John Grisham - The Brethren

"How much?" she asked.

"A little over nine hundred dollars. Trevor liked to keep plenty of petty cash."

"Give it to me," Aunt Helen demanded.

"Do you think we should?" asked his mother.

"You'd better take it," Chap said gravely. "If not, it will just go into his estate and the IRS will get it all."

"What else will go into his estate?" asked the aunt.

"All this." Chap said, waving his arms at the office while he walked to the desk. He removed a wrinkled envelope stuffed with bills of all denominations, money they'd just transferred from the rental across the street. He gave it to Helen, who snatched it and counted the money.

"Nine twenty, and some change." Chap said.

"Which bank did he use?" Helen asked.

"I have no idea. Like I said, he was very private about his money" And in one respect, Chap was telling the truth. Trevor had wired the $900,000 from the Bahamas to Bermuda, and from there the trail had disappeared. The money was now hidden in a bank somewhere, in a numbered account accessible only by Trevor Carson. They knew he was headed for Grand Cayman, but the bankers there were famous for their secrecy. Two days of intense digging had revealed nothing. The man who shot him took his wallet and room key, and while the police were inspecting the crime scene the gunman searched the hotel room. There was about $8000 in cash hidden in a drawer, and nothing else of any significance. Not a clue as to where Trevor had parked his money.

It was the collective wisdom at Langley that Trevor, for some reason, suspected he was being followed closely. The bulk of the cash was missing, though he could have deposited it in a bank in Bermuda. His hotel room had been secured without a reservation-he simply walked in from the street and paid cash for one night.

A person on the run, chasing $900,000 from one island to the next, would have, somewhere on his body or in his effects, evidence of banking activities. Trevor had none.

While Aunt Helen riffled through what would surely be the only cash they'd net from the estate, Wes thought about the fortune lost somewhere in the Caribbean.

"What do we do now?" Trevor's mother asked.

Chap shrugged and said, "I guess you need to bury him.

"Can you help us?"

"That's not really something I do. I-"

"Should we take him back to Scranton?" Helen asked.

"That's up to you."

"How much would that cost?" Helen asked.

"I have no idea. I've never had to do anything like this…

"But all his friends are here." his mother said, touching her eyes with a tissue.

"He left Scranton a long time ago," Helen said, her eyes cutting in all directions, as if there was a long story behind Trevor's leaving Scranton. No doubt, thought Chap.

"I'm sure his friends here will want a memorial service." Mrs. Carson said.

"Actually, one is already planned," Chap said.

"It is!" she said, thrilled.

"Yes, it's tomorrow at four o'clock."

"Where?"

"A place called Pete's, just down the street a few blocks."

"Pete's?" Helen said.

"It's, well, it's sort of a restaurant."

"A restaurant. What about a church?"

"I don't think he went."

"He did when he was a boy." his mother said in defense.

In memory of Trevor, the five o'clock happy hour would begin at four, and run until midnight. Fiftycent longnecks,Trevor's favorite.

"Should we go?" asked Helen, sensing trouble.

"I wouldn't think so."

"Why not?" asked Mrs. Carson.

"It could be a rough crowd.A bunch of lawyers and judges, you know the scene." He frowned at Helen, and she got the message.

They asked about funeral parlors and cemetery lots, and Chap felt himself getting dragged deeper and deeper into their problems. The CIA killed Trevor.Was it expected to send him off with a proper burial?

Klockner thought not.

After the ladies left, Wes and Chap finished the removal of the cameras, wires, mikes, and phone taps. They tidied up the place, and when they locked the doors for the last time Trevor's office had never been so orderly.

Half of Klockner's team had already left town. The other half monitored Wilson Argrow inside Trumble. And they waited.

When the forgers at Langley finished with Argrow's court file it fit in a cardboard box, and was flown to Jacksonville on a small jet along with three agents. It contained, among many other things, a fiftyone-page indictment handed down by a grand jury in Dade County, a correspondence file filled with letters from Argrow's defense lawyer and the US. Attorney's office, a thick file of motions and other pretrial maneuverings, research memos, a list of witnesses and summaries of their testimonies, a trial brief, jury analysis, an abstract of the trial, presentencing reports, and the final sentence itself. It was reasonably well organized, though not too neat to arouse suspicion. Copies were smudged, and pages -were missing, and staples were hanging off, little touches of reality carefully added by the good folks in Documents to create authenticity. Ninety percent of it would not be needed by Beech andYaxber, but its sheer heft made it impressive. Even the cardboard box had some age on it.

The box was delivered to Trumble by Jack Argrow, a semiretired real estate lawyer in Boca Raton, Florida, and brother of the inmate. Lawyer Argrow's state bar certification had been faxed to the proper bureaucrat at Trumble, and his name was on the approved list of attorneys.

Jack Argrow was Roger Lyter, a thirteen-year man with a law degree from Texas. He'd never met Kenny Sands, who was Wilson Argrow. The two shook hands and said hello while Link looked suspiciously at the cardboard box sitting on the table.

"What's in there?" he asked.

"It's my court records," Wilson said.

"Just paperwork," Jack said.

Link stuck a hand in the box and moved some files around, and in a few seconds the search was over and he stepped out of the room.

Wilson slid a paper across the desk, and said, "This is the affidavit. Wire the money to the bank in Panama, then get me written verification so I'll have something to show them."

"Less ten percent."

"Yes, that's what they think."

The Geneva Trust Bank in Nassau had not been contacted. To do so would've been futile and risky. No bank would release funds under the circumstances Argrow was creating. And questions would be raised if he tried.

The wire transfer going to Panama was new money.

"Langley is quite anxious." the lawyer said.

"I'm ahead of schedule," the banker replied.

The box was emptied on a table in the law library. Beech and Yarber began sifting through its contents while Argrow, their new client, watched with feigned interest. Spicer had better things to do. He was in the middle of his weekly poker game.

"Where's the sentencing report?" Beech asked, scratching through the pile.

"I want to see the indictment," Yarber mumbled to himself.

They found what they wanted, and both settled into their chairs for a long afternoon of reading. Beech's choice was quite dull. Yarber's, however, was not.

The indictment read like a crime narrative. Argrow, along with seven other bankers, five accountants, five securities brokers, two lawyers, eleven men identified only as drug traffickers, and six gentlemen from Colombia, had organized and run an elaborate enterprise designed to take drug proceeds in the form of cash and turn them into respectable deposits. At least $400 million had been laundered before the ring was infiltrated, and it appeared as though their man Argrow was right in the thick of things. Yarber admired him. If half the allegations were true, then Argrow was a very smart and talented financier.

Argrow became bored with the silence, and left to stroll around the prison. When Yarber finished reading the indictment, he interrupted Beech and made him read it. Beech enjoyed it too. "Surely," he said, "he's got some of the loot buried somewhere."