Trophy Widow (32 page)

“About what?”

He nodded toward me. “Her.”

“What about her?”

“About what she'd uncovered, about what she was working on.”

“What did you do?”

“I made sure the commissioner saw him. And believe me, he was surprised, too.”

“About what Rachel had found?”

“Sure, but he was really surprised about Curry. He hadn't seen the guy for years, I guess. He had no idea he'd become a born-again Christian asswipe.”

“What do you mean?”

“He told the commissioner he couldn't live with the guilt anymore. Told him the time had come for both of them to step forward and admit what they'd done.
Both
of them. The commissioner told him he was talking crazy, but Curry held his ground. ‘We have blood on our hands,' he kept saying. ‘We must confess our sins.' Quoting Scripture and weeping and moaning and praying. The commissioner finally got him to go home and promise not talk to anyone until he got back to him.”

Borghoff was silent. We all waited.

“And?” Marsha prodded.

Borghoff took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “About ten minutes later, the commissioner called up a man named Maurice and told him he had a personnel problem he needed to discuss that day. They agreed to meet at a place called Sadie's.”

Marsha looked up at Whitley. “Maurice? Maurice Patton?”

The FBI agent nodded. “Especially if the meet was at Sadie's.”

“What is Sadie's?” I asked.

O'Brien snorted. “No place you'd want to be after dark, little lady. It's a bar in East St. Louis where thugs like Maurice Patton hang out.”

“Two days later,” Borghoff continued, “Curry was dead.”

Marsha McKenzie studied him. “Nathaniel Turner is a careful man. I am surprised that he would let you witness those conversations.”

“He didn't.”

“So how do you know what happened?”

“I listened.”

“Through the door?”

Borghoff smiled. “Through a transmitter.”

O'Brien turned to his client. “What?”

Borghoff shrugged. “I didn't trust him. I'd handled dirty work for the commissioner over the years, and I'd seen what he could do when you crossed him. Michael Green was a good example of that.” He glanced at me. “So was the condemnation of your shelter. He's done that to others, too. Never had anyone stop him, though.” He chuckled. “He was pissed at you, lady. I decided I needed a way to level the playing field so if he ever turned on me I'd be able to defend myself. Right around the time he started in with Percy Trotter, I bought one of those bugging devices. Installed it in his office ceiling one night.”

Marsha glanced at Whitley and then back at Borghoff. “He could deny that,” she said. “He could claim that you made it up.”

“I don't think so.”

“Why not?”

He gazed at Marsha for a long time, and then his lips curled into a cold smile. “I might just have those conversations on tape.”

Marsha studied him. “Might?”

Borghoff shrugged. “Depends.”

“Depends on what?”

Borghoff gestured toward his lawyer.

O'Brien raised his eyebrows and leaned forward. “Sounds to me like it's time to play ‘Let's Make a Deal.'”

***

We took a break after an hour. Borghoff was proving to be a treasure trove of incriminating information. More important for me, he had key exonerating evidence about Angela Green's case.

Delighted, I stepped out into the hallway to stretch. I walked down the hall to the drinking fountain, which was located near the rest rooms. Then I walked back to the large picture window in the reception area. I gazed out at the St. Louis skyline, the Arch and the Mississippi River visible in the distance.

I heard one of the rest room doors open behind me. I turned. Nate the Great was coming down the hall with his attorney, a tall white man in his fifties with short hair, small round glasses, and a long narrow face deeply etched with lines. Nate was his usual dapper self in black slacks, a silky gray turtleneck, and lots of gold. He touched his attorney at the elbow and said something to him under his breath. The attorney nodded and moved off to the side. I stiffened as Nate came toward me.

“Well, well, well. The lovely Rachel Gold.”

“Nate.”

There was a hint of a smile on his lips as he studied me. “I understand you've been trying to cause me some trouble.”

“You deserve it.”

He chuckled. “And you think Michael Green didn't?”

“I don't care about Michael Green.”

“Really? So what's this all about?”

“Angela.”

He frowned. “Angela? You lost me there, Rachel.”

“How could you?”

“How could I what?”

“Do that to her?”

“Do what?”

“Don't act cute with me, Nate. She didn't kill Michael Green, and you know it. You set her up. That was your idea.” I shook my head angrily. “To do that to an innocent woman—to steal her dignity and her reputation and her freedom. I hope they take ten years away from you for every one you took from her.”

Off to the side, his lawyer cleared his throat. “Uh, Nate.”

Nate turned and held up a hand. “Hold on, Charlie. Give me a minute here. I know what I'm doing.”

He turned back to me, his eyes narrowing. “Don't get your hopes up, white girl.” He leaned in close. “You ain't fucking with some nigger from the projects when you try fucking with me. Same goes for that lady U.S. attorney. Let me explain something about the real world to you, girl—something they don't teach at that fancy law school of yours. The legal process is a long and winding road, and plenty of surprising things can happen along that road, especially for someone in my position.”

“It doesn't matter what happens on that road, Nate. You're toast.”

He laughed. “Those are tough words, girl. Where I come from, folks don't make threats like that unless they can deliver.”

“Same where I come from.”

He gave me an amused look. “Is that so? You telling me you think you can deliver?”

“Yep. In fact, I plan to deliver tonight. To your uncle.”

His smile faded. “What you talking about?”

“The videotape.”

“What videotape?”

“The one you killed Michael Green for. Guess what, Nate? I've got a copy of it. I think your uncle is going to find it quite informative.”

“How'd you get a copy?” he asked, clearly shaken.

“Nate,” his lawyer warned, stepping forward.

“Answer me, goddammit,” Nate demanded, eyes ablaze.

His lawyer was at least a head taller than him. He wrapped his arm around Nate's chest and pulled him back. “Come with me,” he ordered.

“Hey,” Nate shouted at me as he strained against his lawyer.

I gazed at him. “What?”

“Fuck you, bitch.”

“No,” I said. “Fuck you, bitch.”

Chapter Thirty-five

Monday morning's edition of the
Post-Dispatch
ran a sketchy account of Sunday's events on the first page of the Metro section under the headline CITY HALL ROCKED BY CRIMINAL CHARGES. Above the fold were side-by-side shots of a haggard Don Goddard and a distraught Percy Trotter leaving the federal courthouse after making bail.

Over the next forty-eight hours, the scandal metastasized. On Wednesday alone, a task force of FBI agents and U.S. Marshals booked more than forty defendants, including three additional City Hall employees, four assistant court clerks, Maurice “The General” Patton, and all of the clients of Michael Green and Percy Trotter who'd participated in the fraudulent loan deals. Given that City Hall and the Civil Courts Building sat catty-corner on Tucker Boulevard and had each contributed several defendants to the scandal, it was probably inevitable that by Thursday evening the media would tag the scandal “TuckerGate.”

However, before the week was out, another story knocked TuckerGate off the front page. That story began its journey toward the public domain on Friday morning shortly after eleven. Seven minutes after, to be precise. That's when I got out of my car. I'd parked it on Webster Street across from the courthouse in Chillicothe. Briefcase in one hand, purse in the other, I stared at the courthouse and then checked my watch. It was 11:07 a.m.

Inside the office of the clerk of the Forty-third Judicial Circuit, I handed the woman behind the counter an original and two copies of the court filing. Preoccupied, she time-stamped all three, placed the original in the file box, dropped one copy into the press bin, and glanced at the first page of my copy as she started to hand it back to me. She paused, staring at the caption:
State of Missouri
v.
Angela W. Green
, and then at the title of the document: Petition for a Writ of Habeas Corpus. She looked at me and raised her eyebrows as she handed me my copy.

“My, my,” she said.

In many respects, my habeas petition was similar to the thousands filed each year on behalf of state and federal prisoners throughout the nation. As with many such petitions, mine recited that the defendant was being unjustly held, that the defendant was innocent, that hitherto unknown exculpatory evidence had recently come to light, and that the interests of justice would best be served by an expedited hearing on same.

All well and good—the usual statements one expects to find in that type of petition.

Except for paragraph seven.

I'd certainly never seen such a paragraph before. Neither, I'm sure, had the courthouse reporter, who must have strolled into the clerk's office after lunch that afternoon to flip through the morning's filings in the press bin. I wish I could have seen his reaction to paragraph seven and overheard his initial call, but by then I was on the highway heading toward St. Louis. I'd left the courthouse shortly before noon after obtaining a hearing date on my petition for the following Tuesday morning. From there I'd driven to the prison, spent an hour with Angela, and then stopped by a grocery store to pick up a Granny Smith apple, a Snickers bar, and a large bottle of iced tea for the long drive home.

Although I averaged better than seventy miles an hour the whole way, the fax, phone, and Internet lines far outpaced me. As I reached the outskirts of St. Louis around four o'clock that afternoon and turned the radio to NPR for the news, I heard my client's name in the top story of the hour.

“According to paragraph seven of the petition,” the female reporter was saying, “the United States attorney herself will attend the state court hearing on Tuesday. There she will present evidence that will not only exonerate Ms. Green but also reveal the identity of the real killer. Almost as extraordinary, the court filing states that the Missouri prosecuting attorney will appear at the hearing and, quote, confess to the writ. In plain English, that means that the state of Missouri will support the defendant's claim of innocence.”

By the time I reached my office, a phalanx of print, radio, and TV reporters and cameramen stood waiting outside the building. I stared through the windshield as they scrambled into position, all cameras now aimed at me. One by one, the camera lights clicked on. I took a deep breath and opened the door.

“Miss Gold!”

“Rachel!”

“Over here!”

“Hey, Miss Gold!”

“Please! A question for our viewers.”

“Yo! Got a question here.”

Shading my eyes from the glare, I shoved past the thicket of microphones and minicams and bodies up to the porch and through the front door. Closing it quickly behind me, I twisted the dead-bolt lock and turned toward Jacki. She was slumped at her desk. Both phones were ringing. The fax machine in the corner was printing a page into the overflowing tray. Jacki gave me a weary sigh and pointed at the tall stack of pink message slips in front of her.

“I stopped taking them at fifty.”

I gave her a smile. “Don't worry. We have phone mail.”

“Not anymore we don't. It's totally full.” She gestured toward the stack of message slips. “Check some of these out. You're not going to believe it.”

I leafed through the first dozen or so. Calls from producers for NBC, CNN, ABC World News. From reporters for the
New York Times, Boston Globe, Chicago Tribune
. From Larry King's producer. From Rosie O'Donnell's producer. From Katie Couric.

I looked up at Jacki. “Katie Couric?”

“It was really her on the phone, too. We talked.”

“Wow.”

“Wow is right.”

***

Angela Green's habeas petition was the lead story that evening on the national networks and merited a full episode of
Hardball
on MSNBC. The guests included the usual gaggle of legal pontificators plus Maria Fallaci from a studio in Chicago. She managed to hold up under Chris Matthews's grilling. I watched it at my mother's house, seated on the couch between her and Benny.

“Come on, Maria,” Matthews said with a sardonic grin. “You're a big girl. Admit it. You blew it on this case. We're talking major screwup. You tried to sell battered wife at a trial, and now you're the one getting battered. You're the punch line to the latest bad-lawyer joke. You're sitting here tonight mortified.”

“Not at all, Chris. I'm thrilled for Angela. This is not about me, or about any lawyer. This is all about a wonderful and inspiring woman who is about to be set free. This is all about Angela.”

“I call bullshit!” Benny shouted, jumping to his feet. “This is all about Rachel, you bitch.” He was jabbing his finger at her image on the screen. “You fucked up big time. Rachel Gold rules!”

“Hush,” I said, pulling him back down on the couch.

***

Although the hearing on Tuesday was broadcast live on television, radio, and the Internet, it was not quite edge-of-the-seat theater. For starters, the viewers—like those of us in court that day—already knew the outcome and most of the details. The previous afternoon, the U.S. attorney and the prosecuting attorney had filed their prehearing submissions, which included affidavits, exhibits, forensic reports, and excerpts from the transcripts of Herman Borghoff's secret tape recordings of his boss's conversations. Within hours, a complete copy of all of the filings was available on dozens of Web sites, and most of the newspapers the following morning had front-page summaries with highlights. Thus many in the huge audience that tuned in for the hearing in Chillicothe on Tuesday already knew about the real estate scam and the blackmail videotape and Nate the Great's role and, most important of all, the identity of the real killer of Michael Green. Those who'd watched ABC's
Nightline
the night before got an added prehearing thrill, namely, censored excerpts of Sebastian Curry and Billy Woodward from their porno days, including scenes of each man with the woman destined to become Michael Green's fiancée. (Although I felt sorry for Samantha that night, by the end of the following week she'd landed a six-figure book deal and a role in one of those TV commercials for Naughty By Night jeans.)

I may have provided the only surprise of the day, which came near the end of the hearing—
after
the judge had granted the petition, decreed Angela's innocence, and signed the discharge order directing the warden to release her from prison.

“Your Honor,” I announced, “my client requests that the court postpone her release date.”

The buzz in the gallery behind me echoed his surprised expression.

He said, “I don't understand, counsel.”

“For the past seven years,” I said, “the Chillicothe Correctional Center has been my client's home. Her only home. That is where she lived, that is where she worked, and that is where she founded her rehabilitation programs. She needs a few days to complete the transition plans for those programs. More important, some of her dearest friends live there. She needs time to say goodbye.”

***

The warden helped us devise a plan to evade the press stakeout in front of the prison. At two o'clock that Sunday, I parked my mother's Buick in the alley behind a pharmacy on the far side of town. I'd borrowed my mother's car for disguise, since most of the reporters and cameramen at the hearing last Tuesday—almost all of whom were still in town—had seen me arrive and depart in my red Jeep.

Seated behind the wheel, the engine idling, I waited. Twenty minutes later, the prison laundry truck turned into the other end of the alley. I watched as it approached and stopped in front of me. The driver—a skinny guy in his fifties with a green John Deere cap—was alone in the cab. I pushed the button to pop open the trunk and got out of the car as the driver was stepping down from the truck cab. He nodded at me and touched the brim of his cap before heading toward the back of the truck. I heard him unlatch the rear door.

A moment later, Angela Green came around from the back. I burst into a smile at the sight of her. She had on a navy blue cardigan sweater over a white turtleneck shirt, khaki slacks, and black flats. To help conceal her identity, she wore sunglasses and a floral chiffon scarf wrapped around her head. She was carrying a dark canvas suitcase and shoulder strap purse. She set down the suitcase and we hugged.

“You're an angel, Rachel,” she said as we separated.

I couldn't find any words.

She turned toward the truck driver and shook his hand. “Thank you, Henry.”

“Good luck to you, ma'am.” He tipped his cap at her. “From me and the wife.”

She waved as he backed his truck out of the alley. After he drove off, she gave a big sigh and looked up at the clouds. With her head tilted back, her arms outstretched, and her fingers spread wide, she turned slowly all the way around once. She let her arms drop to her sides.

“I feel like I'm in the middle of a dream,” she said.

“But no longer a nightmare.”

She lowered her sunglasses and smiled at me. “True.”

“Shall we?” I said, lifting her suitcase.

“We shall.”

Angela read me the warden's handwritten driving instructions as I pulled out of the alley onto the quiet street. The directions took us out of town along side streets and back to the highway about seven miles south of Chillicothe.

“Are we really going to an ostrich ranch?” Angela asked after we were on the highway.

I smiled. “That's where Sonya and I agreed to meet. I didn't want to drop you off at her apartment. The press has had it staked out night and day. This way you can have some privacy. Sonya told me she has airline tickets and hotel reservations.”

“Oh? Where?”

“She wouldn't say. I'm sure it's somewhere special—somewhere a mother and daughter can have some peace and quiet before the craziness resumes.”

She leaned back in her seat and took in a deep, relaxed breath. “That does sound nice.”

“Speaking of press craziness, famous lady, you're going to be on the cover of this week's
People
magazine.”

She snorted. “Oh, wonderful. Actually, speaking of famous”—she turned to me with an impish grin—“I heard someone in this car was on the
Today
show last Wednesday.”

I blushed. “I said no to everyone else, but how can you say no to Katie Couric?”

A few moments later, Angela asked, “Why an ostrich ranch?”

“The owners are clients of mine. They're having a big party tonight to celebrate a lawsuit we won.”

“A lawsuit? Did it actually involve ostriches?”

I laughed. “I'll tell you all about it sometime. But for you, the party is perfectly timed. Originally, I'd planned to drive to it after dropping you off, but when Sonya and I talked yesterday, we realized that the ranch was a great place to meet. It's out in the country, which means you'll have some privacy. Moreover, it's a straight shot down Highway 70 from there to the airport.”

The drive across Missouri gave us a chance to go over various matters, the most important of which was Angela's financial situation. With the assistance of the U.S. attorney's office and the State Department, I'd been able to get access to the offshore bank account established for Millennium Management Services, which had been opened in the name of Michael Green d/b/a Millennium Management Services. That was good news for Angela. Under the terms of her divorce decree, she was entitled to the assets of all bank accounts, whether owned jointly or individually at the time of the dissolution, except for Michael Green's office account at Mercantile Bank. The other known bank accounts back then had held approximately $150,000 in total—an amount quickly consumed by Angela's legal fees in her murder trial. Under the terms of the divorce decree, the offshore account thus belonged to Angela Green since it had existed at the time of the divorce. Even with all of Green's payoffs to Nate the Great, the account balance stood at close to $300,000. Better yet, the feds were willing to cut a deal in which they would waive all tax and other claims to the money in exchange for unfettered access to the records related to the account to use in the TuckerGate prosecutions. When you added that offshore money to the publisher's advance Angela would soon receive for her book—money no longer threatened by the Son of Sam suit—financial security would not be among her postincarceration concerns.