The Rooster Bar (23 page)

M
ark was sleeping on the fold-out sofa when his phone erupted at 6:50 Tuesday morning. Jockety said, “Mr. Rackley can meet with you at ten this morning in our offices. We're in downtown Brooklyn, on Dean Street.”

Mark said, “I know where you are.” He didn't but the firm would be easy to find.

“I'll meet you downstairs in the lobby at 9:50. Please be prompt. Mr. Rackley is a very busy man.”

“So am I. And I'll have a friend with me, another journalist, name of Todd McCain.”

“Okay. Anybody else?”

“Nope, just the two of us.”

Over coffee, they speculated that Rackley did not want them near his domain on Water Street in Manhattan's financial district. It was undoubtedly the gilded lair befitting a man of his stature, something a couple of reporters would have a field day describing. Better to meet them on turf crawling with his own lawyers. Litigation had already been threatened. They were stepping into his world, a rough place where his privacy would be protected at all costs and intimidation was always a useful tool.

They didn't shave and dressed in jeans and old jackets, the shaggy look of journalists unimpressed with anyone's surroundings. Mark packed a well-used nylon attaché case they'd found in a secondhand store in Brooklyn, and when they left the hotel on foot they certainly looked like a couple of guys not worth suing.

The building was tall and modern, one of many packed in the center of downtown Brooklyn. They killed time in a coffee shop around a corner and entered the atrium at 9:45. Marvin Jockety, looking at least ten years older than his website photo, was standing near the security counter, chatting with a clerk. Mark and Todd recognized him and introduced themselves, with Jockety reluctantly shaking hands. He nodded at the clerk and said, “This guy needs to see some identification.” Mark and Todd reached for their wallets and handed over their fake D.C. driver's licenses. The clerk scanned them, glanced at both to compare faces with photos, and handed them back.

They followed Jockety to a row of elevators where they waited without conversation. When they stepped onto the empty elevator, he turned his back, faced the door, and said nothing.

Friendly bastard, Mark thought. What a jerk, Todd mumbled to himself.

The elevator stopped at the seventeenth floor and they stepped into the rather pedestrian lobby of Ratliff & Cosgrove. In their brief careers as lawyers they had visited several nice offices. Jeffrey Corbett's splendid digs in D.C. were by far the most impressive, though Mark still favored Edwin Mossberg's unique trophy museum down in Charleston. Trusty Rusty's was by far the worst, with its medical office feel and wounded clients. This place was only slightly better. What the hell. They weren't there to analyze the decor.

Jockety ignored the receptionist, who ignored them in return. They rounded a corner, walked through a door without knocking, and entered a long, wide conference room. Two men in dark, expensive suits were standing at a sideboard sipping coffee from porcelain cups. Neither stepped forward. Jockety said, “Mr. Finley and Mr. McCain.”

Mark and Todd had three images of Hinds Rackley, all from magazine articles. One was from Gordy's research, the enlarged head shot he had tacked to his unforgettable wall. The other two they had found online. Rackley was forty-three years old, with dark, thinning hair severely slicked back and narrow eyes behind semi-rimless frames. He nodded at Jockety, who left without a word and closed the door.

“I'm Hinds Rackley and this is my chief counsel, Barry Strayhan.” Strayhan scowled and nodded and made no effort to take the introduction any further. Like his client, he held the cup in one hand and the saucer in the other; thus, they were unable to offer anything to shake properly. Mark and Todd kept their distance, which was at least ten feet away. A few awkward seconds passed, long enough for the two trespassers to get the message that notions of politeness had already gone out the window. Finally, Rackley said, “Have a seat,” and nodded at the row of chairs on their side of the table. They sat down. Rackley and Strayhan sat opposite them.

Todd placed his cell phone on the table and asked, “Mind if I record this?”

“Why?” Strayhan asked like a real ass. He was at least ten years older than his client and gave the impression that everything in his life was contentious.

Todd said, “Just an old habit that most reporters have.”

“Do you plan to transcribe the recording?” Strayhan asked.

“Probably,” Todd said.

“Then we'll want a copy.”

“No problem.”

“And I'll record it too,” Strayhan said as he laid his cell phone on the table. Dueling cell phones.

Throughout the exchange Rackley glared at Mark with a smug, confident look, as if to say, “I have billions and you don't. I'm superior in all respects so accept it.”

One benefit of practicing street law without a license was that it had chipped away all traces of reticence. As Mark and Todd had brazenly gone about their business in the D.C. courts, they had grown accustomed to pretending to be people they were not. If they could stand before judges and use fake names and assume the roles of lawyers, they could certainly sit across from Hinds Rackley and act like journalists.

Mark returned the stare without blinking. Rackley finally said, “You wanted to see me.”

Mark said, “Yes, well, we're working on a story and we thought you might want to comment on it.”

“What's the story?”

“Well, the headline will be ‘The Great Law School Scam,' for starters. You either own or control or somehow have your finger in several companies that own eight for-profit law schools. Really profitable law schools.”

Strayhan said, “Have you found a statute somewhere prohibiting anyone from owning a for-profit law school?”

“I didn't say it was against the law, did I?” He looked to his right, at Todd, and asked, “Did I say that?”

“I didn't hear it,” Todd said.

Mark said, “It's not against the law and we're not alleging anything criminal. It's just that these law schools are nothing more than diploma mills that entice lots of students to apply, regardless of their LSAT scores, and then to borrow heavily to cover the high tuitions charged by your schools. The tuitions are, of course, passed along to you, and the students graduate with tons of debt. About half of them are able to pass a bar exam. Most of them can't find jobs.”

“That's their problem,” Rackley said.

“Of course it is. And no one forces them to borrow the money.”

Todd asked, “Do you admit that you own or control eight law schools?”

“I don't admit or deny anything, especially to you,” Rackley snapped. “Who the hell do you think you are?”

Now that's a good question, Todd thought. As his many aliases blurred together, he often caught himself trying to remember his current name.

Strayhan laughed sarcastically and asked, “Do you happen to have any proof?”

Mark reached into his cheap attaché and removed a sheet of thick paper, twelve inches square. He unfolded it, then unfolded it again, and slid it across the table. It was a condensed version of Gordy's wall, the grand conspiracy, with Hinds Rackley's name all alone in the top box and the maze of his empire flowing below him.

For a second or two, Rackley looked at it with little curiosity, then picked it up and began a casual perusal. Strayhan leaned over for a closer look. Their initial reaction would be revealing. If Gordy was right, and they were convinced that he was, Rackley might realize that they were on his trail and had the proof. He might nitpick here or there, or concede the truth that he owned or controlled the swarm of entities. He might also deny everything and threaten to sue.

He slowly placed the chart back on the table and said, “Interesting, but not accurate.”

Mark said, “Okay, care to discuss the inaccuracies?”

“I don't have to. If you publish a story based on this little flowchart, you'll be in serious trouble.”

Strayhan added, “We'll sue for defamation and hound you for the next ten years.”

Mark shot back, “Look, you've already tried the litigation scare tactics, okay, and obviously that's not working. We're not afraid of all your big talk about suing us. We own nothing. Fire away.”

Todd said, “True, but we'd certainly like to avoid getting sued. What, exactly, do you find wrong with our research?”

“I'm not answering your questions,” Rackley said. “But any half-assed reporter should know that it's illegal for me or anyone else to own a law firm that I'm not a member of. A lawyer cannot be a partner in more than one firm.”

Mark replied, “We're not alleging ownership in the four law firms, only control. This firm, for example, Ratliff & Cosgrove, is run by your friend Marvin Jockety, who happens to be a limited partner in Varanda Capital. The other three firms have similar relationships. That's the connection, the control. And you use the four firms to hire graduates from your law schools at attractive salaries. Your law schools then advertise these wonderful jobs to entice even more unsuspecting kids to enroll and pay your jacked-up tuitions. That's the scam, Mr. Rackley, and it's brilliant. It's not illegal; it's just wrong.”

“You guys are all wet,” Strayhan said with another laugh, but one with a slight trace of nervousness.

Rackley's cell phone beeped and he removed it from a pocket. He listened and said, “Okay, step in please.”

The door opened immediately and a man entered. He closed the door and stood at the end of the table holding some papers. Rackley said, “This is Doug Broome, my chief of security.”

Mark and Todd looked at Broome, who did not acknowledge them. Broome adjusted his reading glasses and said, “Can't find anything on Mark Finley and Todd McCain. We searched all night and all morning, nothing. Not a single article, or blog, or book, or report anywhere online. There's a Mark Finley who writes about gardening for a newspaper in Houston, but he's fifty years old. There's another one who blogs about the Civil War, but he's sixty years old. There's another one who once wrote for a campus newspaper in California, but he graduated and became a dentist. Beyond that, nothing. For Todd McCain, all we found was a guy in Florida who writes for a local magazine. So, if these two claim to be journalists, then their careers must be off to a slow start. As far as the names, there are 431 Mark Finleys and 142 Todd McCains in this country. We've checked every one and nothing matches. And most interesting of all, the two driver's licenses presented at the security desk downstairs are from the District of Columbia. Surprise, surprise, they're both fake.”

Rackley said, “Thanks, Doug. That's all.” Doug left the room and closed the door.

Rackley and Strayhan were both grinning. Mark and Todd kept their cool. At this point, there was no turning back. Mark managed to control his nerves by maintaining the attack. “Very impressive! That's some outstanding work.”

“Really impressive,” Todd chimed in, but both were thinking of bolting for the door.

Rackley said, “Okay, boys, with all credibility shot to hell, why don't you tell us who you are and what's your game?”

Mark said, “If you're not answering our questions, then we're not answering yours. Who we are is really not that important. What's important here is that our little chart is close enough to the truth to expose your scam and embarrass the hell out of you.”

Strayhan demanded, “You want money? Is this extortion?”

“No, not at all. Our plans haven't changed. We'll sit down with the right reporter and hand it over. There's a lot more in the file. For example, we have testimony from former associates of your law firms who feel as though they were used as propaganda. We have statements from former law professors. We have all the data regarding the rotten bar exam pass rates of your graduates. We have the data that clearly shows that you greatly expanded your enrollments at the same time the Feds opened the Treasury to thousands of unqualified students. We have dozens of testimonials from these students who graduated with tons of debt but couldn't find jobs. The file's pretty thick, and it will make a helluva splash on the front page.”

“Where is this file?” Strayhan asked.

Todd reached into a shirt pocket, removed a thumb drive, and casually bounced it across the table. “It's all right there. Read it and weep.”

Rackley ignored it and said, “I have contacts with the
Times
and the
Journal
. They assure me they know nothing about this.”

With great relish, Mark smiled at Rackley and said, “Bullshit. Arrogant, preposterous bullshit. You expect us to believe that you know everyone at these newspapers, and not only do you know them but they trust you enough to pass along inside information? What a joke! And this from a man who is notorious for dodging reporters. Come on, Mr. Rackley.”

Strayhan said, “Well, I certainly know the attorneys for the
Times
and the
Journal,
and you can bet your sweet ass they want no part of a defamation suit.”

“Are you kidding?” Todd said, laughing. “They'll love it because they can crank up the firm at a thousand bucks an hour. They want their clients to get sued every day.”

“You're clueless, son,” Strayhan said, but it meant nothing. The chart had clearly rattled them, along with the fact that Mark and Todd were not who they claimed to be. Rackley shoved his chair back, stood, and took his cup to the coffeepot. Nothing in the way of beverages had been offered to the impostors. He slowly poured from a silver pot, added two cubes of sugar, stirred slowly, deep in thought, then returned to the table. He sat down, took a sip, and calmly said, “You're right. It's a nice front-page splash, but it's a twenty-four-hour story because everything is proper and legal. I don't cross the line, and right now I'm really not sure why I'm wasting my time explaining this to you.”