Poisonfeather (Gibson Vaughn #2)(13)

“Nah, man,” Swonger said. “He’s got the tremors something fierce. Can’t even hold a pen right. Looks like old Richter caught the big one, know what I’m saying?” Swonger made large jagged movements with his hand to demonstrate.

“You’re a hell of a forger.” Gibson thought he knew the judge’s handwriting better than his own, but nothing about the ex-con’s penmanship had raised a red flag. Swonger had talent.

“Sentiment was from the heart. For reals. Old boy’s been wanting to see you bad.”

“He doesn’t seem like he wants to see me.”

“Nah, he does. He’s just confused.”

“What Gavin wrote,” Birk said, “is pretty much what my uncle’s been saying. He really did ask to see you. Brought you up several times. Several.”

Gibson saw the angle. They’d trotted out the judge in all his pathetic glory so they could gauge how Gibson reacted, how affected he was by the spectacle. They wanted something from him, and the judge was the finger plucking at his heartstrings. Soften him up before they pitched whatever it was they were selling. Well, Gibson was plenty softened. In shock was more like it. And they’d exploit that weakness if he let them.

“Well, let’s hear it,” he said.

“Hear what?” Birk asked.

“You paraded him out here. Okay, I’ve seen him. I’m appropriately torn up. Now why don’t you tell me why so I don’t start feeling like I wasted a day for nothing.”

Birk and Swonger glanced at each other. That wasn’t how they’d expected it to go. They’d been following a script, but now that their mark was improvising his lines, they didn’t have the experience to adapt. Gibson found that encouraging. He didn’t like being played, but it was a kind of comfort to know the actors were amateurs.

Birk shrugged. “Get him the magazine.”

Swonger spat in the dirt again and went into the trailer. He came back with a copy of Finance magazine and tossed it on the table.

“UNREPENTANT,” trumpeted the cover in block letters over a photo of a man in a prison jumpsuit who looked more like a Hollywood star than a convict. Maybe it was the mane of golden-blond hair flecked with gray. Or the man’s smile, one part condescension mixed with two parts entitlement. But something made Gibson want to punch the guy out. He doubted he could be alone in that sentiment.

“Do you know the name Charles Merrick?” Birk asked.

“Not really. One of the Wall Street guys who went down during the crash.”

“That’s right. He’s in Niobe Federal Prison over in West Virginia.”

“Minimum security ain’t prison,” Swonger said.

“He’s getting out in a little over a month—”

“Twenty-nine days,” Swonger corrected.

Birk flashed an irritated glance at his partner, then asked Gibson if he knew how a Ponzi scheme worked.

“It’s a financial con,” Gibson said.

“It wasn’t a Ponzi scheme,” Swonger said, interrupting.

“Then why do they call him Madoff Junior?” Birk asked.

“’Cause they’re idiots just like you?”

“Swonger—” Birk began.

“Then what happened?” Gibson asked.

“After Merrick’s third fund flatlined, investors sued to get access to his books,” said Swonger. “That’s how they found out he’d been robbing them blind.”

“Like Madoff,” Birk said.

Gibson jumped in before the Ponzi-scheme debate could resume. “Let me guess. The judge invested?”

“Oh, yeah, he did,” said Swonger.

“Well, that’s sad for him, but what’s it got to do with you?”

“Because the old fool talked my dad into investing with Merrick,” Birk said. “Swonger’s too.”

A cloud passed across Swonger’s eyes at the mention of it. “Stood in my kitchen and told my dad he was missing the boat if he didn’t throw in. Talked down to him like he was a child.” Swonger chuckled bitterly. “Old boy sure could talk.”

“Thing is, my uncle convinced most of the family,” Birk said. “We aren’t rich, so the family pooled its assets to buy in. My uncles lost everything. My aunt had to sell her house. Dad was forced to sell half the farm; other half may not be far behind. Uncle Robert was going to retire from the Navy; that didn’t happen.”

“Old boy sure could talk,” Swonger said again.

“Is it bath time, Christopher?” the judge asked.

Swonger leapt forward. “No, it ain’t bath time. Shut the hell up already.”

“Hey.” Gibson stood.

“Don’t hey me. This old bitch don’t get consideration.”

“That why you have him living out here in a field like an animal?” Gibson turned to Birk. “To punish him? He’s your family.”

Birk’s face turned an angry sunset red. He was up and out of his chair, stabbing his finger in Gibson’s chest. “Cain was family too. You hear me? Yeah, he’s family. He’s family. And we didn’t turn him out like we could’ve. Should’ve. But nobody’s got time to be taking care of him either.” Birk was yelling now. “He’s got a roof. Food. No, it isn’t pretty, but pretty isn’t on the menu, thanks to him. This is all there is. His quality of life isn’t anyone’s priority anymore. You hear me, you self-righteous son of a bitch?”