Джозеф Файндер - Judgment

“And his son goes out with the earl’s daughter. You think... Protasov is the money behind Harrogate Capital Partners?”

“Gotta be.”

“He’s the guy who owns Wheelz.”

“Right. That guy.”

“So where does Mayfair Paragon come in?” she asked.

“Yuri Protasov owns the largest private residence in London, called Paragon House. In a part of London called Mayfair.”

“Mayfair Paragon.”

“Mayfair Paragon is probably one of his private investment vehicles.”

“Wow,” Juliana said after a moment, nodding to herself. “Genius work. I’m impressed.”

“Thank you. So the woman who’s suing Wheelz, Rachel Meyers, starts asking for the files on Mayfair Paragon. Because she’s the general counsel, and it’s her job. And maybe those files are the only place where Yuri Protasov’s name appears.”

“Maybe.”

“And she’s not allowed to see them. Because for some reason Yuri Protasov doesn’t want anyone to know he’s the secret owner of Wheelz.”

“But why the hell would he care?” said Juliana. “So he owns an Uber rip-off. So what?”

“That I can’t figure out. But it’s obviously something he’s willing to kill to protect.”

“And you still think it’s safe to keep kicking at the door? Knowing that?”

“I’m doing it, right?” Hersh said.

“You’re not answering my question.”

“I’m a professional,” said Hersh. “I’m not an easy target. Don’t worry about me. Worry about yourself.”

Later she Googled Protasov. There was a lot, mostly philanthropic. She saw that in 2017 he had given fifty million dollars to Yale to establish the Protasov Fund for Innovation at Yale, and the very next year his daughter was admitted to Yale College. One of those happy coincidences. She found his Wikipedia page and saw that Protasov was on the International Steering Committee of Doctors Without Borders.

Along with Martha Connolly.

Juliana got up early the next morning and went for a run. It cleared her head and calmed her down, better than any sedative. And she needed it, badly. But as she ran her usual route, around the reservoir at Cleveland Circle, she found herself paying close attention to the vehicles she passed, wondering about vans that looked somehow suspicious. About other runners who might be following her. But as far as she could tell, she wasn’t being followed.

Part of her wanted to stay in the house, hide downstairs. She was terrified. But she couldn’t give in to the fear. Instead, she was almost defiant. She wasn’t going to be a victim, a prisoner of fear.

By the time she got back to the house, the men were awake. Duncan was making scrambled eggs; Jake was upstairs in the bathroom, where he spent ridiculous amounts of time. She was ravenously hungry, probably because of the run, but she wanted to get to her lobby early. So she scarfed down some eggs, grabbed her briefcase, and went out to the car. She arrived at her lobby just before eight.

She did some searching online for an e-mail address for her old law school classmate Aaron Dunn, who worked at the Department of Justice in Washington. She found out quickly that Dunn was now chief of the Criminal Fraud division. That was excellent. He’d have some juice in the department. She needed allies.

But she couldn’t find his phone number or his e-mail address. She called the main Justice Department line and asked for him by name. She was put right through to his voice mail. She left him a brief message, told him it was important, gave him her cell number.

And she went back to work.

A motion had come in from Glenda Craft, the plaintiff’s lawyer in the Wheelz case. A bundle of paper all in support of a motion to compel the defense to turn over a document. Sure enough, the defense had responded with a motion of their own. Another bundle of paper. This afternoon they’d be arguing it live, and she wanted to refresh her memory.

The damned Wheelz case — already ugly — had gotten even uglier. First, the defense had tried to pressure the plaintiff into settling by threatening to release her nude photos and sexts. All under the name of “discovery.” She’d shut that down, but now the defense was refusing to hand over documents. The games never ended.

She spent half an hour rereading Glenda Craft’s motion and Harlan Madden’s opposition, and then her iPhone rang. A 202 number: Washington, DC.

“Aaron.”

“Judge Brody! Long time!”

A long time ago, back in law school, Aaron Dunn had been interested in her, romantically. He’d asked her out persistently, even though she’d politely rebuffed him. It took him a long time to get the message. Not all persistence is rewarded. But eventually they got past it and became friends.

“Nice to hear your voice. You’re, like, chief of the division now.”

“Yeah, you keep to yourself and mind your own business, and look what they do to you. How’s Duncan?”

She glanced at her watch. Court started in ten minutes. She had to get right to it, didn’t have time to chat and catch up.

“Aaron, let me tell you why I reached out.” She gave him a quick summary of the Wheelz lawsuit she was presiding over.

“Wheelz is that Uber competitor, right?”

“Right. And because of various documents that have come to my attention, I’ve learned that Wheelz is secretly owned by a Russian businessman you might have heard of. An oligarch named Yuri Protasov.”

“Sure, I know the name,” said Dunn. “He’s a dual national.”

“A citizen of Russia and the US, you mean?”

“Right.”

“Well, for some reason, he’s trying to keep his ownership stake a secret. He’s done it through a series of shell companies.”

“Interesting.”

“And something else,” she said. “This is going to sound like a — thriller, a movie, whatever. But the last principal investor, before Protasov took it over, was killed on the ski slopes at Aspen. Kevin Mathers.”

A pause. “Okay.” He sounded dubious.

“One of the defense lawyers in the Wheelz case died last week — ostensibly a suicide, but very likely a murder. Their British lawyer, or should I say solicitor, was killed a few years ago in a bus accident in London.”

“Wow. I don’t know what to say.”

“I need to contact the FBI. At the right level. And I thought you might know some FBI agents.”

“Of course I do. You want me to give someone a heads-up?”

“If you could.”

“I’d be happy to.”

She thanked him and hung up; then she stood up and put on her robe.

All right,” she said as soon as she sat down. “Ms. Craft, this is your motion. I’ll hear you first.”

Glenda Craft stood. She was wearing an elegant black suit over a white top and pearl earrings. A perk of being a judge, she reflected: no one expects a judge to look especially put together. Judges should look dignified. Dignified, with a black robe on, was easy.

“Your Honor,” Glenda said, “a couple of months ago, we served a request for the production of documents. We requested copies of any and all e-mails that mention Rachel Meyers, including e-mails to and from her. But the defense is stonewalling us once again. Now, Mr. Madden and I have discussed this, and we were unable to arrive at a satisfactory resolution.”

“How many e-mails are we talking about?”

“Well, it’s a string. A chain of e-mails. The chief operating officer, Andrew Westerfield, forwarded an e-mail he’d gotten from Rachel Meyers to his boss, the chief financial officer, Eugene Brod. For some reason they’re withholding that.”

“For what reason?”

“They claim it’s ‘proprietary and confidential,’ Judge. And—”