Noel Hynd - The Sandler Inquiry

A few minutes later he was seated at the kitchen table, a cup of black coffee steaming in front of him, and visions of the cryptic Adolph Zenger dancing before him. Zenger was a sneak if ever a sneak had walked the earth. But had the retired attorney at least been forthright with his trusted partner's only son?

Thomas wondered.

The telephone rang.

He took his coffee with him, sat in an armchair in the living room, and took the call on the fourth ring.

"Find out anything?" a female voice asked.

For a split second he envisioned Leslie. But the voice was familiar.

He felt a small tremor of disappointment as he recognized the caller.

Andrea Parker.

"Let's say that I'm in hot pursuit of the facts" he said.

"This Sandler mess is a can of worms. Walter Mitty's secret life was gossip-column stuff compared to this' ' "I'm onto a good story, in other words," she said.

"Of course. Otherwise you wouldn't be calling so often" "Don't be mean, Tom" she countered softly.

"I've done some homework for you, too. Did you see Zenger?"

"Yes, "Any help?"

"Some. He had some of the answers, but not all of them." He sipped the black coffee and listened to a guarded silence on the other end.

"This whole thing recalls a lesson I learned in law school, working on a claims adjustment case."

"A what?" she asked.

"A woman came to me and said she'd been sitting in her parked car when a truck had bumped into her hard from behind. She was claiming damages to her car, plus personal damages for whiplash.

She gave me her whole story. Then I talked to the driver of the truck.

He said he'd been double-parked and so had the woman.

Only she had released her brake and rolled back into him. Then I found two witnesses, a shop owner and a pedestrian. They told two other stories with even different details. Four different stories, none of them the same, all of them slightly suspect one way or another.

Know how I got down to the truth?"

"How?"

"I sat them all down together and wrote down the few points in the story upon which none would argue. With a little pressing and a few concessions here and there, I came out with a composite story.

That became the new 'truth' in the case. And that's what I finally went into court with." He sipped the coffee again. 'The Sandler case is the same thing all over again, on a greater scale. You hear stories, the stories conflict. You check and double-check, you distill a composite truth from them. And that becomes the factual basis that you must work with ' "What did Zenger say?" Andrea asked,

"Specifically."

"He said my client's a fake."

"Do you think she is?"

"I'm trying to be compassionate," he said, "as well as a realist."

"Evasive answer, counselor," she chided.

"So far, I believe her." He thought for a moment.

"She has those documents. They look strong. Damned strong. If I went to England, say, and got more corroborating evidence for her…

Well, she'd be in an even stronger position."

"Before you take any trips there's more you ought to know."

"Go ahead " "With the help of some of our financial editors at the paper we've put together quite a bit on our favorite family.

Interlocking corporations. Phantom ownerships. Trusts. Holding companies and such."

"In chemicals?"

"Chemicals and real estate. But that's not the point. It's mostly an odd assortment of smaller companies owned by slightly larger companies, equally strange. A merry-go-round of ownership, and no one can find where it started to spin."

"In other words," he said, 'no one can find out where the money came from to start with. Sounds familiar."

"Right" she said.

"And none of the companies do anything except hold wealth that seems to accumulate ' She paused for a moment. Thomas tried to conjure up an image of Arthur Sandler, the enigma at the center of the case.

Sandler's finances were like the master himself, invisible but very much alive.

"What do you think it's all worth?" she asked.

"Zenger guessed twelve million. Tops."

"Try again."

"More?"

"We're figuring it conservatively and we've got it up to fifty million.

That's five zero. And it's still growing. The more you trace, the more you find. It simply doesn't end' "Jesus " he said with a low whistle and now, suddenly, an uneasy fearful feeling.

"You could finance a small country with money like that."

"You said it, I didn't There was a pause on both ends of the line.

When she spoke again there was uncharacteristic concern in her voice.

"Tom?"

"What?"

"You know you might consider dropping it. The whole thing's starting to look a lot kinkier than anyone realized."

"I should just drop it?" he scoffed.

"Maybe a different approach would be better. A newspaper expose which then tosses it at the feet of the justice Department. it's just a suggestion."

He could feel a headache begin.

"It's not quite that easy after someone has fried your office," he said.

He pondered it. She, too, was thoughtful on the other end.

"You have no idea whom you're dealing with," she said.

"None at all. If only you could take some sort of precaution…"

"Do you have any police contacts through the paper?"

"What sort of police contacts?"

"Someone on the force who could check fingerprints. On the sly."

She thought.

"I don't know anyone. Wait! I know someone who does "Who?"

Another reporter, she explained, a man named Augie Reid. He was an older journalist who now worked Albany for the paper but who over the years had developed friends within the New York State Police. It was worth a shot, she suggested, to try him.

"The girl gave me a photograph," Thomas said, 'of her father. If I give it to you first thing tomorrow morning will Reid see what he can do with it?"

"He'll do anything," she said, seeming confident.

"He loves me."

He changed the subject.

"What's happened about that mugging murder in front of my building?"

"What normally happens about muggings?" she answered.

"Nothing. Why?"

"I got a note from some detective today. They're talking to everyone in the building. They want to see me." He shrugged.

"The guy didn't even live in our building."

He could hear distant traffic in the background, and Mrs. Ryan's discordant piano was playing upstairs. Andrea continued to speak.

"You didn't tell me the end of the first story," she said.

"Which?"

"The automobile claims case. What finally happened?"

"I lost it," he said.

"The woman who came to me was lying completely."

The afternoon of the next day Thomas walked down Third Avenue to the Nineteenth Precinct. He asked for Detective Aram Shassad by name and was shown through a large squad room cluttered with desks, chairs, and patrolmen in uniform. Then he was guided upstairs to where Shassad sat alone in the small space he shared with Hearn.

"I'm Thomas Daniels," said Thomas, offering his hand.

"I received a note saying you wanted to see me."

"Seventy-third Street?" asked the harried Shassad.

"Yes, "Of course. Sit down."

"I don't know how much I'll be able to help you Thomas said.

"I didn't know the victim."

"We're talking to everyone" said Shassad.

"Formality really."

"I understand. I'm an attorney-, "I see" said Shassad.

"Single? No wife?,? Thomas nodded.

At that time Patrick Hearn entered the cubicle, drew up a chair and sat at his own desk. Shassad introduced his partner brusquely to Daniels.

He also sought to dispel the inner dislike and distrust he had of lawyers. Lawyers and judges, to Shassad, were the people who kept the felons on the street.

Shassad briefly outlined the problem with which the police were posed.