Steven Gore - Final Target

Peterson checked off the first item on his outline.

“I should point out at this juncture that Mr. Fitzhugh, who I mentioned to you a few weeks ago, is no longer a target, as he’s deceased.” Peterson quickly pushed on, not wanting to answer questions about the circumstances of Fitzhugh’s murder. “My summary witness will be FBI Special Agent Lyle Zink. Beginning tomorrow he’ll outline the structure of the conspiracy, the coconspirators, the bank accounts, and the offshore companies.”

Peterson checked off two more items.

“Stuart Matson has become a cooperating defendant and we expect there will be others. He signed a plea agreement that requires him to disgorge his profits but makes no promises regarding sentencing. Assuming that Mr. Matson is entirely truthful, pursuant to 5K of the Federal Sentencing Guidelines, the U.S. Attorney’s Office will move the district court to grant a downward departure from the mandatory minimum in this matter which is approximately twenty years. He could receive a sentence as low as probation, depending on his performance.

“There will be additional witnesses, including employees of SatTek, bank officers, representatives of the SEC, and others. I expect that presenting all of this testimony will require that we meet about twice a week for the next few weeks.”

Peterson set aside his outline, rested his hands on the top edges of the podium, then paused. He let his eyes scan the grand jurors just a moment longer than any of them found comfortable.

“In accordance with rule six of the Federal Rules of Criminal Procedure, I must remind each and every one of the grand jurors that the proceedings of the grand jury are secret. Secrecy protects you from intimidation, it prevents the escape of grand jury targets, and it prevents the tampering with or the intimidation of witnesses. Please bear this in mind.”

Peterson reached for a binder labeled “SatTek Syllabus” lying on a table next to him.

“Now, let me outline the elements of the crimes of conspiracy, wire fraud, securities fraud, and money laundering.”

Peterson looked up at Grand Juror Number Six. He was already taking notes. Damn.

E dward Granger arrived at the driving range of his country club at sunrise. He purchased two baskets of balls, then selected the driving station farthest from the other golfers. The grass never smelled sweeter, the fall air never felt more crisp and expansive. He paused to watch the caged cart sweeping up spent balls, wondering whether prisons had grass anymore, or whether anything at all grew in them except men growing older. He also wondered how many rounds he would have time to play before he joined the other inmates wasting their days, replacing golf with chess or checkers or bridge or just unrelenting boredom.

Granger teed up a ball, addressed it with his titanium driver, then swung. The ball cracked off the club like a gunshot. He caught sight of it just as it reached its apex. He watched it until it hit the netting three hundred yards away, dropped to the grass, and came to rest. He looked over at the few other golfers at the range. Some hit the ball, then reached into their baskets for another before it stopped rolling, sometimes while it was still in flight. Not Granger. He thought of nothing while the ball was in motion, just the beauty of it. In Granger’s mind, that was the point, the whole point.

Granger paused, thinking back on his conversation with Graham Gage in the clubhouse the previous day. Gage had walked in, handed him a business card, looked him in the eye, and said, “We need to talk about Jack Burch.”

No raised voice. No explanation. Just the invisible force of a riptide. It told Granger even before they’d made the short walk from the bar to the booth, that his day planner would have a bunch of new entries by the time he stood up.

Gage’s leadoff question did it. It convinced him that the first thing he’d need to do was fire his attorney, Sid Lavender. He liked Sid. He respected Sid. But Sid wouldn’t represent a snitch. Sid said it was a matter of principle-and Granger was about to become one.

Snitch. An ugly word. Switch. Bitch. Snitch. But Granger knew he’d eventually get used to it.

“What do you know about Fitzhugh and the engineering software company in Ireland?” Gage had asked.

The question vibrated through Granger. Gage had figured it out. And so would the government. Or Gage would explain it to them.

“I don’t know anything about it.” His tone was flat, unconvincing. They both knew it.

“That’s the wrong answer,” Gage said.

“I know. But there’s nothing you can offer me that’ll give you the right one.”

Granger leaned back, smiling. It was neither aggressive nor defensive. Granger didn’t play those games. It was simply melancholy.

“At least tell me this,” Gage said. “Was Burch in on it? I don’t need you to say whether you were. You and I already know that answer.”

Granger thought back to the beginning. He smiled to himself. Some people think in cliches, I think in analogies.

“Let me put it this way,” Granger finally said. “Do you tell the lumberyard what you plan to use the plywood for?”

Granger didn’t expect Gage to answer. There was no need to. He could see by Gage’s face that he’d given Gage what he wanted to hear: Peterson couldn’t prove intent.

“What about Matson? How did he use the plywood?”

“That’s the last one you get,” Granger said, knowing that it was already one more than he’d prepared himself to answer. “You’re a smart guy. Listen carefully…Sometimes children grow up to do things you never expected in your wildest imagination. And trust me, I’ve got a wild imagination.”

“So I’ve heard. Will you tell Peterson?”

“When the time comes.”

Granger fired Sid an hour later, then let his fingers do their walking through his Rolodex to Bobby Harrington, a member of the country club and a white-collar lawyer he hoped had enough pull to cut him a deal.

“Bobby, this is Ed Granger.”

“How’s the old putter?”

“Stiff and straight. How’s yours?”

“Don’t believe what you read. It’s not the smallest club in the bag. What can I do for you?”

“You still have any connections left in the U.S. Attorney’s office?”

“Sure, I ran the place under two presidents. My picture is still on the wall somewhere, darts and all. What’s up?”

“I’ve got a little situation.”

“How little?”

Granger hesitated, knowing that once he spoke the words that had echoed in his mind as he lay in bed the night before, there’d be no turning back, and nothing would ever be the same.

“I won’t kid you or myself,” Granger finally said. “I’ll be doing time. No way around it. But I’m willing to trade what I know for what they want. I just need a release date soon enough to get in a few rounds before I check out.”

“Sounds bad.”

“It’s SatTek.”

“Ouch.”

“Yeah. A lot worse than I expected. How much do you want to come into the case to cut a deal?”

“Fifty.”

“Might as well charge whatever you want, the government is going to forfeit what’s left.”

“Fifty thousand is fine. Who’s the Assistant U.S. Attorney?”

“Peterson.”

“True believer. But we can deal with him. I’m the one that hired him, right out of law school. Who’s the agent?”

“Zink.”

“An idiot. He’s been pretty much neutered because of a DUI a few years ago. I wouldn’t worry about him.”

“There’s another guy involved. He’s the reason I’ve got to make a deal.”

“Who’s that?”

“Graham Gage. He’s ready to hand my head to Peterson to keep his pal Jack Burch from being indicted. No stopping him.”