Corrupt Practices (2 page)

I pass through the rigorous security check and take a chair on my side of the Plexiglas barrier, waiting for the guard to bring Rich Baxter into the attorney meeting room. In here, the government respects the attorney-client privilege, meaning the marshals can only watch, not listen—or so say the regulations.

We were part of Macklin & Cherry’s vaunted class of 1999—
Harmon’s Army
. Deanna Poulos and I were The Gunslingers, litigators anxious to take depositions and get into a courtroom ASAP. Manny Mason was The Intellectual, the thoughtful lawyer who loved the law’s logic. Rich Baxter was The Dealmaker, intent on negotiating eight-figure financial arrangements for powerful individuals and huge companies. And there was mercurial Grace Trimble, The Genius—the brightest of us all, but also the most fragile.

My friendship with Rich ended five years ago. He oversaw the Church of the Sanctified Assembly’s day-to-day representation. I thought it was just business until he announced one day that he’d become an Assembly member. I tried to talk him out of it, insisting that the group was a dangerous cult that only wanted his money. Things degenerated from there. He accused me of blasphemy and said I didn’t believe in anything except winning cases and making money and getting laid by a different woman every week. I shot back that he’d joined the Assembly because it was the only way he could finally get some pussy—I was talking about Monica, who would later become his wife. After that, he would have nothing to do with me. When Harmon died, Rich left the law firm and took the Assembly’s legal work with him, a move that not only made him wealthy, but also led to the firm’s collapse. I haven’t seen him since.

Last night, I pulled the indictment off PACER, the federal court website. The charges are more serious than I imagined. The government claims that a confidential source notified the Internal Revenue Service about unusual banking transactions involving the Church of the Sanctified Assembly. Rich allegedly controlled the Assembly’s bank accounts. The IRS monitors identified a series of large withdrawals, followed by deposits into shell accounts in European and offshore banks. What knocks me off-balance is the amount they say he stole—the indictment details numerous transactions between May 2010 and May 2011 that total approximately seventeen million dollars. The last alleged illegal transaction alone is for six million dollars, supposedly a transfer of laundered Assembly money into a British West Indies shell company called The Emery Group, which Rich set up and controlled.

It’s hard to see how the accusations could get worse, but they do. A couple of weeks ago, there was a flurry of activity in the bank accounts. Believing that Rich was about to flee the country, the FBI arrested him at an apartment in the Silver Lake district of Los Angeles. In the course of the search, the agents found a false passport bearing the name and social security number of one Alan Thomas Markowitz alongside Rich’s picture. The real Alan Markowitz is a used car dealer in the valley who has no apparent relationship with The Church of the Sanctified Assembly. The agents also discovered a large quantity of methamphetamine, along with $428,000 in cash, hidden in the casing of a Gateway desktop computer. Rich faces up to twenty years in prison for each count of mail fraud, up to ten years in prison for each count of money laundering, and more time added on for the drug and passport charges.

The Rich I knew wasn’t capable of any of this. His idea of bending the rules was leaving work early to catch a Dodgers game or hitting the bar across the street after work for a good scotch.

The door on the other side of the barrier opens. He’s been jailed for less than a week, so despite his bleak situation, I still expect to find the person whom I worked with, the pudgy, avuncular man with the rosy complexion and blond hair styled so perfectly that we’d tease him about using a can of hair spray daily. When he walks in, I recoil. He’s sickly thin with gaunt cheeks, as though he’s suffering from a serious illness. His hair is tangled, more gray than blond. His once-bright eyes are deep-set and dull. Jail alone couldn’t have done this to him. On the face of it, he’s lived conservatively. The Assembly’s promotional materials emphasize family values, stable marriages, physical fitness, and disdain for Western medicine. Christian fundamentalism meets New Age doctrine; the Pentecostals meet Scientology. As far as I know, he’s adhered to the tenets of his faith. And yet, something insidious has eaten away at him. Maybe he
has
been using hardcore drugs.

He takes a seat at the counter, picks up the handset, and forces a smile. “Long time, Parker.”

“Tell me what happened, Rich.”

“What happened is they locked me up without bail for no reason. Josh is turning two in a couple of weeks. I have to get out of here so I can be at his birthday party. You’ll make that happen, right?”

He hasn’t changed—he always believes everything will turn out fine. His unchecked optimism is one of the reasons his clients like him so much.

“Why are you in here?” I ask.

He reveals his teeth, although I wouldn’t call the way he’s parted his lips a smile. “Attorney-client privilege?”

“It’s too soon for us to—”

“If you’re not going to agree to represent me up front, then you might as well leave. I’m only going to talk to my attorney.”

“I . . . Sure, Rich. I’m your lawyer.” My words send a current of exhilaration through me. It’s the first time that I’ve felt like an attorney since Harmon died. At the same time, I feel as if I’ve jumped into battle wounded and unarmed.

“I’m innocent. I’ve always been loyal to the Assembly, both as an adherent and as an attorney. The charges are bogus. I’ve been set up.”

“By who?”

“I don’t know.”

“Why would anyone do something like that?”

“Because I learned something.” He takes the handset away from his ear, and for a moment I think he’s going to hang up. He slowly raises the handset again and covers the mouthpiece with his free hand. “Someone inside’s been stealing from the Assembly. I’m getting the blame, but it’s someone on the inside. And . . . and I also think they murdered Harmon.”

“Harmon fell into a depression and killed himself.”

“Whoever killed him made it look like suicide. Harmon had information.”

“Which was?”

“I don’t know. I was looking for a workout agreement I drafted a few years ago and stumbled on these notes that Harmon wrote. They were on a DVD of scanned documents that the firm sent over when I left.”

“What did they say?”

“It was hard to understand. You know how Harmon wrote in riddles. But they talked about how someone was diverting funds from the Assembly. There were some initials, but no detail. It was like a code or something. I couldn’t . . .”

“Where’s the DVD now? Did the cops—?”

“That’s the thing, I . . . someone stole it from me.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know.”

“Can you remember anything else in the notes?”

“It’s all so fuzzy, I . . .” He shrugs his shoulders in defeat.

“Focus, Rich.”

He pushes the heels of his hands hard against his temples, as if by compressing his brain he could squeeze the lost information to the surface. “Something about a financial crime. There was all this code that I couldn’t understand, and all these numbers, bank accounts, initials. I’m sorry, it’s all so foggy. I just can’t . . .”

“Any chance the original document is still in storage?”

“No. I took all the original Assembly files with me when I left the firm. The client directed me not to leave anything behind. Not even copies.” He mumbles something, an incomprehensible hum, and then perks up. “Talk to Layla Cherry. Maybe she still has some of Harmon’s old documents. You remember how Harmon was a packrat. When I left the firm, we found some Assembly documents at his house. Talk to Layla.”

“What have you told the authorities?”

“You know I wouldn’t speak to anyone without an attorney present.”

“The indictment alleges that you received the illegal payment from a company called The Emery Group.”

“It’s a lie.”

“What’s The Emery Group?”

“That’s confidential.”

“I just told you I’m your lawyer.”

“No. I mean the Assembly’s privilege. The hierarchy has given me strict orders not to—”

“You’re really going to protect the people who got you thrown in here?”

He sets his jaw. “Attorney-client privilege.”

“Can you at least tell me if the company’s legit?”

“Everything the Assembly does is legit.”

“What about the false passport? And that apartment you rented? You used a false name. Alan Thomas Markowitz.”

He just shrugs in response. As he does the next two times I ask the question.

“Jesus, Rich,” I say. “How do you expect me to help you?”

“You’ll find a way.”

Fifteen minutes later, I’ve almost run out of questions. For someone who’s acted as the Assembly’s lawyer for so long, he knows precious little—or so he wants me to believe. “I have to ask this, Rich. The FBI found drugs. Why? And what about gambling? Or women?”

“Those were your vices, not mine.”

“We’re done.”

“Parker, wait. I’m sorry. It’s just all this . . .” He sweeps his free arm in the air helplessly.

I want nothing more than to hang up the phone and walk out, but instead I say, “If this is going to work, you have to cooperate with me.”

“There were no women. I don’t take drugs. And I haven’t gambled since I joined the Assembly. This is a frame-up.”

“Anything else you want to tell me? The false passport?”

“There’s . . .” He stops and takes an audible breath.

I can almost feel his discomfort refracting through the glass barrier. “There’s what?”

He puffs himself up. “There’s nothing more to tell.”

“Whatever you say.” I take a deep breath. “What does Monica know about this?”

“Absolutely nothing. And don’t you dare try to contact her. You’re not my wife’s favorite person, you know. And anyway, she’s being guided by the Fount.”

The “Fount” is short for The Celestial Fountain of All That Is, adapted from a line in the Book of Common Prayer—“Almighty God, the fountain of all wisdom.” It’s never been clear to me whether The Celestial Fount is supposed to be a prophet or God or a combination of both or a bastardization of the Christian concept of the Holy Trinity or a magic wormhole into some parallel universe where the sanctified members of the Assembly know everything.

“So I can’t talk to Monica. Who can I talk to at the Assembly?”

“No one. You’re an outsider. Worse. You’re known for your antagonism toward the Assembly.”

“I’ve never tried to hide that.”

“I bet you’re thinking
I told you so
.”

“I just didn’t want you to get hurt.”

“The Assembly hasn’t hurt me. Somebody else.”

“But you don’t know who.”

He shakes his head.

I’m about to wrap the interview up when he says, “You should know that no matter what’s happened, I still believe in the Fount’s truth.”

“Really. Then why in God’s name would you want
me
to represent you? My feelings about your church haven’t changed.”

His eyes turn stony. “You do know that if you get involved in this, you’ll become a target. Just like Harmon. Just like me.”

“I’m well aware that the Assembly does whatever’s necessary to silence its critics. What does that have to do with my question?”

“Harmon and I have families who’ve been hurt by what’s happened to us. All the other lawyers I’d consider hiring have families or people they’re close to. You’re the only good lawyer I know who doesn’t really have anyone in your life.”

“That’s not true. I have—”

“Don’t tell me about Deanna and Manny. In the end they’re just work friends. It’s not the same, as you and I proved. So if something happens to you, no one else will care, Parker. No one else will get hurt. That’s why I want you. To avoid collateral damage.”

“I’ll get back to you, Rich.” I hang up the phone and walk out, not waiting for the guard to take him back to his cell.

I leave the detention center and walk the three blocks to the old federal courthouse, built in 1940 as part of a Depression-era stimulus program. The main lobby has a musty odor of yellowed parchment and imperfect justice. I always make sure to breathe deeply when I enter the building. I love that smell, just as a boxer might love the sweaty smell of an old gymnasium.

I take the escalator to the second floor, where my friend and former partner Manfred Mason is arguing a pro bono case on behalf of some gang members. Manny is now associate dean at St. Thomas More School of Law. He’s convinced me to teach a course in trial advocacy. The only person other than Deanna who knows about my stage fright, he views the teaching gig as the first step in my getting back into the courtroom. He doesn’t realize that teaching isn’t trial work.

My first class begins at three o’clock this afternoon. Yesterday, he called and said he had to talk to me before the class started, so I agreed to meet him at the courthouse. I’m not wild about the idea of walking into a courtroom, but I’m curious—I’ve never seen Manny argue a case. He’s a corporate finance and tax lawyer, not a litigator. He certainly doesn’t have the typical attributes of a trial lawyer. Most of us are outgoing, combative. Manny’s humble, so reserved that people mistake his shyness for arrogance. In the past, his career suffered for it. At the law firm, he didn’t bring in much business. When the firm broke up, he became a law professor, a job that suits him perfectly. Finally, he’s on the fast track.