Trophy Widow (26 page)

Chapter Twenty-eight

Second day of trial.

Mack put on only one more witness—an escapee from the junk-science holding pen named Martina Kirkman, a purported animal psychoanalyst that the judge allowed to testify as an expert witness over my objection. The good doctor opined that Big Red appeared to be a manic-depressive suffering from a bipolar disorder likely arising from unresolved hostility toward females caused by a focal confusion over apposite gender roles—or something like that. The jury seemed to be having as much trouble as me following her testimony. Mack's direct examination lasted fifteen minutes, and my cross just five—long enough to establish that she'd been a panelist on a Jerry Springer show where the topic was “Women Who Sleep with Their Dogs.”

“Call your first witness, Miss Gold.”

I stood and took a deep breath. I'd been up until four in the morning preparing for this next encounter, trying to anticipate every possible scenario. Armour was the wild card, of course. I glanced over at him. He leaned back, his arms folded over his chest, smirking at me.

It's show time, Rachel
.

I turned toward the back of the courtroom and nodded to the bailiff, who opened the courtroom door.

I announced, “Defendants call Milly Eversole.”

Armour jumped to his feet. “What the—Objection!”

Millie entered the courtroom, escorted by Benny Goldberg. Coming in behind them was Martha Hogan, looking determined as usual. Her black hair was cut in short layers with wispy bangs. Our eyes met as she came up the aisle. She snuck me a wink. I could have kissed her.

“This is outrageous,” Armour grumbled. “May I approach, Your Honor?”

I joined him for the sidebar.

“What kind of carnival stunt is this?” Armour demanded. He turned to glare at Milly as she filed past, eyes averted, toward the witness stand.

I said, “Miss Eversole worked in the nursery at Blackwell Breeders from the time this ostrich hatched until my clients bought him. Based on my cross-examination of Mr. Blackwell yesterday, I believe her testimony is highly relevant.”

“You're out of luck, lady,” Armour said.

“Oh?”

“There's not going to be any testimony. That girl signed a confidentiality agreement. Her lips are sealed.”

“Not according to her attorney,” I said.

“Her attorney?” Armour turned to me, his eyes ablaze. “Who's that?”

I pointed. “There.”

Armour turned toward Benny, who'd taken a seat in the front row. Benny winked at him and gave a thumbs-up. Armour glowered at him for a moment, and then glanced at Martha, who'd taken a seat alongside Benny in the front row, her hands clasped on her lap, her beautiful Irish Claddagh ring showing. Armour knew who she was. We all did. Once upon a time, she'd been little Martha from St. Bernadette grade school in Rockford, Illinois. But for the last twenty years, she'd been a prosecutor in the sex crimes division of St. Louis County. Shrewd and relentless, she had the highest conviction rate in the office.

“What the hell is
she
doing here?” Armour demanded, gesturing toward Martha. You could almost see the steam coming off his bald head.

Ignoring his question, I turned to the judge. “Your Honor, may I proceed with the witness?”

“Hold it, lady,” Armour said. “Can we get the jury out of here and sort this out?”

Judge Parker nodded wanly and looked over at the jury. “Uh, the court will be in recess for ten minutes, ladies and gentlemen.”

I turned toward Martha as the jury filed out. She and Benny and I had gone over this very possibility last night in her office. I was ready for him and hoped those two were as well. I gave Milly Eversole a reassuring smile. She was wringing her hands together in her lap, her eyes darting anxiously from lawyer to lawyer.

As the door closed behind the final juror, Armour spun toward the judge. “That girl,” he said, pointing at Milly, who flinched in the witness box, “is getting dragged down the primrose path by Miss Gold. Milly had an employment dispute with my client. My client settled with her. A very generous settlement, Judge. He gave her a significant severance payment with one condition: if she
ever
disclosed the terms of the settlement agreement to
anyone
, she'd have to refund the full amount
and
pay my client an additional five grand. Miss Gold's little grandstand play here is going to cost that girl a pretty penny.”

“Hey, curly,” Benny interrupted, “Rachel isn't her lawyer. I am.”

Armour spun toward him. “Really? Do you have any grasp of the financial impact of this on your client?”

Benny nodded thoughtfully. “I have a pretty good idea what it would take to settle it right now.”

“Oh, is that so?” Armour said with disdain. “And what is it?”

“About a million from that redneck cretin you represent, another quarter of a mill from you. That ought to do it.”

“Have you lost your mind?” Armour asked.

“No,” Benny answered, “but you may lose your license.”

“Hey,” Armour said, taking a threatening step toward Benny, “watch your mouth, buster, 'cause I got chunks of guys like you in my stool.”

Benny glanced at me, a twinkle in his eye, and then turned to Armour. “Chunks of what in your stool?” he asked, feigning confusion.

Armour thrust his chin forward. “Guys like you.”

Benny gave him a sympathetic look. “Don't lose hope, pal. They may yet find a cure.”

“For what?” Armour asked.

“For your eating disorder, you poor bastard.”

“Hold on, gentlemen,” Judge Parker said, trying to recapture control of his courtroom. He turned toward Martha. “First things first. Ms. Hogan, are you here on a matter?”

She stood. “I am.”

“Let's take care of you first, then. Which matter?”

“This one.”

“This case?” Judge Parker looked puzzled. “Why?”

“At Mr. Goldberg's request, I interviewed Miss Eversole yesterday.” She nodded toward Milly. “Based on that interview, I've determined that there's probable cause for the perpetration of at least four felonies.”

“Aw, shit,” Charlie Blackwell groaned in the background.

“I don't understand,” Judge Parker said.

Martha started ticking them off on her fingers. “One count of forcible rape and one count of forcible sodomy. Both criminal acts perpetrated by Mr. Blackwell during working hours inside the nursery barn at Blackwell Breeders. Miss Eversole was the victim both times.”

There was a long pause as Martha stood there with two fingers raised.

“Uh, you mentioned four,” Judge Parker finally said.

“Two counts of concealing an offense,” Martha answered.

Judge Parker frowned. “Pardon?”

“Section 575.020 of the Missouri criminal code makes it a felony to agree to confer a financial benefit on any person in consideration for that person's agreement to conceal a crime or to refrain from initiating the prosecution of a crime.”

“Mr. Blackwell did that?” Judge Parker asked.

“Actually,” Martha said, turning toward Armour, “this man did. He not only worked out the financial details, prepared the papers, and had the victim sign them, but he also issued his own threat.”

In the hushed courtroom, Martha stared up at Armour like a butcher eyeing a steer.

***

That's why I ought to be a judge,” Benny said.

The two of us were at a bar on Laclede's Landing. Through the window you could see the Arch in the distance, its silvery skin gleaming in the late afternoon sun.

As so often happens, the threat of criminal prosecution forced a quick resolution of the civil case. Charlie Blackwell had surrendered by noon in the judge's chambers. With Martha glaring down at Blackwell, the judge wrote out the terms of the agreed settlement order: my clients would receive a full refund of their money (with interest), an additional $25,000 in compensation for injuries to their other ostriches, and payment of all of their legal expenses. Once the agreement was signed, Martha asked—or, rather, instructed—the judge to excuse Mack Armour. After he stepped out, Martha informed Charlie Blackwell that he would have until Monday to find a criminal lawyer prepared to discuss a plea bargain. The terms of the deal would have to include a significant restitution payment to Milly Eversole and an agreement to cooperate in the prosecution of Mack the Knife.

“You should be a judge?” I said to Benny, bemused. “Why?”

“Creative sentencing. Make the punishment fit the crime. That'd be my mantra.”

“Enlighten me, O learned adjudicator. Assuming that Martha gets a jury to convict Mack the Knife, what sort of punishment would fit his crime?”

“That's easy. Book the weekend special at the Honeymoon Hotel. Strip him naked, spray him with ostrich musk, and lock him inside with Big Red. Talk about your rehabilitation—by the time you open that door on Monday morning you'll have either a compassionate, New Age attorney ready to champion the rights of women or—”

“Or what?”

Benny winked. “—or Big Red's favorite boy toy.”

He took a sip of beer and eyed the remaining two toasted raviolis on the platter. He grabbed one, dunked it in the red sauce, and popped it in his mouth whole. I contemplated the last one as I felt my mind starting to slip its gears. It had been a long, exhausting week, and it was only half gone, and there was so much left to do. I speared the ravioli with my fork, dipped it in the red sauce, and took a bite. I stared through the window at the Arch as I chewed.

“Learning to Fly” by Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers came over the sound system. The song immediately transported me back in time to law school and an October weekend in a New Hampshire farmhouse with my then boyfriend, a Tufts medical student. He'd been a Tom Petty fan and played his greatest hits tape on the drive up from Boston. Near the farmhouse was a small untended apple orchard probably dating back a hundred years, the limbs gnarled but heavy with fruit. We'd picked apples on a cool morning, filling two bushel baskets, the burgundy skins of the apples glowing in the New England sunshine. They'd been crunchy and tart and delicious. Other memories from that weekend floated by—snuggling on the couch in front of the fire, reading Robert Frost poems on the porch swing in the late afternoon sun, slow-dancing under the moonlight to the sound of Tom Petty's “Into the Great Wide Open” on the portable tape player, sipping hot tea from a heavy mug on the back porch while gazing at the mountains shrouded in early morning mist, skipping stones on a still pond at the edge of the forest, eating a picnic lunch of crusty French bread, sharp Vermont cheddar, Greek olives, and icy white wine, walking hand in hand through a pasture late at night beneath a canopy of a million stars, making love under a quilted comforter in a chilly bedroom. Life had seemed so beautiful that weekend. And so simple. And so far from where I was today.

Benny said something.

After a moment, I turned to him. “Pardon?”

He gave me a curious look. “I said I'm glad Milly didn't have to testify.”

I nodded. “Poor thing was scared to death. Martha is the perfect guardian angel for her. She'll make sure we get Millie a big restitution payment from Blackwell.”

“And something from Mack, too.”

I smiled. “I'll make sure of that. He won't get off cheap.” I leaned across the table and patted his hand. “Thank you, Benny. You did a good deed today.”

He reddened. “Me? Come on. You were the one who found her. You were the one who brought her up here. I was just your stand-in.”

“You were a wonderful stand-in.”

“Your clients sure seemed pleased.”

“Oh, they were. They're going to throw a big victory party out at the ranch.”

“Awesome. When?”

“They wanted to do it this weekend but I asked them to hold off one week.”

He gave me a sympathetic look. “More Angela stuff?”

I gave him a weary nod. “My dance card is full through Sunday.”

“When's Jonathan coming back?”

“Hopefully by the end of the month. Hopefully I'll have my confession ready by then.”

“What confession?”

“Well, either a confession or an ultimatum—I'm not sure which.” I sighed. “I love him, Benny, and adore his daughters. That's why I've been trying so hard, but this Orthodox Judaism just isn't going to work for me. Maybe someday, but not now. Funny thing is that these sessions with the rabbi have convinced me how much I love Reform Judaism.” I leaned back and looked down at the table. “I've got another meeting with the rabbi tonight. It's not his fault. He's been a doll. Tonight we're going over the laws of kasruth. That part's okay. I'm willing to be a trouper. I'm prepared to keep a kosher home and I'm happy to observe
shabbas
every week, but the rest just isn't going to fly.”

“Oh, shit. Does this mean no
mikvah
lifeguard spot for me?”

“Sorry.”

“Seriously, Rachel, just tell him the truth. You're still Jewish, for chrissake. And a hell of a lot more observant than most Jews, including me. Jonathan ought to understand. He might be religious, but he's not one of those zealots. He'll be cool.”

“Maybe.”

“If he isn't, you tell him I'll kick his ass. Well, on second thought, given his Golden Gloves background, you tell him I'll hire someone to kick his ass. Deal?”

I smiled. “Deal.”

Chapter Twenty-nine

I was in the public reading room of the recorder of deeds office on the first floor of City Hall. Open on the table before me was the grantee index volume for SAI to SUR for the year that the Sevens Corporation purchased its three-flat in north St. Louis. I was staring at the page for that transaction. Surrounding me on the table were piles of other grantor and grantee indexes.

I was dazed and confused.

Fortunately, Betty Watson had taken pity on me. Betty was a file clerk in the recorder of deeds office—a pleasant woman in her late fifties with dyed black hair, a deep cigarette rasp, and a double-knit pants suit outfit that could be described as post-Easter Kmart-markdown. She'd come to my rescue the third time I'd gone back to the main office with a question.

She was now standing at my shoulder and looking at the page with me. Her reading glasses hung from a slender gold chain around her neck.

“What about this?” I asked, pointing to the line that read
Consideration: $250,000
. “That must be a typo.”

“Why do you say that?”

“I saw the real estate contract on this property. The sales price was twenty-five thousand, not two hundred and fifty thousand.”

“Look here, honey,” she said, pointing to the entry above it, which indicated that the trustee was something called Renewal Corporation.

“Okay,” I said uncertainly, wishing again that I'd forced myself to pay closer attention in my property law class. Three years at Harvard Law School and I couldn't even remember whether a homeowner was the mortgagee or the mortgagor.

“You see?” Betty said. “The two hundred fifty thousand dollars isn't the purchase price, honey. It's the loan amount.”

The loan amount
?

I tried to make sense out of that.

I couldn't.

“But that would mean that this Renewal outfit,” I said, pointing to the entry, “loaned the buyer two hundred and fifty thousand dollars to buy a three-flat that cost only twenty-five thousand dollars.”

“That's what it says.”

“But that's crazy. Why would anyone loan a buyer
ten times
the purchase price of the property?”

“That's what Renewal Corp does.”

I turned and looked up at her. “What is it?”

“That's the mortgage lender the city runs. They handle all the redevelopment funds. It's part of that Renewal 2004 program for fixing up the north side. You'd have to check with the comptroller's office, or maybe the redevelopment commissioner, for the details. One of those offices administers it.”

“Administers what?”

“The loan program.”

“What loan program?”

“For properties in the redevelopment area. That's the whole Renewal Corp thing. You can borrow up to ten times the purchase price of one of them rundown properties if you agree to use that money to fix her up real nice. And believe me, honey, there is a ton of funding. We're talking millions—and most of it from the feds.”

I stared at the entry in the book, absorbing what Betty Watson had just told me, astounded by its implications, especially multiplied by twenty-three. I reached for the grantor index for the following year. I'd left that volume open to the page with the entries for the same property.

“What does this entry mean?”

She put on her reading glasses and bent over. “Musta been a default.”

“Why do you say that?”

“It says here that Mr. Borghoff was appointed successor trustee.”

“What's that mean?”

“It's what happens when the borrower defaults on a loan. The mortgage company appoints a successor trustee to start the foreclosure. With a bank, your successor is usually someone at the bank or the bank's law firm. For the city's foreclosures, it's usually a lawyer in the city counselor's office.”

“But not here.”

“Like I say,
usually
a lawyer. Not always, though. Sometimes Mr. Borghoff gets appointed successor trustee. Sometimes they appoint someone over in the comptroller's office.”

“How do they decide?”

Betty shrugged. “They don't tell us.”

“Would the results of the foreclosure be shown in these indexes?”

“Eventually. To find the current owner, though, you should check with the assessor's office. If you want to see any executions or other court orders on the property, you could check our land records on microfilm.”

“What about the loan agreement with Renewal Corporation? The one where the buyer agrees to spend all that money on renovations?”

“See this number?” she said, pointing to one of the entries on the page from the index. “That's for the microfilm reel and page where you'll find that agreement.”

“Where do I find the microfilm?”

“In the microfilm room down in the basement level.”

I leaned back and looked around the room, overwhelmed by the sheer volume. “So it's all in here or down there.”

She laughed a smoker's hack. “Here and there and elsewhere. Kind of spread out in different places, honey, but you can eventually unscramble one of them deals if you got the time and you got the inclination.”

“Well,” I said with a weary smile, “I guess I have the latter.”

“Then happy hunting. I'm going to go grab me a smoke, honey. I'll check back on you later.”

I worked through the lunch hour, slowly unraveling the deals, one by one. By quarter to two I'd deciphered twelve of them—enough to see the pattern, more than enough to call Jacki to ask her to meet me in the City Hall rotunda. She said she'd be there in thirty minutes.

Jacki showed up in a French-blue button-front dress and brown sandals. It was one of my favorite outfits for her—an elegant cotton dress ending at mid-calf with a full collar, dyed-to-match buttons, and a left breast pocket. The look was lean and graceful—no mean achievement with that body. We'd picked the dress out together one afternoon from a Lands End catalogue during the height of our just-say-no-to-Dolly Parton phase in Jacki's fashion evolution.

“What's up?”

“Let's go outside,” I said. “I'll tell you there.”

We stepped out of the City Hall entrance facing Market Street. Across Tucker Street to our right was the fourteen-story Civil Courts Building—the crazy building topped by the Greek temple, Egyptian pyramid, and silver griffins.

“I need you to go over to the court clerk's office,” I said, nodding toward the Civil Courts Building. “Run a defendant search for each of the twenty-three corporations.”

“You think they've been sued?”

“I'm guessing twenty-three lawsuits, one against each.”

“Who's the plaintiff?”

“Either the city of St. Louis or something called Renewal Corporation. I'm guessing twenty-three lawsuits and twenty-three default judgments.”

“What's going on?”

I glanced around at the people milling near the City Hall entrance.

“Come with me,” I told her, gesturing toward the back of the building. We found a bench in the shade where we could talk without being overheard. I kept my voice low, just to be safe. I explained the special mortgage program and how it worked.

“Ten times the purchase price?”

I nodded. “Although it's funded mostly by federal grants, the city handles all the paperwork and makes all the lending decisions.”

“Okay.”

“I've checked twelve of the Michael Green deals so far. In each one, the corporation borrowed the money from Renewal Corporation, bought the property, and promptly defaulted. Never made a single loan payment. The city started a foreclosure proceeding, but the only security it had was the property itself. The city eventually got the property back, but it was still out all the money.”

“So you think the city sued each of these corporations for the deficiency on their loans?”

“Exactly, and I bet it only sued the corporation.”

Jacki frowned. “Why do you say ‘only'?”

“I've only reviewed the paperwork on five of the deals so far. According to the approval guidelines, the lender is supposed to get a personal guarantee from each of the principal shareholders of the corporation, along with a pledge of their assets. That way they have recourse if there is a default, since the loan is ten times the value of the property. But on the paperwork I reviewed, there were no personal guarantees in the loan files.”

“Which means what?”

“Which means that somehow those loans went through the approval and funding process without personal guarantees. That's why I'm betting you'll find that the city sued only the corporations. And that's why I'm betting you'll find twenty-three default judgments. Each of those corporations is judgmentproof, since the only asset it had was the property that the city took back in the foreclosure.” I leaned back and shook my head in wonder. “The perfect scam.”

“I'm not following you.”

“Look at Don Goddard's deal. He forms a shell company, the city loans it two hundred fifty grand, he spends twenty-five on a three-flat, pays Michael Green twenty-five in legal fees, and pockets the rest—assuming that the city sues only his company.”

I could tell Jacki was doing the math in her head. “So he clears two hundred thousand dollars?”

“Probably closer to one eighty-five. Don't forget the fifteen thousand he paid for the Sebastian Curry painting.”

Jacki frowned. “How's that fit in?”

“Michael Green couldn't run a scam like this solo. He had to have someone on the inside—someone who'd make sure that the loans got approved without personal guarantees, who'd make sure that no Boy Scout in City Hall would try to find a pattern with these defaults.” I paused. “Come to think of it, when you search the court files, look for other suits involving Renewal Corporation. There must be legitimate deals out there with real defaults. Let's see whether there were personal guarantees on those loans.”

She was making notes on a yellow legal pad. She looked up when she finished. “How do the Sebastian Curry paintings fit in to this?”

“I'm not sure, but look at what we know so far. Each sale of a painting generated a commission for that Millennium outfit, which appears to be an offshore entity somehow connected to Michael Green. Green's scam requires a City Hall insider, right? I'm guessing a big chunk of those Millennium commissions got funneled back to someone at City Hall.”

“Wow.”

“It's a clever scheme because the real estate deals look legit. The client puts up no money but ends up walking away with close to two hundred grand, tax-free. Michael Green gets his cut of the action in the form of a twenty-five-thousand-dollar payment called a legal fee. Multiply that by twenty-three deals—not bad. The client supplies the bribe money by laundering fifteen thousand dollars of the loan through the purchase of a piece of art—hardly a suspicious transaction for a person of means. When the loan goes into default, the whole clanking foreclosure machinery kicks into action—but it's just one of dozens and dozens of foreclosures grinding through the courts. At least that's my theory.”

“How do we test it?” she said.

“We start by checking the court files.”

“What else?”

“I'll review the rest of the loan deals—especially the paperwork on microfilm.”

“And then?”

“Depending upon what you find in court and what I find back in City Hall, maybe we see what happens when we confront one of our twenty-three upright citizens.”

Jacki's eyes widened. “Really?”

“I want to get this over with. And the sooner the better. Whatever Sebastian Curry knew about this scam was dangerous enough to get him killed. Maybe it was also dangerous enough to get Michael Green killed and to get Angela framed. Jonathan told me to follow the money, and that's what I've been doing.” I took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “I think we're starting to get warm.”

“I think I'm starting to get nervous.”

I stood and glanced toward the entrance to City Hall. “It's back to the coal mine for me. Good luck over there.”

I watched Jacki head down Market Street toward the Civil Courts Building and then turned back toward City Hall. The weather was warm and the sky was clear. I had a sudden urge to play hooky—to hop in my car and drive over to the Missouri Botanical Gardens and wander among the flowers and buy pellets to feed the carp in the Japanese Gardens—or maybe hop a plane to New York and surprise Jonathan and whisk him off to a jazz bar on the West Side and then back to a suite in the Parker Meridien where I'd convince him to pretend for one evening that he was a Reform Jew. But as I looked up at the sky and took a deep breath and closed my eyes, I had a vision of Angela Green in her prison grays. My smile faded, my eyes opened, my shoulders sagged, and I headed toward City Hall.

Returning to that dank microfilm room felt like returning to a dungeon. One of the four fluorescent lights was out and another one sputtered overhead, which cast annoying, flickering shadows. The clunky microfilm readers dated back to the Sputnik era, the dull green paint on the walls was chipped and peeling, and the odor of mildew permeated the air.

Two hours later, I clicked off the reader, leaned back in my chair and reached my arms toward the ceiling. I'd now reviewed the loan documents for more than half of the deals, and the pattern still held: no personal guarantees. I rubbed my neck and moved my head from side to side, trying to get out the kinks. I needed a break.

I stood and stretched and took in a deep breath. There were vending machines down a back corridor on the first floor. I gathered my notes, put them in my briefcase, reached for my purse, and walked down the hall toward the elevator.

I bought a can of diet Coke and a package of pretzels. After checking my voice mail, I stepped outside to enjoy my little feast in the late afternoon sun. It was a quarter after four. If I hurried, I could finish the rest of the deals before five. Tossing the empty soda can and package in the trash, I went back inside, headed down the hallway, and took the elevator back to the basement level.