair and makeup are flawless. She’s confident enough to look directly at me as she’s crossing the room. I rest my hands on the table and extend a single finger, my signal to Margo that we’re seeing the correct con artist.
Jenkins stands and pulls a chair away from the table. “Melanie,” he says, “have a seat, please. This is Ms. Jordan, and you’ve already met Mr. Moore. Soon as you’re comfortable, the court reporter will swear you in, and we can get started.”
Culp accepts the oath, swears she’ll tell the truth, Jenkins and Margo agree to the rules for any objections and the use of this testimony at trial, and Margo organizes papers from her file in front of her. I’m anxious to the point of being sick—this is my last chance to avoid jail and a catastrophe—and I catch myself squeezing and twisting my new pen. I quietly drop it so that I won’t look like a nervous hack or a doper with shifty hands. I’d be much more collected if I could question Culp, if I could practice law and defend myself. A ring burns around my left eye. The corner of my mouth tingles.
“Ma’am, my name is Margo Jordan, and I represent Kevin Moore. Good morning. If any of my questions aren’t clear, please tell me, and I’ll make sure you and I understand each other exactly. Your testimony is under oath and subject to perjury penalties, so it’s critical that you listen to my questions and give me true and accurate answers. Okay?”
“Yes,” Culp replies. “Thank you.”
“Please tell me your full name and your date of birth.”
Culp answers quickly and casually. “My name is Melanie Diane Culp. I was born on May twenty-third, 1966.”
“Where, please?” Margo asks. “Where were you born?”
“Shreveport, Louisiana.”
“Tell me your birth name and any and all names or nicknames you’ve ever used or assumed, whether by legal name change, personal preference or otherwise.”
“I was born Denise Melanie Champoux. I took the name Denise Alston when I married my first husband. When I divorced, my name was changed to Melanie Diane Fredericks—”
“Why?” Margo challenges her. “That wasn’t your name prior to the divorce.”
“It was a bad marriage, and I was single again. I wanted no reminders of those years. I’ve always preferred the name Melanie instead of Denise, and my mom’s maiden name was Diane Fredericks. I wanted to honor her and empower myself. So I chose Melanie Diane Fredericks.” She unscrews the white cap from her bottled water but doesn’t drink.
“Keep going, please,” Margo instructs her. “I need every name.”
“I became Melanie Culp when I married my second husband.”
“When and where were you married?”
“Belarus,” Culp answers. She pours her water into a glass but still doesn’t drink.
“Where in Belarus?”
“Homyel.”
Margo pauses for the rest of the answer. “When? The date?” she asks after several silent seconds.
“April seventeenth, 2005.”
“Why’d you get married in Belarus?”
“My husband had family ties there. And Homyel is a very beautiful city.”
“Are you still in that marriage?”
“I am not. My husband deserted me in 2008.”
“His name please?” Margo asks.
“William Peter Culp.”
“Are you divorced?”
“We are,” Culp replies.
“As of?”
“August 2010. The papers were signed by a judge in Florida. I don’t recall the exact date.”
“Was that divorce contested?”
“It wasn’t.” Culp finally sips her water.
“Where is Mr. Culp now?” Margo asks.
“I have no idea. I’ve not laid eyes on him since he left me for no reason in 2008.”
Margo glances at me, then at Jenkins. “How were you able to serve him for the divorce?”
“Serve him?” Culp bites her lip and turns toward Jenkins. “I don’t understand.”
“She means, Melanie,” Jenkins patiently explains, “how you managed to give your absent ex-husband notice, to have the paperwork delivered to him so that the court could hear your case?”
“Oh, okay,” she replies. “Sorry. I’m not a lawyer. We ran something in the newspaper. I remember because it cost extra to pay for the ad or whatever.”
“But you elected not to change your name again? You felt sufficiently empowered with the old marital name after this divorce?”
“Right,” Culp replies.
“So the current name on any state or federal government documents is Melanie Diane Culp?”
“Correct.”
“And you continue to use your former married name? Culp?”
“Yes.”
“What’s your Social Security number?” Margo asks.
“If it’s agreeable,” Jenkins interrupts, “how about we have her write it down for you so that it won’t be accessible to anyone who might read this deposition?”
“Fine with me,” Margo says.
Culp uses the firm pen to write numbers on a yellow legal sheet. She pushes the paper across the slick table until it’s within Margo’s reach.
“Thanks,” Margo says. “To recap then, ma’am, you’ve used four different names in your life, and the name you now use, Melanie Culp, is the name on your Social Security account.”
“I’ve never given it any thought, but yes, I suppose that’s true.”
“Melanie Diane Culp is a mostly fictitious name you chose years ago and is rather different from your birth name?” Margo’s trying to bait her, to suggest something sinister by sharpening her voice and skewing her eyebrows and pretending that she’s discovered an aha opening.
“In a sense,” Culp answers simply.
“Have you ever been convicted of a felony or any crime involving lying, cheating or stealing?”
“No.”
“To clarify,” Margo says, “that question would include a conviction under any of your names, or any other name you haven’t disclosed.”
“Object to the question,” Jenkins notes. “It assumes that she was untruthful in her prior responses. But you may answer the question, Melanie.”
“I, myself, no matter the name, have never been convicted of any crime. None. Never.”
“How was it that you came to discover this property in Meadows of Dan, Virginia?” Margo asks. “According to your interrogatory answers, you live in Florida.”
“Primland. I visited the resort once.”
“When?” Margo asks. “When did you visit?”
“The spring of 2014, April or May. Maybe early June.”
“How long did you stay?”
Culp thins her lips. She turns toward Jenkins. “Why is this possibly important?”
“Go ahead, Melanie, you can answer her question. Take your time. I’ll jump in if Ms. Jordan asks anything she shouldn’t. As I told you, bizarre as it sounds, Mr. Moore—and perhaps his very able attorney—is claiming that you’re an imposter, that the option is a sham, and that you’re part of some secret, national fraud operation. Ms. Jordan is entitled to explore why you were interested in the land and to confirm that you really were in this area. She’s attempting to find a paper trail or some hard evidence that supports—or contradicts—your testimony.” While I’m positive that he’s already rehearsed Melanie Culp, his response gives her a reminder and a road map and puts her on guard.
“Appreciate your so thoroughly clarifying the question—and answer—for her,” Margo says.
“Pleased I could help,” Jenkins replies.
“So what was the question?” Culp asks.
“How long did you stay at Primland in the spring of 2014?”
“Long enough to look around and eat a meal. And it could’ve been 2013, now that I think about it.”
“How’d you pay for the meal?”
“Cash would be my guess.”
“Did you stay in the resort hotel?” Margo asks.
“I didn’t.”
Margo pauses. She writes on her pad. “So you drove from Florida, grabbed a sandwich and then drove home to Miami?”
“I left and followed the Blue Ridge Parkway north. Spent the night.”
“Where?”
“At my sister’s house.”
“Where did she live then?” Margo presses.
“She lived in Lexington. Lexington, Virginia.”
“Her name, please?”
“Julie Barton.”
Margo pauses to drink her coffee. “Phone number?” she asks.
Culp sighs and looks at her lawyer again. “540-237-8876. I hope you’re not planning to harass her about this.”
“So there’s no record of your being at Primland?” Margo says. “We have your word, and that’s it.”
“You have my word. Why would I make that up?”
“Well, why would you travel from Miami to eat a sandwich at Primland?”
“I didn’t.” Culp sounds exasperated. She shakes her head at Margo. “I drove from Miami to see my sister and stopped at fun places along the way.”
“Then years later you decide to buy a million-dollar property in Meadows of Dan?”
Jenkins has an unusual deposition style. He intently focuses on whoever is speaking, dramatically ping-ponging his gaze back and forth between his client and Margo. He actually perches on the edge of his seat and leans over the table, propped up on his elbows. “Correction,” he interjects. “The option price was $975,000.” He hesitates, lowers his elbows and sits erect. “In my world, twenty-five thousand dollars is a lot of money. Could we agree on that, Ms. Jordan?”
“I’ll stipulate the exact purchase price is $975,000,” Margo says curtly and pops him with a pissed-off glare. “We can agree on the nine-seventy-five number.” She’s irritated, I think, by the veiled reference to the proposed settlement discount, his first hint that this deposition needs to be quick and pro forma.
“Thank you for the stipulation,” he replies, and hunkers down over the table again.
“Yes,” Culp answers. “I signed an option to buy the land.”
“How did you discover the land?”
“Online.”
“Where online?” Margo inquires.
“Online,” Culp repeats.
“The site, please?”
“Oh, goodness, I have no idea. It was months and months ago, and I looked at tons of land.”
Culp’s answer discourages me. My shoulders slump, and I instantly correct them. She’s clever and well prepared. A genuine buyer probably wouldn’t recall that kind of detail and would be miffed by having to answer Margo’s picayune questions. A lesser hustler would tip her hand by offering specific websites and far too much information, and then Margo would ask: “You remember this months later, despite it being completely routine and ordinary at the time?”
“So you don’t know where you discovered this tract of land?”
“Well, obviously it was on the realtor’s page, Mr….uh…I can’t recall his name.” She snaps her fingers and squeezes her eyes shut. “Mr. Lineberry.”
