called a car and went to a budget motel. Each had $5,000 cash in a pocket, which meant that the Lucero & Frazier firm checking account was down to its last $989.31. They found a pricey steak house and splurged on filets and two bottles of fine California cabernet.
After the table was cleared and the wine was almost gone, Todd asked, “Remember the movie Body Heat? Kathleen Turner and William Hurt?”
“Sure, a great movie about an incompetent lawyer.”
“Among other things. Mickey Rourke plays a guy in jail, and he has this famous line, something like, ‘When you commit a murder you make ten mistakes. If you can think of eight of them, then you’re a genius.’ Remember that?”
“Maybe. Have you killed someone?”
“No, but we’ve made mistakes. In fact, we’ve probably made so many mistakes we can’t even think of half of them.”
“Number one?”
“We blew it when we told Rackley about our friend committing suicide. That was really stupid. His security guy, what’s his name?”
“Doug Broome, I think.”
“That’s it. Broome scared the shit out of us when he walked in and told us they had checked every Mark Finley and every Todd McCain in the country, right?”
“Yes.”
“So, it’s obvious Rackley is a fanatic about security and intelligence. It wouldn’t take much of an effort to research recent suicides by students at his law schools. Gordy’s name would pop up. Broome and his boys could snoop around Foggy Bottom and someone could drop our names, which were in the Post last week, by the way. Without too much effort, Broome could track down our real names, which, of course, would lead to our new law firm up in Brooklyn.”
“Wait, I’m not following. Even if he knows our real names and where we’re from, how can he find Lucero & Frazier in Brooklyn? We’re not exactly registered up there. We’re not in the phone book, not on a website. I don’t get it.”
“Mistake number two. We overplayed the Miami class action. Rackley and Strayhan must have asked themselves why we are so interested in the Cohen-Cutler lawsuit. That’s our angle, so we must have some skin in that game. What if, and I’m not sure about this, but what if Broome can find out that the firm of Lucero & Frazier has referred thirteen hundred cases to Cohen-Cutler?”
“Stop right there. We are not the attorneys of record and our firm name is off the books, same as dozens of other lawyers who’ve referred their cases. Cohen-Cutler has the information, but it’s confidential. There’s no way Rackley could penetrate Cohen-Cutler. Besides, why would he want to?”
“Maybe he doesn’t have to. Maybe he just informs the FBI that there is potential fraud in the Swift Bank settlement.”
“But he wants the settlement to be done, and as soon as possible.”
“Maybe, but I have a hunch Rackley would react badly if he suspected we were stealing from him.”
“I doubt he’ll venture anywhere near the FBI when it comes to Swift.”
“True, but he can find a way to blow the whistle.”
Mark twirled his wine around his glass and admired it. He took a sip and smacked his lips. Todd was staring into the distance.
Mark said, “I thought you don’t do regrets.”
“These are mistakes, not regrets. Regrets are over and done with and a waste of time to rehash. Mistakes, though, are bad moves in the past that might affect the future. If we’re lucky, the mistakes can possibly be contained or even corrected.”
“You’re really worried.”
“Yes, same as you. We’re dealing with some very rich people with unlimited resources, and we’re also breaking laws right and left.”
“Thirteen hundred to be exact.”
“At least.”
Their waiter stopped by and asked about dessert. They ordered brandy instead. Todd said, “I called Jenny Valdez at Cohen-Cutler four times today, never got her. I can only imagine the chaos down there as they try to process 220,000 claims. I’ll keep trying tomorrow. We need to make sure our firm name is kept buried, and if somebody calls sniffing around, then we need to know it.”
“Good. You think Broome might show up in court tomorrow?”
“Not in person, but he might have someone take a look.”
“You’re making me paranoid.”
“We’re on the run, Mark. Paranoia is a good thing.”
40
To avoid the halls of justice they once haunted, the defendants used a service elevator connected to a rear entrance that few lawyers knew about. But Phil did, and he led his boys through a maze of short hallways lined with offices for judges, secretaries, and law clerks. Mark and Todd wore coats and ties, certain that they would get themselves photographed for a newspaper or two, and they spoke to no one and tried to avoid eye contact with the few familiar faces.
At 9:50, they emerged from the back and entered the courtroom of the Honorable Abraham Abbott, Division 6, General Sessions Court. Eager to see who the curious were, both defendants quickly scanned the audience. There were about thirty spectators, a bit more than normal for a first appearance calendar. They took their seats at the defense table with their backs to the crowd as their lawyer stepped over to chat with the prosecutor. Judge Abbott was on the bench, going through some paperwork. From nowhere cute Hadley Caviness popped over and leaned down between them.
“Just here for a little immoral support, boys,” she whispered.
“Thanks,” Mark said.
“We thought about calling you last night,” Todd said.
“I was busy,” she said.
“What about tonight?”
“Sorry, already got a date.”
“What’s the rap on Ms. Reedy?” Mark asked, nodding at the other table.
“Totally incompetent,” Hadley said with a smile. “And too stupid to know it. A real bitch, though.”
“Any newspapers here?” Todd asked.
“The Post is left side, fourth row, guy in a tan jacket. Don’t know about anybody else. Gotta run. Don’t lose my phone number and call me when you get out.” She disappeared as quickly as she had materialized.
“Get out? As in jail?” Mark whispered.
“I love that little slut,” Todd mumbled.
A door opened on the far right side and three inmates in orange jumpsuits were led in chained together. Three young black men, fresh from the mean streets of D.C., and likely headed to prison for years. If not already gang members, they would join one soon enough and band together for protection. During their brief careers as criminal defense lawyers, Mark and Todd had heard enough stories about the horrors of prison.
A clerk called the names of Frazier and Lucero. They stood, walked to the bench with Phil, and looked up and into the unsmiling face of Judge Abbott. His first words were “Can’t say that I recognize either of you, though I’m told you’ve been here before.”
Indeed they had been, but they gave no thought to uttering a word.
He continued, “Mr. Mark Frazier, you are charged with violating Section 54B of the D.C. criminal code, the unauthorized practice of law. How do you wish to plead?”
“Not guilty, Your Honor.”
“And, Mr. Lucero, for the same charges?”
“Not guilty, Your Honor.”
“And there is a third defendant, a Ms. Zola Maal, also known as Zola Parker, which I assume is her professional name. Where is Ms. Maal?” He was staring at Mark, who shrugged as if he had no clue. Sarrano said, “Well, Your Honor, it seems as though she has left the country. Her family has been deported back to Africa; I’m told she might have gone there to assist them. I don’t represent her.”
Judge Abbott said, “Very well, a strange case gets even stranger. Your cases will be referred to the grand jury for consideration. If indicted, you will be notified of the date for your arraignment. But I’m sure you know the drill. Any questions, Mr. Sarrano?”
“No, Your Honor.”
Mills Reedy had wedged herself into the picture. She said, “Your Hono
r, I would request that bail be set for these two defendants.”
Phil grunted in frustration, and Judge Abbott looked surprised. “Why?” he asked.
She said, “Well, evidently these defendants use different identities, and that could mean they are a flight risk. Posting a bond will ensure their return to court when directed.”
Abbott said, “Mr. Sarrano?”
“Not necessary, Your Honor. My clients were arrested last Friday and told to show up this morning at 10:00. They hired me and we arrived fifteen minutes early. Tell them when to be here and I’ll have them here.”
Like hell you will, Todd thought. Take a good look, Abe buddy, because you’ll never see me again.
A flight risk, Mark thought. How about a phantomlike disappearance from the face of the earth? If you think I’ll voluntarily subject myself to a life in prison, then you’re crazy.
Ms. Reedy said, “Their co-defendant has already skipped the country, Your Honor. They have assumed false identities.”
The judge said, “I really see no need for bail at this point. Mr. Sarrano, can your clients agree to remain in the District until their cases are presented to the grand jury?”
Phil looked at Mark, who shrugged and said, “Sure, but I need to go see my mother in Dover. I guess she can wait, though.”
Todd added, “And my grandmother is quite ill up in Baltimore, but I guess she can wait. Whatever the court wants.” The lying was so easy.
Sarrano said, “These guys are not going anywhere, Your Honor. Bail for them is a needless expense.”
Old Abe looked frustrated and said, “Agreed. I don’t see the need for it.”
Ms. Reedy pressed on: “Well, Your Honor, could we at least make them surrender their passports?”
Mark laughed and said, “We don’t have passports, Your Honor. We’re just a couple of broke former law students.” His real passport was in a hip pocket, just itching to be used. In an hour, he would purchase a fake passport just in case.
His Honor raised a hand to silence him. “No bail. I’ll see you two in a month or so.”
“Thanks, Judge,” Sarrano said.
As they backed away from the bench, Darrell Cromley walked through the bar holding some paperwork. Loudly, he said, “Sorry to interrupt things, Judge, but I need to serve process on these two. This is a copy of the lawsuit I’ve filed on behalf of my client Ramon Taper.”
Sarrano said, “What the hell are you doing?”
“I’m suing your clients,” Cromley said, enjoying the attention. Mark and Todd took copies of the summons and lawsuit as they retreated to the defense table. Judge Abbott seemed to be amused. From the front row, another gentleman stood and announced, “Say, Judge, I need to serve papers on them too. I represent Kerrbow Properties and these two skipped out on their leases back in January.” He was waving more paperwork. Sarrano stepped over and accepted it. Four rows behind the guy from Kerrbow, a man stood and said, “And, say, Judge, I hired that guy, Mark Upshaw, to handle a DUI for my son, paid him a thousand bucks in cash, and he skipped out. There’s a warrant out for my son and I want my money back.”
Mark looked at the guy, who was suddenly familiar. In the center aisle, Ramon Taper staggered forth and said, at full volume, “These guys took my case and screwed it up, Judge. I think they should go to jail.”
A uniformed bailiff stepped to the bar to block Ramon. Judge Abbott rapped his gavel and said, “Order, order.”
Phil Sarrano looked at his clients and said, “Let’s get out of here.” They scooted around the bench and disappeared through a side door.
—
FOUR MONTHS AFTER buying fake driver’s licenses and launching their ill-fated adventure into the practice of street law, Mark and Todd returned to the Bethesda workshop of their favorite forger to obtain fake passports. Another crime, no doubt, but the guy actually advertised fake passports online, along with dozens of others in the “documents trade.” He verbally guaranteed that his passports could fool any customs and immigration officer in the world. Todd almost asked him how he would make good on this promise. Were they expected to believe he would dash off to the airport and haggle with the guards? No. Mark and Todd knew that if they got caught, the guy would not answer the phone.
After posing for photographs, and signing the names Mark Upshaw and Todd Lane on the signature pages, they watched for an hour as he meticulously cut and pieced together the data and endorsement pages, then stamped them with an amazing collection of entries, clear proof that they had traveled extensively. He selected two well-used covers for regular passports, and even added security stickers to the backs of both. They paid him $1,000 in cash, and as they left he said, “Safe travels, boys.”
—
THE GRADUATION PARTY was an impromptu celebration that materialized in a sports bar in Georgetown. Wilson Featherstone sent a text message invitation to Mark, and because he and Todd had nothing better to do on Friday night, they arrived late and joined half a dozen old law school pals for some serious drinking. Tomorrow, Foggy Bottom would go through the formality of a proper commencement service, though, as always, it would be sparsely attended. Only two of the gang planned to actually attend and receive their near-worthless degrees, and they were doing so only because their mothers insisted.
So they drank. They were fascinated by the adventures of Mark and Todd over the past four months, and the two regaled them with the escapades of Upshaw, Parker & Lane. The table roared with laughter as Mark and Todd tag teamed through stories involving Freddy Garcia, and Ramon Taper and his beautiful lawsuit that went sour on their watch, and their visits to the offices of Trusty Rusty, Jeffrey Corbett, and Edwin Mossberg, and poor Zola hanging around hospital cafeterias, and ducking process servers at The Rooster Bar, and being hounded by their loan counselors. There were no secrets any longer. They had become legends at Foggy Bottom, and the fact that they were now facing jail time, and laughing about it, only enriched their stories.
When quizzed about their plans, Mark and Todd said they were considering opening a branch of UPL in Baltimore and hustling the criminal courts there. Who needs a real license to practice? At no time, though, did they reveal their grand scheme.
Of the eight, six would sit for the bar exam in two months. Three had jobs, though two involved nonprofit work. Only one would be employed by a law firm, and that was contingent upon passing the bar. Every one of them had a mountain of debt, thanks to the great law school scam orchestrated by Hinds Rackley.
Though his presence was felt, Gordy was never mentioned.
41
Todd won the coin flip and took a cab to Dulles late Saturday morning. He paid $740 for a round-trip ticket to Barbados on Delta. His fake passport worked with ease at both the Delta desk and the security checkpoints. He flew two hours to Miami, snoring most of the way. He knocked out his cobwebs in an airport lounge during the three-hour layover, and almost missed his flight south. He arrived in Bridgetown, the capital, at dark, and took a cab to a small hotel on a beach. He heard music, kicked off his shoes, rolled up his pants, and walked through the warm sand to a party at a resort next door. Within an hour, he was flirting with an attractive fiftyish woman from Houston whose husband had passed out in a nearby hammock. So far, Barbados was agreeable.
Mark boarded the train at Union Station, and left D.C. behind, forever. He arrived in New York at 5:00 p.m., took the subway to Brooklyn, and found their suite just as they had left it on Thursday.
Zola’s Saturday was more eventful. Mid-morning, an important cop in a coat and tie arrived at the hotel with two uniformed officers at his side. He left them in the lobby and rode with her to her room on the fourth floor. With Fanta translating, Zola handed over a thick envelope filled with West African francs, the equivalent of $26,000 U.S. He counted the money slowly and seemed pleased with the transaction. From one coat pocket he withdrew her cards. From another he pulled out a thinner envelope and said, “Here is your money.”
“What money?” she a
sked, obviously surprised.
“The money from the hotel safe. About $6,000 U.S. The hotel has a record of it.”
Honor among thieves, she thought, but couldn’t find any words. She took his envelope as he took hers and crammed it in a pocket. “I’ll be back in an hour,” he said and left the room.