The Trust (40 page)

No such luck.

Dildos, blue videos, and breast-shaped baking pans became the subject of an ongoing criminal investigation. Lingerie was declared off-limits to everybody, employees and customers alike. A minor scandal erupted when the manager noticed that three
Cathouse 2: Back in the Saddle
DVDs had gone missing.

Word of the FBI’s raid spread during the day, steadily, inexorably, into every home in Liberty Point Plantation. By five o’clock that afternoon, Mrs. Jason Locklear had arranged a full-blown victory tailgate. Cars, from compacts to SUVs, flooded into the parking lot at HIP. They arrived with portable grills, Frisbees, and coolers full of steaks and burgers, not to mention beers and martini shakers for when the minister was out of sight. There were two or three bonfires, dogs of every size and shape.

Representatives from the Roman Catholic Church were noticeably absent. Rumors circulated around the lot about a Catholic bishop named Connery. Somebody heard that he would join the party and make a statement, presumably to stymie the growing PR disaster. But nobody from the clergy ever showed.

Biscuit couldn’t believe the number of people. The celebration confused him, given Mrs. Jason Locklear’s call to his hotel room in Charleston. “I thought you changed your mind about HIP.”

“No more truckers. No more billboards. I think our ministers prefer us to get ‘marriage help’ through the mail.”

Around 6:30
P.M.
—the crowd at critical mass—Mrs. Jason Locklear decided it was time for official remarks. Her minister stood in front of yellow tape encircling the building that read
CRIME SCENE. DO NOT CROSS.
He asked everybody to bow their heads and thank the Lord for their blessings. Afterward, he handed his bullhorn over to Biscuit.

The big man, far too gentle for his size and girth, was no stranger to the camera. News teams from ABC, NBC, and CBS affiliates had staked out the adult store parking lot when they learned about the tailgate.

Biscuit kept his remarks brief. He knew the television spots would last a minute at best. “I know where you can get twenty thousand square feet of retail space cheap,” he told the boisterous crowd. “And stop digging up the plants.” A handful of his clients had arrived with shovels and other garden tools.

The spoils of war.

The camera crews, Biscuit noticed, were ambushing eighteen-wheelers. Every so often, truckers would pull into the parking lot, drawn by the allure of HIP billboards up and down I-95. When drivers stepped from the rigs—backs bent and achy from long hauls—the news honeys shoved mikes in their faces and zinged them with the types of questions that endear journalists to the world:

“Where will you get your sex toys now?”

“What really happens at truck stops?”

“May we show our viewers the sleeping compartment of your cab?”

There were some long faces in the crowd. Twenty-one HIP employees understood their jobs were gone forever. They had nothing to celebrate. But Biscuit passed out cards from his brothers-in-law. “Denny’s or Phil’s Polynesian. Just tell them I sent you.”

For the most part, the evening was all fun and games. But the lawyer grew more and more troubled as the night wore on. In addition to the disenfranchised staff, there was one other potential loser from the HIP fiasco. And over the last few weeks, Biscuit had grown fond of Grove O’Rourke.

FRIDAY

Biscuit dialed Torres at 9:01
A.M.
The agent was a hard-ass, no doubt. Their relationship had improved, though, since he reported Grove missing last Tuesday night.

She answered on the first ring. “What can I do for you, Mr. Hughes?”

He cut her short. “For one thing, no more of that.”

“Of what?”

“My name. Call me Biscuit.” The lawyer felt powerful, confident.

“Okay.”

He could almost feel the FBI agent’s tough, combat-ready demeanor soften. But he knew her good humor would disappear soon enough. “I’m calling about Grove O’Rourke.”

“What about him?”

“Let’s cut to the chase. Are you prosecuting him?”

Biscuit’s candor surprised Torres. She had grown to think of the lawyer as a teddy bear, however tenacious. “Are you representing him?”

“No.” After a moment of silence, neither one saying anything, he pressed the issue. “Well, are you?”

“I don’t know.”

“Grove put Ricardo out of business. You said so yourself.”

“Why do you care? He’s not your client.”

“He’s a friend,” replied Biscuit. No hesitation.

“He destroyed our investigation into Moreno. And Ricardo is still missing.”

“Not Grove’s problem.”

“I’m afraid it is. The Palmetto Foundation provided material support to a criminal operation.”

“Grove had no idea.”

“That charity was the Walmart of money laundering.” Torres was adamant. “I’m supposed to turn my back? Give me a break.”

“Thanks to Grove, you shut down Ricardo and his machine. I’d say that’s a huge win for your department.”

“What we do is out of my hands.”

“The hell it is.” Biscuit had listened to this pit bull long enough. “In five minutes, I’m e-mailing you a document. You have ten minutes to sign it, date it, and return it to me. Otherwise I’m going to the press. And we can try your case in the court of public opinion.”

“What makes you think anybody will care?”

“An ordinary Joe getting run over by big government—”

“You want an underdog,” she interrupted, “find yourself a plumber. O’Rourke works on Wall Street.”

“Fairness and simple math,” pressed Biscuit.

“What do you mean?”

“There are three people on the Palmetto Foundation’s board. Initially, Grove voted against the wire transfer. Check the minutes.”

“And your point is?”

“The two remaining votes were enough to override him. One was fixed. And you’re hanging the guy who uncovered the scam?”

“I want Moreno.”

“You got forty million dollars of dirty cash and JoJo Kincaid.” Biscuit was growing angry, his inflection sharp.

“A bit player who’s adorable. There won’t be a dry eye in the house when her defense attorneys finish.”

“I don’t buy it.”

“Born to a poor Filipino family. Failed marriage to an enlisted man. Through hard work and market savvy, she becomes a leading real estate broker in San Diego. Marries one of Charleston’s elite. It’s almost a Horatio Alger story.”

“Heroes don’t kill their spouses.”

“Sorry,” the FBI agent said. “Nothing I can do.”

Torres was digging in. Biscuit decided it was time to pull out all the stops. There was only one way to save his new friend. “You can Google Cavener Land Development.”

“Who are they?”

“A public company I opposed in North Carolina. Check out what the press said about them. And then ask yourself how the FBI will fare once I’m finished.”

“You’ll be lucky to get the back page in one of those coupon rags.”

“What are you doing tonight?”

Biscuit’s question caught Torres by surprise. “That’s none of your business.”

“Don’t mean to intrude. But if your plans change and you’re in Fayetteville, why don’t you drop by Phil’s Polynesian?”

“Why?”

“I’m one of the owners. We run a happy hour special every Friday night. Two free Navy Grogs for anyone with a press pass.”

Torres stewed for a while. “Fax me what you have in mind.”

CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

QUANTICO, VIRGINIA

Torres considered Biscuit’s fax. She had already skimmed a dozen stories about Cavener’s travails in North Carolina. She no longer regarded the lawyer as a teddy bear. That big lug would get her fired. She couldn’t sign his letter:

Dear Mr. O’Rourke:

I work for the Federal Bureau of Investigation. We recently met while I was probing how a money launderer infiltrated the Palmetto Foundation (“Foundation”). You were a trustee of the Foundation at the time and, to my knowledge, remain one today.

During September of this year, your organization transferred $25 million to an account controlled by Bong Batista. He is a money launderer who works with an illegal drug network operated by Hermann Moreno.

We now understand the Foundation was infiltrated by an individual, Mrs. Joanna “JoJo” Kincaid, who came under the control of Moreno’s network and its operative, Bong Batista. Mrs. Kincaid systematically misled your organization and, from a position of power, caused the Foundation to wire $25 million to the Moreno drug syndicate.

We have no intention, either now or in the future, of prosecuting you or the Foundation under laws that punish conspiracies, money laundering, or tax fraud. On the contrary, we recognize the extreme personal risk you incurred while uncovering the activities masterminded by Bong Batista.

Furthermore, by copy of this letter, we are commending your performance to the chairman of your firm, Sachs, Kidder, and Carnegie. Through your assistance, our organization has made a significant dent in the war against crime.

It has been my honor to work and serve with you.

Yours sincerely,
Isabelle Torres

CC. Mr. Percy Phillips, CEO of Sachs, Kidder, and Carnegie
Biscuit Hughes, Attorney at Law

You’ve got to be kidding.

Torres picked up the phone and dialed Biscuit. “No way in hell I’m signing that letter.”

“Can you join us at Phil’s Polynesian tonight? This story will make every station in the country, and, frankly, I may take Grove O’Rourke’s case pro bono. There’s not a jury out there that will convict him. You can take that to the bank.”

“I don’t have the authority to sign this letter.”

“I don’t care.”

“It won’t be valid,” she insisted.

“The letter’s plenty valid on the
Today
show.”

“Is it negotiable?”

“Not one comma. You have ten minutes. Otherwise, I’m warming up the gang.”

Biscuit clicked off, leaving Torres to fume.

Her phone rang. She didn’t answer it. Several times, incoming messages pinged her e-mail in-box like a submarine’s sonar. She never looked. Time running out, she eyed the photos of her son and daughters on her desk, and decided what to do.

FBI protocol required Torres to call Walker, her boss. Instead, she smiled, grabbed her cell phone, and headed outside. Her husband answered on the first ring:

“How are you, sweetie?”

*   *   *

Around four
P.M.
, Torres marched into Walker’s office. Her boss was on the phone. But he took one look at her cloudy, uncomfortable expression and decided to hang up. In a hoarse voice, he said, “Gotta go.”

Torres was carrying a manila envelope marked “FBI.” She sat in his guest chair and slapped the file down on his desk. Not hard. But with authority. She riffled her hair with both hands, mussing the cut that had always seemed so careful and shiny. Now tangled and askew, her locks were definitely not FBI issue.

“You want to head out early and get a drink.” Walker wondered why his problems always surfaced on Friday afternoons.

Torres said nothing. She opened her file and pulled out Biscuit’s letter.

“What’s this about?”

“It’s self-explanatory.”

“It’s a nonstarter,” he said, noting her signature. “Totally off the reservation.”

“I’m not asking for your approval.”

“Then the only decision is which shredder to use.”

“I already mailed the letter to O’Rourke with a copy to his firm.”

Now it was Walker’s face that clouded over. “I wish you hadn’t done that.”

“I know. That’s why you need to see this.” She opened her folder again and slid over a second letter, this one more brief than the first.

“You can’t resign on me. Don’t do this to me.”

“I just did.”

“It never happened,” he said, tearing up her resignation. “Let’s go out, throw down a few pops, and talk things out.”

Walker turned to the right of his desk. Piece by piece, he fed Torres’s resignation letter into the shredder.

She watched and waited until he finished. The shredding done, he stood and said, “Let me get my jacket.”

Torres made no effort to rise. Instead, she extended her right hand across his desk, palm flat and facing down. She lowered it steadily. “Sit down.”

Walker sat.

Torres reached into her manila folder and pulled out another resignation letter, same as before. She knew Walker, his habits, his charm. She also knew her own vulnerabilities. The folder contained nine more copies.

“It’s been a long week,” said Torres. “My resignation is nonnegotiable.”

“Can’t we talk?”

“Yeah, Monday. I’ll call you from home. I’m out of the Bureau. It’s that simple.”

With that, Torres stood and walked into the hall. She was excited about the weekend with her family, the first one in a long time when she was not on call. Movie and a spaghetti dinner at Luigi’s. Afterward, Torres and her husband would put the kids to bed, drink too much wine, and watch Jay Leno. Not a bad way to spend the evening. She should have been jubilant.

But for all her enthusiasm about the new life, Torres was racked with guilt. Moreno, Ricardo, all the other scumbags—there was too much unfinished business to feel great about leaving the FBI.

Some end to my career.

“Hey, Torres,” Walker called from his office. “I’m getting my coat.”

She raised her right hand and waved good-bye, never turning around. “It’s Izzy.”

CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

NEW YORK CITY
MONDAY

That morning, I meandered my way to the Red Flame Diner and ordered a lumberjack breakfast. The pancakes came with scrambled eggs and enough bacon to worry my arteries into their fifties. I drank two large orange juices and substituted a bagel and cream cheese for the buttery toast.

I was pissed at Katy Anders and Percy Phillips. Neither of them had called me over the weekend, even though my story made all the newspapers.
The New York Times. New York Post. Daily News.
Now everybody knew who I was. A stranger in the diner asked me, “Are you that guy?”