John Mackie - Hazardous Goods

I noticed Ted had stopped with the sighs and was paying attention now. Put “$18 million” and “high priced escorts” in a story, and you would definitely get my brother’s attention.

“Did they say his wife owns the company?”

“Biggest shareholder.”

“Guy’s got a massive set, huh? Using company money to pay for hookers when his wife owns the place?”

I nodded in agreement. The on-screen image shifted from the news anchor to an image of the courtroom steps, with Legenko and his counsel surrounded by a wall of microphones and screaming reporters. Legenko looked like he was going to be sick, his stock brazen glare replaced by a deer-in-the-headlights look. His counsel was a decidedly unattractive man, comb-over blowing in the wind, bulging eyes and a sneer of a mouth. At his other side stood Legenko’s wife, a statuesque brunette who had modeled for several years before using her fame and fortune to establish a global real estate development conglomerate. The rest of the small entourage was made up of a tall crew cut fellow with “security” written all over him, a female lawyer dragging a massive briefcase on a trolley, and one guy who looked a little out of place.

“That’s his wife? Maybe she’ll need some company when hubby’s in jail.”

“Hmph.” She was hot. But something else had caught my eye.

“What the…?” I squinted at the screen and pointed. “That’s the idiot that robbed us!”

“What?” Ted had a goofy grin on his face, but it disappeared pretty fast when he saw I wasn’t laughing. “Which guy?”

“ That guy!” I stumbled over the side table and stabbed at the image on the screen. Up close I could see it was him, same massive frame, same jacket, same greasy hair, same broken nose. He stood to Legenko’s left, just behind the security guy. A lit cigarette dangled from his lip.

“ Legenko faces eight counts of fraud, money-laundering, tax evasion and obstruction of justice. If convicted, he could serve the rest of his life in jail .”

Ted lumbered forward to stand by my side. “You sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure.”

The image switched back to Mr. Anchor, who now moved on with a story about a school shooting in Nebraska.

I punched the Power switch with my knuckle, and took a long, slow breath. It was Kuzmenko. I was ‘they have weapons of mass destruction’ positive. But what the hell was he doing with a high-profile corporate executive? I would have picked the guy for a street hoodlum at best, maybe a low level bookie or dealer. Why would Maxim Legenko keep company with a piece of dog dooky like him? Legenko hung out in Yorkville, even spent a month every winter in Nevis. Guys like him did not consort with punks. It just didn’t happen.

“Here he is again.”

I turned to the TV, but it was still off. Then I realized Ted was sitting in front of the computer. And yes indeed, there was Kuzmenko again, in a photo from Legenko’s arraignment. No question about it. It was like GE’s Jack Welch had chosen to hang around with Paris Hilton, or one of the morons from Jersey Shore. The accompanying article said nothing new, but a sidebar link caught my eye. I pointed to it, and Ted clicked through.

LEGENKO WITNESS FEARS FOR LIFE

Toronto

— A Crown witness in the trial involving Ruscan Industries’ CEO Maxim Legenko now fears for his life because he is being forced to testify.

Andrew Simpson-Doig, former Chief Financial Officer of Timber Circle LC, a UK-based subsidiary of Ruscan Industries, was responding to a subpoena that compels him to testify next week at Legenko’s trial for corporate fraud.

“They may as well just kill me now,” Simpson-Doig told the media after a hearing before Justice Helen Richauer in which the court denied a request that the subpoena be quashed. Defence lawyer Alec Lawson argued that the lives of Simpson-Doig and a second unnamed witness are in jeopardy.

Certain recent events raise serious questions. The death of banker Marcel Papineau in April of this year marks the second death of an individual associated with the Legenko trial since the scandal was first discovered. Papineau, who had close ties to the Ruscan organization and was rumored to be a possible Crown witness, committed suicide in his Sedona, Arizona condominium nearly five weeks ago.

“These are extraordinarily powerful people we are dealing with here,” Lawson told reporters outside court. “We believe the Crown has significantly underestimated the lengths to which they will go in order to avoid a conviction.”

In addition to the testimony of Simpson-Doig and one other unnamed Ruscan Industries witness, the Crown has an abundance of evidence, including banking records, wiretaps, footage from security cameras and the testimony of other witnesses, said Crown Prosecutor Barbara Moodie. She also pointed out that both witnesses had been offered the opportunity to enter the federal Witness Protection Program, but declined, citing an unwillingness to relocate or to abide by restrictions regarding travel.

Approximately 25 % of witnesses decline protection offers, according to RCMP statistics. Simpson-Doig’s lawyer indicated they have made private arrangements for lodging at an undisclosed location during the trial.

“What’re you thinking?”

I wasn’t thinking anything yet. But something told me I had found a loose thread worth pulling at.

Two hours later I had managed to put my thoughts of Niki Kuzmenko aside. I was aimlessly surfing the Net, letting StumbleUpon guide me from cat photos to celebrity scandals.

When the phone rang, Ted crossed the room like a track star, hurdling the coffee table in one bound. I snorted. It was very easy to forget Ted was athletic. God knows, based on beer consumption and hours prone on the sofa, there was good reason to assume otherwise.

Phone in hand, Ted winked at me before answering it. He punched a button and tried out his latest spoof.

“Candy Condom. Try our newest flavor — big banana .”

He grinned at me like an idiot, but then the corners of his mouth sagged, like a balloon losing air.

“Hi. Where are you calling from? I didn’t recognize the number. What? Oh, sorry about that, had the TV on too loud.” He dropped onto the sofa, continuing to deflate. “It wasn’t me . It was some stupid sitcom. How was I to -.”

I could hear her from where I sat, and Ted was so far up shit creek it had opened into a lake.

After a five minute lecture on decorum and the family name, Ted claimed he needed to get some air. He reappeared half an hour later, having apparently detoured to pick up a couple of donuts and a large coffee.

Halfway to the sofa he paused, then erupted with a loud sneeze that shook the building foundations.

“Jeez, would you keep it down?”

“Sorry for living. Not my fault I- AAAASCHOOOO!”

He grabbed a box of Kleenex from the coffee table. I could see that his eyes were red, and his nose was leaking like a New Orleans levee.

“You got a cold or something?”

“Cold? No. AAAASCHOOOOO! Man. I must have caught something at the rink.”

I stretched out on the sofa, leery of catching whatever virus he had attracted. Ted was forced to plop down in the armchair, a sneezing, nose-dripping mess.

“I was thinking about this new job of yours. Let’s see… Your boss has a heart attack on your first day of work, and you were robbed at gunpoint by some goon who hangs around with the rich and powerful. You just don’t pay attention to hints, do you?”

I tried to ignore Ted’s usual enthusiasm.

“Clay’s a good guy. This could work out real well.”

“Are you forgetting who got you this job?”