Corrupt practices, p.26
Corrupt Practices, page 26
I walk into The Barrista at precisely six o’clock the next morning. Deanna repeats her offer to give the opening statement today, but I decline. She suggests that I ask the judge for a trial continuance for medical reasons, but I won’t do that either. Then I tell her about Lovely.
“Let it go,” she says.
“I can’t do that.”
“That girl is special. And more importantly, she’s good for you. Nothing else should matter. That video happened a long time ago. She was—”
“Don’t tell me she was just a kid. She wasn’t a kid. And it doesn’t matter anyway. Some stains can’t be washed off. I can’t help what I feel, and what I feel is disgust. Right here.” I tap my stomach with my fist. “I couldn’t touch her if I tried. I wish I weren’t forced to work with her.”
She tilts her head and studies me for a while, like a bemused art patron staring at a bizarre oil on canvas.
“What’re you doing?” I say.
“It’s just that I wish I knew why you’re such a sanctimonious man.”
“Sanctimonious,” I say, bristling. “Such a ten-dollar word from a simple barista.”
“Oh, don’t get me wrong. It’s never bothered me. It’s what drives you, I’m sure. But this thing with Lovely—”
“Drop it, Deanna.”
She shakes her head slowly. “Secrets can be so destructive.”
“Hers sure is.”
“I’m not talking about hers.” She sighs. “It’s getting crowded. I’ve got to get back to work. Good luck in court today. And call me if you need me.” She starts to leave, but comes back and kisses me on the cheek.
At seven forty-five, I pack up, dose up on Valium and Xanax, and head downtown. I find myself fantasizing about a traffic jam so massive that I’ll miss the entire session. How will I be able to sit in the courtroom next to Lovely Diamond for the eight hours? But the traffic is unusually clear.
When I get to court, I find my three students already setting up for the day.
“Hey, Professor Stern, how are you?” Lovely says in a syrupy voice. Is she mocking me? Covering up? Conveying that she’s not ready to give up on us? Whatever. Those sleazy images on that DVD won’t go away. I say a curt good morning to all of them and find an isolated place to work.
When Raymond arrives, he greets the law students warmly and takes his seat at the defense table. Kathleen and Jonathan exchange looks. They haven’t asked what’s wrong with me, haven’t asked why Raymond will barely acknowledge me. They’ve just gone about the business of preparing for the trial sessions. I’m grateful.
Lovely sits down next to Raymond and whispers something that makes him smile for the first time since the trial started. At one point, she covers his hand with hers. I wait as long as I can before sitting beside them. As soon as I do, he turns away from me, not facing forward until the judge takes the bench and the jury files in.
“Call your first witness, Mr. Frantz,” Schadlow says.
“The plaintiff calls Special Agent Stephanie Holcomb.”
Holcomb is the FBI’s forensic accountant who worked on the Baxter investigation. She got her bachelor’s degree from Brown University and has an MBA from the UCLA Anderson School of Business. In her late thirties, she’s an attractive brunette who looks professional and self-assured. Through her, Frantz will convey to the jury that the United States of America is his ally. She’s a perfect opening witness.
After reciting her stellar credentials, Holcomb testifies that in the autumn of 2011, the IRS got an anonymous tip claiming that Richard Baxter had made some suspicious bank transfers from Assembly accounts. She says she contacted Christopher McCarthy, the Assembly’s designated representative for all legal matters involving the church, who gave the FBI permission to track movements in and out of those accounts. She testifies that a subsequent FBI investigation revealed that earlier in the year, six million dollars of Assembly money had been diverted from the Assembly’s accounts and deposited into an offshore account in the name of a shell company called The Emery Group. She says that, while she doesn’t know where that money went, the FBI believes that Rich received it because he controlled the other Assembly accounts through which the money was laundered and because he engaged in other questionable banking activity shortly before his arrest.
“Agent Holcomb, how did the FBI reach the conclusion that Richard Baxter stole the Assembly’s money?” Frantz asks. He nods at his young associate, and almost instantaneously a flashy PowerPoint presentation appears on the five flat-screen monitors scattered throughout the courtroom.
With the judge’s permission, Holcomb leaves the witness stand and goes to the screen facing the jury. She points to the first entry in a timeline and says, “In October 2011, the FBI observed some unusual activity in Assembly accounts that Richard Baxter controlled. Suspicious deposits and subsequent withdrawals, though none as large as the six million dollar Emery Group transfer earlier in the year.”
She spends the next hour and a half methodically taking the jury through the many bank transactions that the Feds monitored. It’s laborious testimony, but compelling because she’s showing the jury that the Feds more than did their job. As tedious as the testimony is, the jurors all seem to be paying attention. She comes across as an engaging college professor. She often—but not so often as to be annoying—looks at the jurors when answering Frantz’s questions. They clearly like her.
After she finishes her presentation, she goes back to the witness stand. Frantz waits a few moments and asks, “Agent Holcomb, can you summarize again why the FBI concluded that it had probable cause to arrest Richard Baxter?”
“Because he was the Assembly’s lawyer, in a position of trust and confidence that gave him complete access to the Assembly’s bank accounts. Because he and only one other person, Mr. McCarthy, controlled these accounts, and Mr. McCarthy was fully cooperating with us. Based on that evidence, we obtained a warrant and arrested Mr. Baxter.”
“And when he was arrested, did you find anything unusual in his apartment?”
“We certainly did. The arresting agents found a false passport, a large amount of cash, and a stash of methamphetamine—crystal meth—hidden in a gutted computer frame.”
“In your professional opinion, what do you conclude from finding those items?”
“Objection,” I say. “Calls for a legal conclusion without foundation. Speculation.”
Judge Schadlow takes a long time to consider my objection. She’s clearly a novice. She should sustain the objection, but she says, “Overruled. You may answer, Agent Holcomb.”
Holcomb turns and speaks directly to the jury. “The presence of a false passport and a large amount of cash is compelling evidence that Baxter intended to flee. And intent to flee is strong evidence of guilt.”
“And after conducting your forensic accounting analysis, what is the total amount of money that the FBI believes that Richard Baxter embezzled?”
“A minimum of seventeen million dollars. It may be substantially more.”
I could object to the part about the amount being more than seventeen million as rank speculation, but I’d only underscore the vast amount of money that was stolen. So I keep quiet.
“Thank you, Special Agent Holcomb,” Frantz says. “I have no further questions.”
“Do you have any questions, Mr. Stern?” the judge asks in a solicitous tone. She’s actually worried that I’ll pass on the chance to cross-examine a key witness. I suspect that Raymond and my students and probably everyone else in the courtroom share the judge’s concern. But I really can ask questions—unless the stage fright decides to encroach on that ability, too.
Just as I get up from my chair, the courtroom doors open behind me. I glance back to see Manny Mason walk in and take a seat in the last row. I’m glad he’s here, but I wish he’d arrived earlier so he could have heard Holcomb’s testimony on direct. With his expertise in business law, maybe he would have noticed a weakness in her testimony that I missed.
An effective cross-examination requires that the interrogating lawyer make declarative statements in the guise of asking leading questions—questions that call only for yes or no answers. So I’ll keep my questions short, no more than fifteen words if possible. I’ll make them sound like a statement by lowering the inflection in my voice instead of raising it the way you do with a real question. And I’ll start with a topic that the jury won’t forget.
“Agent Holcomb, didn’t you testify that Richard Baxter wasn’t the only signatory on the bank accounts in question?” My voice quavers, but it’s loud enough to be heard.
“Yes.”
“Christopher McCarthy of the TCO was also a signatory on those accounts?”
“That’s correct.”
“And Christopher McCarthy had the power and ability to make the fraudulent transfers that you attribute to Rich Baxter, did he not?” There’s a rumbling behind me from the Assembly side of the gallery. I’m sure there must be at least ten devotees ready to jump over the railing to attack me.
“It was Baxter who—”
I raise both hands. It’s an effective way to get a witness to stop talking, but now also a kind of victory sign, because my hands are steady, my palms dry. “Didn’t you understand my question, Agent Holcomb?”
“I understood it.”
“Then please answer it. Christopher McCarthy had the power and ability to make the fraudulent transfers that you attribute to Rich Baxter. Yes or no?”
“Objection, Your Honor,” Frantz says. “Speculative. Argumentative.”
“Overruled,” Schadlow says.
“Yes, but McCarthy was cooperating fully with us,” Holcomb says. “Embezzlers don’t usually cooperate with the FBI in the investigation of their own crimes.”
“Let’s explore your answer. The Church of the Sanctified Assembly isn’t your ordinary victim, is it?
“I’m not sure what you mean.”
“They have a militaristic structure.”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“Totalitarian, wouldn’t you say? Fascistic?”
“Objection!” Frantz says.
“Isn’t it a fact that the way the Assembly’s structured, Christopher McCarthy could’ve embezzled the money by ordering his underlings to make the bank transfers? They wouldn’t have questioned him for a second. He could even have ordered them to frame Rich Baxter and they would’ve obeyed, correct?”
Frantz springs out of his chair and shouts, “Objection! Argumentative! Speculative! Compound! Completely outside the bounds of appropriate courtroom decorum!”
“I’ll withdraw the question,” I say, because the jurors have gotten the point.
“Calm down, Mr. Frantz,” the judge says. “The objection is sustained. The jury is instructed to disregard Mr. Stern’s argument, because that’s what it was, not evidence. Time to move on to another topic, counsel. And do not repeat this behavior.” Despite her admonition, there’s a hint of amusement in her eyes, maybe because it’s the first time since the case started that I’ve shown some life.
“Very well, Your Honor,” I say. “Agent Holcomb, in your investigation, did the name Grace Trimble come up as a possible suspect?”
She thinks for a moment. “That name never came up.”
“So, you’re not aware that Grace Trimble once worked for a used car dealer named Alan Markowitz?”
“No.”
“Or that Ms. Trimble stole Markowitz’s identity and created the false passport found in Mr. Baxter’s possession?”
I’m sure everyone in the courtroom expects Frantz to object, but he doesn’t, because he knows that what I’ve proposed is true. I doubt he expected me to offer Grace up as a suspect, though.
“I have no information about a Grace Trimble,” Holcomb says.
“Have you ever heard that Grace Trimble used the alias Sandra Casey?”
“No.”
“Christopher McCarthy never shared that information with you?”
“No, he didn’t.”
“And he never told you that Grace Trimble frequently visited Mr. Baxter’s apartment disguised as a prostitute?”
“He didn’t.”
“And he never told you that Grace Trimble was Rich Baxter’s former law partner and girlfriend?”
“No.”
“And he never told you that Ms. Trimble was excommunicated by the Church of the Sanctified Assembly some years ago?”
“No.”
“And I take it that means you don’t know that Ms. Trimble is an expert in the law of corporate finance?”
She looks over at McCarthy and frowns. “No.”
Of course, neither Frantz nor McCarthy told the FBI about Grace. Grace’s involvement threatens their theory of the case, or at least makes it more complicated. I had a different reason for not talking to authorities—I think Grace is innocent, and so I wanted to get to her before the cops did so she could tell me what she knows. I don’t like offering her up as a suspect now, but my obligation is to the client, not her.
I can’t help glancing at McCarthy. I’m not sure, but I think he’s trying to suppress his nervous twitch. I take a few steps away from the lectern and ask, “So, now, Agent Holcomb, we have two persons other than Mr. Baxter who might have been involved in the embezzlement scheme—Mr. McCarthy and Grace Trimble. Do you agree?”
“I don’t agree with that, Mr. Stern. And your theories are inconsistent.”
“I don’t have to be consistent,” I say. “My side doesn’t have the burden of proof.”
“Objection,” Frantz barks. “Argumentative. Not a question.”
“Sustained,” Schadlow says. “No more, Mr. Stern.” The frostiness in her tone means that I can’t cross the line again today.
“As a law enforcement officer, Agent Holcomb, would you have liked to have known about Grace Trimble?”
“Yes, sir. I would.”
I look over at the jurors. Most of them are leaning forward in their seats. I haven’t come close to discrediting this witness, but I’ve gained a bit of ground back.
“One final question, Ms. Holcomb. You said that the cash and the false passport found in Mr. Baxter’s apartment were evidence of guilt. Couldn’t those items also be evidence that Mr. Baxter feared for his life and thought he would have to flee for his own safety?”
“No, sir. If he was innocent and wanted protection, he could have come to us.”
“You think the Feds could have protected him?”
“Absolutely.”
“If that’s true, Agent Holcomb, then why was he found hanging by the neck in a federal jail? Why did he die on your watch?”
Manny joins us for lunch in the attorneys’ lounge. After we finish eating—I force down a sandwich of canned tuna and dry multigrain bread—I swallow a tranquilizer and prepare for the afternoon session. Lovely keeps her distance.
Just as we’re about to return to the courtroom, my cell phone vibrates. Caller ID says it’s from Deanna. When she tells me why she’s called, my body fills with a mixture of exultation and disbelief. I make her repeat the information twice more before I truly believe it.
“That was Deanna Poulos,” I say. “She’s found Grace Trimble. I’m meeting them both at The Barrista at midnight.”
“Shut up!” Lovely says.
“For real?” Jonathan asks.
Raymond’s eyes widen in surprise.
“What did Deanna tell you?” Lovely asks. “Will Trimble testify?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “Deanna didn’t want to talk over the phone. She’d only say that Grace is paranoid and scared shitless.”
“What else is new,” Manny says.
“Yeah, but Deanna says that this time, she has every right to be.”
I can barely concentrate during the afternoon session. Fortunately, Frantz’s witnesses are straightforward and uncontroversial. Nick Weir examines two bank officers and an Assembly bookkeeper, who merely authenticate the documents that reflect the bogus transfers of money that Agent Holcomb discussed in detail this morning. Weir, a ponderous questioner, puts the jury to sleep. Frantz then calls one of the FBI agents who arrested Rich, but he just repeats Holcomb’s testimony. At four thirty, we adjourn for the day.
I return to my condo and do my best to prepare for tomorrow, but it’s hopeless. At eleven thirty, I leave my apartment for the meeting with Grace. As soon as I pull out of the underground garage, a light drizzle coats the windshield—June gloom a week early. I turn on the wipers, which leave grimy smudges that obscure my vision. I expect the fog to lift when I get farther inland, but the droplets keep coming in a fine mist the entire trip.
Will Grace be lucid, or will she be delusional and strung out on drugs? Can she tell me what happened to the money? Did she hear that I implicated her in the embezzlement scheme? Will she come to trial?
The car radio is still tuned to one of Lovely’s favorite stations. It’s playing a Green Day song called “Good Riddance,” about a man sending a message to a woman who just broke up with him. The song makes me long for a reconstructed world in which I could abide failings in others. If Lovely were with me, I wouldn’t be so frightened.
I arrive at The Barrista and find a parking space directly across from the shop. When I get out of the car, I zip up my thin nylon windbreaker. Melrose is empty—just like that last time. Few things are as eerie as when a normally busy thoroughfare is deserted; I always think of the neutron bomb. The drizzle has created a moist sheen on the surface of the street, making it slippery even in my running shoes. The roadway lamps and traffic lights cast shimmering oblongs of red, green, and amber on the slick asphalt.
I jaywalk across the street, my hands stuffed into the pockets of my jacket, less from the cold than to prevent myself from running. Deanna told me to come around back to the storeroom door, but I want to avoid doing that if I can, so I go to the shop’s front entrance. The blinds have been pulled down over the doors and windows. I cup my hand to my face and peer through a crack in the blinds. There doesn’t appear to be a light on in the main room. Still, I try the front door handle. Locked. As a reflex, I rattle the door to see if it’ll open. No luck.
