James Grippando - Beyond Suspicion

“I’m not crossing any lines. All I did was get you a meeting.”

“A meeting?”

“Somehow, you fit into Drayton’s strategy. I can’t tell you how, but I was at least able to convince Drayton that your come-to-Jesus meeting ought to be sooner rather than later. It just isn’t right for him to string you along like a common criminal.”

“So, does Drayton want to offer me a deal?”

“All I’m saying is that you need to meet with Drayton.”

“Fine. Rosa’s my lawyer.”

“You can’t bring a lawyer. You can’t even tell her we’ve talked.”

“He wants me to go unrepresented?”

“You’re a criminal defense lawyer and a former prosecutor. You’ll hardly be outmatched.”

“It just isn’t reasonable.”

“What Drayton has to say can’t be said in front of your lawyer or anyone else. It’s for your ears only, and this is your one and only chance to hear it. Those are his terms, not mine.”

Jack fell silent, concerned. He’d seen the rivalries between the strike force and local prosecutors before. The stench of internal politics was almost bubbling over the phone line. “I appreciate our friendship, but don’t be sticking your neck out too far, all right?”

“Don’t worry about me. This is all about you.” There was an urgency in his voice, an edge that Jack almost didn’t recognize. “You don’t even have to respond to what Drayton tells you. Just listen. Think of it as free discovery.”

Jack glanced out the window at downtown Coral Gables, mulling it over. Experience had taught him that it was best not to overanalyze some opportunities. At some point, you had to trust your friends, go with your gut. “All right. Where?”

“Downtown.”

“When?”

“As soon as possible. Drayton’s here today only.”

“Give me an hour.”

“Great. See you then.”

“Yeah,” said Jack. “Can’t wait.”

•

At eleven-thirty, Jack was at the Federal Building in downtown Miami. It was familiar territory.

Chafetz was the man who’d convinced him to become a federal prosecutor, and he was the reason Jack had stayed with the U.S. attorney’s office far longer than originally planned. At the time, Chafetz was in the special investigations section, a trial-intensive team that handled complex cases ranging from child exploitation to gang prosecution. It was hard work, high stakes, and never boring. A perfect fit for Jack. He and Chafetz worked side by side, liked each other’s style, liked each other. But nothing lasts forever. Chafetz was promoted to section chief, and Jack moved on to private practice. They tried to stay in touch, but it just wasn’t the same after Jack started working the opposite side of the courtroom.

Chafetz led Jack to a conference room near his office. Two men were inside, waiting. From the hallway, Jack could see them through the window on the door.

“I’ll take Drayton, you can have the little guy.”

Chafetz smiled, then turned serious. “I wish I could prepare you better, but you and I don’t need anyone accusing us of exchanging favors on the side. Just remember, whatever happens in there, it isn’t my show. It’s Drayton’s.”

“I know what you’re saying. It’s no secret how Drayton operates.”

“You know him?”

“Only by reputation. A conceited tight-ass who thinks anyone who lives outside the 202 area code just fell off the turnip truck.”

“Dead on, my friend. Just do me a favor. Don’t mention turnips in the meeting, all right?”

“Come on, you know me better than that.”

“I’m serious. This wasn’t easy to pull off.”

Jack wasn’t sure how Chafetz had convinced Drayton to lay his cards on the table sooner than he otherwise might have. But things like this didn’t happen just because you said “pretty please.” He looked him in the eye and said, “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

He opened the door, Jack and he entered, and the introductions followed. First was the portly guy with tortoise-shell glasses, a crew cut, and virtually no personality. The letters “IRS” might just as well have been tattooed across his forehead. At his side was Sam Drayton. Instantly, he struck Jack as a walking fraud. It was well known that his wife was a millionaire, but he still wore the cheap, off-the-rack suits of a government lawyer because that was the image he wanted to cultivate. The wristwatch was a forty-dollar Timex, and the pungent cologne smelled like some homemade concoction of Aqua Velva and a three-dollar jug of berry-scented massage oil that could have masked the odor of a moose in a spinning class. Jack would have bet his liberty that Drayton had never paid more than six dollars on a haircut.

All of that is fine, if that’s who you are. But there’s nothing more pretentious than a wealthy lawyer who has to work at being a regular Joe.

Jack took a seat at one end of the table, opposite Drayton and his IRS agent. Chafetz excused himself and reached for the door.

“Hey, Chafetz,” said Jack as he flipped him a quarter.

He caught it in midair, puzzled.

Jack said, “My turnip truck is parked out front. Feed the meter, would you?”

They exchanged glances, the way they used to communicate silently as cocounsel in a courtroom. “Sure thing,” said Chafetz as he left the room, suppressing his smile.

The others looked at one another, clueless as to the inside joke. Drayton turned to the business at hand. “Thanks for coming, Mr. Swyteck.”

“I wish I could say it was good to be back.”

“We know it’s an inconvenience. Especially in light of what happened to you this morning.”

“You mean those thieves who took my computers?”

“No. I mean that bruise on your jaw.”

“Seems that someone is really ticked off that I might blame the viatical investors for Jessie Merrill’s death.”

“We know. We’ve read the police report you filled out in the emergency room.”

“Seeing how you’re part of the strike force, am I correct in assuming that my little incident may have had something to do with an element of organized crime?”

“To be honest, we want you to help us pinpoint the exact criminal element involved.”

“I wish I could, but I can’t. Never got a look at who jumped me last night. And I’ve already told the state attorney everything I know about the threats against Jessie. Unfortunately, she didn’t get very specific.”

Drayton said, “We hear from a reliable confidential informant that the beating you took last night came on a direct order from a known underworld operative.”

“How does your CI know that?”

Drayton didn’t answer, didn’t even seem to acknowledge the question. He simply rose and went to the whiteboard, rolling a felt-tipped marker through his fingers as he spoke. “For about eight months now, we’ve had our eye on Viatical Solutions, Inc., or VS, as we call it.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“From the outside, VS appears to be nothing more than a viatical broker. The deals are structured like a legitimate viatical settlement, with one major difference.” Drayton marked a red dollar-sign on the whiteboard, then drew an X through it. “The money from the investors is always dirty.”

“VS is laundering money?”

“As if you didn’t know.” The prosecutor leaned into the table and said, “How did your name end up on an offshore bank account with Jessie Merrill?”

“She obviously put it there. How or why, I can only guess.”

“How did the investors pay her the one-point-five million?”

“I don’t know. That happened before she hired me.”

“Was it in cash or a wire transfer from another offshore bank?”