Steven Gore - Final Target

“A plea agreement. It’ll be sealed until I’ve indicted the others. And he’ll have to plead to the sheet.”

Peterson said the word “sheet” as if the indictment would be handed down like the Ten Commandments, not spit out of his own computer-but Hackett didn’t challenge him. The dance wasn’t over. “What will it be?”

“Conspiracy to commit securities fraud, conspiracy to file false reports with the SEC, and money laundering.”

“Money laundering?” Hackett feigned surprise. “You’ve got to be kidding. The sentencing guidelines are ridiculous. He’d rather roll the dice.”

Peterson paused as if deciding whether to drop the money laundering count. As if. They both knew before the conversation even began that Peterson wouldn’t insist on it. The pretense of negotiation was merely a bone tossed for the sake of Hackett’s dignity and to give him leverage with his client. Now he could tell Matson that he hung tough with Peterson, made him dump the heaviest charge.

“Okay,” Peterson finally said. “No money laundering, but it’ll have to be all the rest.”

“What about time? Uncertainty is stressing the guy out. Let’s agree on something now, at least a range.”

“No can do. His sentence will depend on his performance. Heads on a platter. Can you sell him on the fraud and false reporting?”

“Probably. It’s just that I don’t think he’s clued in his wife yet. And he better be wearing riot gear when he does. She thinks he actually earned it all.”

“And I’ll bet she’s been spending like he did.”

“Her personal shopper at Neiman Marcus has been named Employee of the Month like clockwork since the day she first laid down her credit card.”

Peterson laughed. “When this is over, she’ll be doing layaways at Kmart. No way she really believed your client earned that kind of money on his own.”

Hackett leaned forward in his chair, as if Peterson was actually in the room to observe the significance of what he was about to say.

“Don’t underestimate the guy. Matson may have started out as a kind of a Silicon Valley used car salesman. And I know he looked pathetic during his Queen for a Day-all these guys look that way spilling their guts. But once Granger got him started, it didn’t take him long to learn to play the offshore game. He even got pretty good at it. That’s why he’ll be a damn good witness for you. He’s a lot lighter on his feet than you think.”

“Take it easy, Hackett, you don’t need to sell me on the guy, except for one thing. Matson seemed to get a little squirrelly when we got to talking about Burch. Is he afraid Burch will try to cut a deal and roll back on him?” Peterson didn’t wait for an answer. His voice hardened as he pushed on. “You can tell him I’m not making any deals with Burch. If he ever walks out of that hospital, he’s gonna spend the rest of his life in federal prison-whether your guy delivers him up or somebody else does.”

Hackett wanted it to be Matson, needed it to be Matson. He wasn’t about to humiliate himself losing the case in trial. “When can you send over the plea agreement?”

“This afternoon. Most of it’s boilerplate. I just need to plug in a statement of facts.”

“And those would be?”

“Granger laid out the overall stock fraud strategy and Burch executed it using the dummy offshore companies.”

“Sounds fair. I’ll get Matson in here to sign it.”

“And we want the money. All of it.” Hackett visualized Peterson pounding his forefinger on his desk. “If we catch him lying about where it is, there’s no deal and the money laundering comes back in.”

Hackett had already given Matson that lecture.

“When do you want him in court?”

“Day after tomorrow. The sooner I can get him in front of the grand jury, the sooner I’ll get the indictment. United States of America v. Burch, et al. All the Burches of the world do is help fraudsters like Matson and Granger, and they make an obscene amount of money doing it. When the rest of them watch Burch doing the perp walk past the TV cameras with his tail between his legs, being hauled off to the joint, they’ll all be closing up shop. Every one of them.”

“You mean if Burch survives long enough to get convicted.”

“No. He just has to live long enough for me to get him indicted.”

Hackett set the phone back on its cradle, then looked through his window past San Francisco’s western avenues toward the Pacific Ocean. He never quite understood the arrogance of jingoistic prosecutors like Peterson, amateurs who didn’t have a clue about international business. How, exactly, could U.S. corporations operate in dozens of different tax jurisdictions, dozens of national sovereignties, accommodating dozens of competing masters around the world, without lawyers like Burch?

His gaze settled on the Transamerica Building. What about Transamerica International registered in Bermuda? Or Bank of America Securities in London, Santiago, Singapore, and Taipei? Did these arms of U.S. companies spring out of foreign soil through spontaneous generation?

Why were the tough-guy prosecutors like Peterson always so damn naive? Hackett already knew the answer: It was because they lived in a simple, unambiguous world, structured by simple rules. They believed who they wanted and what they wanted and did so absolutely.

Hackett comforted himself with the thought that he saved Matson’s ass because that’s what he got paid to do, and had gotten paid almost half a million dollars to do it. Anyway, he didn’t know the truth. He hadn’t been there, in Burch’s office. He didn’t know what Burch said, what Matson said. It was all he said, she said. That was the law of conspiracy. Nothing more. Nothing less.

Did Burch cross the line once in a while? Maybe. Maybe not. Who knows? But Peterson taking the word of Matson? Did he really believe that stunted, pastel-packaged liar was reborn a saint when he slithered into the Church of the U.S. Attorney, the Chapel of Cooperation? It was worse than merely naive; it was damn stupid.

Hackett leaned back in his chair, wondering what would be the cost to Burch of that naivete, that stupidity-but not for long. Hours spent thinking about abstract matters weren’t billable, and the clock was ticking. He reached for the intercom, then hesitated and dropped his hand to the desk.

Decades of criminal defense work painted a picture in his mind; it showed him how it would end. Even if it was just a failure of due diligence: Burch too preoccupied with his wife’s illness to pay attention. Peterson would make not knowing look like not wanting to know; and make not wanting to know into greed. Using the hammer of his office and the anvil of a jury composed of peons looking for someone to blame for their own liabilities and others’ enormous assets, Peterson would metamorphize Burch’s negligence into willful conspiracy. That would be the price Burch would pay.

Burch is already judicial roadkill, Hackett thought. Even his pal Graham Gage won’t be able to yank him out of the way of this steamroller.

Gage. Shit. He’d forgotten about Gage. Every insider in the legal community knew how close they were. And he was out there, somewhere-

But there’s nothing Gage can do for Burch. Conspiracies are about words, and the words Peterson is listening to are Matson’s.

Hackett breathed again and a blurry future snapped into focus: One way or another, guilty or innocent, Burch would have to take a plea. Despite Peterson’s grandstanding about giving Burch life, he’d offer twenty years, maybe twenty-five, and Burch would take it. Only idiots go down in flames.

And while Burch might be a crook, he wasn’t an idiot.

G age and Spike were working the Take Back the Streets rally in Pacific Heights. Neither had spoken the words, but both knew they needed a witness to do what Burch might not live to do: identify the shooter.