CHAPTER 37
TORTOLA
By 5:00 p.m. on Friday the jury had yet to reach a verdict so I went back to Dallas. Stan didn't need any help waiting on a jury verdict, and I had plenty to do to get ready for Cheryl Windsor's trial that was fast approaching. Just before Steven Caldwell's trial began the police had found Windsor's car with a charred body in the driver's seat. I called my forensics expert to get an update.
"George. Hi. I'm back from Palo Pinto."
"Any verdict yet?"
"No, the jury is still out. . . . I was just wondering if you've heard anything more about the body?"
"Yes. As I suspected there is no viable DNA. The fire must have been very intense."
"Thank God. How about dental records?"
"None. I guess he never went to the dentist. His mouth was perfect. No cavities."
"Lucky for us. . . . All is not lost after all."
"It's still going to be pretty hard to convince the jury that the corpse isn't Martin's."
"I know, but at least I have something to argue about."
Feeling a little relief after talking to George, I worked on my trial outline, sifted through what evidence I had, and considered additions to my witness list. As I worked, I started to get depressed again realizing what an uphill battle we were facing—Cheryl having no recollection of what had happened on the night of Martin's disappearance, witnesses who placed her with Windsor before he disappeared, assets being liquidated and funneled into her account, and now a charred body. How in the hell was I going to successfully defend her? Of course, there was a slim chance that Perkins wouldn't discover the VP bank account, but I had to prepare for the worst and assume he would.
After sleeping on it that night I settled on the two theories that made the most sense. The first was that Martin was alive and had set Cheryl up so he'd get all the community property and the children. If she was in jail, she'd be out of the way and wouldn't be a threat. The second was that there was a criminal organization dealing in children who camouflaged their crimes by disposing of the parents at the same time they took the children. That way the children's disappearance would look like the work of a disgruntled spouse refusing to accept a divorce court's custody decree.
To prove that Martin Windsor was still alive we'd need to prove that he orchestrated the liquidation of community assets and set up the account at VP Bank in the British Virgin Islands. Maybe Cheryl could contact the bank and attempt to access the account. If they refused to allow her access that would be pretty good evidence that Martin was still alive and had control of the community assets. The problem was Cheryl couldn't leave the country since she was out of jail on bond, and we didn't have account numbers and passwords to access the account by telephone.
After thinking about it for some time, I decided the prudent thing to do was to get Cheryl to give me a power of attorney and then I'd go to the British Virgin Islands and see if I could access the bank account on her behalf. I was pretty certain I'd hit a brick wall, but it was her money and, if it was there, she should have it. I called Cheryl and explained my plan and when she agreed it was a good idea, I called my travel agent and had her check on flights and accommodations there.
The VP Bank was located in Tortola. I had never been to the Caribbean so I didn't have any idea where the British Virgin Islands were located, but my travel agent said it was nearly a seven-hour flight from DFW with a stop in San Juan, Puerto Rico. I tried to call Stan and tell him what I planned to do, but I couldn't get through to him. I explained my plan to Jodie and Maria and told them to fill Stan in when he called. Jodie thought I should wait a few days and talk to Stan about what I was going to do, but since Cheryl's trial was fast approaching I didn't think I could afford the delay.
Early Monday morning Cheryl came by and signed the power of attorney and I was off to DFW Airport. My flight was at 10:31 a.m. and I was due in Tortola at 6:57 p.m. My travel agent booked me at the best hotel on the island, the Sugar Mill Resort. She said she had stayed there once and didn't want to come home. Somehow, I didn't think I'd enjoy the stay as much. The flight was long and tedious, but it gave me a lot of time to think about the case and what I was going to do when I arrived. It would be too late to go to the bank by the time I got there, so I'd have the evening to get the lay of the land and talk to some of the local people.
When the plane touched down at the Tortola Beef Island Airport, I was exhausted and anxious to get to my hotel. Unfortunately, going through customs, finding my luggage, and getting a cab to the hotel took over an hour. It was nearly nine o'clock when I finally made it to my room. After taking a shower and putting on a short red dress with matching sandals, I ventured out to the dining room. Although it was late, the staff was very friendly and attentive and fed me well. After finishing off some homemade ice cream to die for, I wandered into the bar to see if I could learn anything useful about BVI banking.
There were far more men in the bar than women, so my appearance turned a few heads. I walked up to the bartender and ordered a rum and coke.
"Where are you from?" he asked.
After he poured my drink, I replied, "I'm from Dallas. I'm in town to do some offshore banking."
"Well, you've come to the right place," he said. "The laws here were written to attract money. There are strict bank secrecy laws that made BVI banking very attractive to foreigners."
I asked him if there were any bankers in the bar. He pointed to two men sitting at a table across the room. I noticed they were checking me out, so I smiled. A few minutes later one of them came over and invited me to their table. Of course, I accepted.
They introduced themselves as Ted and Winston. They were both loan officers at Scotiabank. I told them I was in town to set up some trust accounts for some clients who were concerned about an imminent financial disaster that was certain to cause them serious liability exposure. I confessed that I was new to this game and had planned to spend a few days getting up to speed on all available options. That got them talking.
"Your best bet is to set up an IBC," Ted said.
"What's that?"
"An International Business Corporation. It's very flexible and protects the identity of its officers and directors. If you set up an account in your actual name, the account can be traced, but with and IBC the account is anonymous."
"What about the IRS or the FBI? Can't they find out who the officers are?"
"No, the law is very clear. No one, not even the IRS or FBI, can force the bank to divulge the identity of the stockholders or directors of an IBC."
"Hmm. What about security? My clients want to be sure their money is safe."
"Well, the British Virgin Islands has a very stable government protected by Great Britain. And each account is insured up to 20 million dollars by reputable insurance companies rather than the measly one hundred thousand at U.S. banks."
"So how does the IBC operate?"
"Well, our bank will set it up and act as registered agent and provide a local address, which is required. The account works just like any other account."
I lifted my drink and took a sip. "Well, thanks for the short course on offshore banking. Now I won't seem like a complete idiot when I talk to Walter Johansen."
"Walter Johansen?" Ted said. "That's who you're here to see?"
"Yes, it is. Is that a problem?"
Winston shook his head. "Well, he doesn't have a great reputation. He claims to be legit, but a lot of people are quite sure he's mixed up with organized crime, drug cartels, rogue government operatives—you name it."
"Really? Wow. I didn't know that."
"I'd find someone else. We can introduce you to one of our account reps. You'd be much better off with them."
"Well, I appreciate that, but I'm kind of committed to Mr. Johansen."
Tom raised his eyebrows. "Well, that's too bad. I'd hate to see anything happen to you or your client's money. You best be careful."
I thanked Tom and Winston and went back to my room. It was after m
idnight and I was beyond exhaustion, so I went straight to bed. As I took off my robe and slipped into bed, I started to worry about meeting Walter Johansen. If he was associating with criminals and drug dealers, he'd be a dangerous man to deal with. But I was too tired to even worry, so I drifted off to sleep.