Sparring Partners(29)
The second was Jerrol Baker, now serving time in prison. Lenzini had visited him there and taken his statement. The signature was his—such as it was, because he was missing most of his left hand and couldn’t write that well, thanks to the chain saw—but, again, the notarization by Freda Wilson was forged. Jerrol got $25,000 in cash, not $60,000.
The third was Travis Johnson, whereabouts unknown. Forged signature, forged notarization. The fourth was Doug Jumper, deceased. An FBI handwriting analyst studied the signatures and was certain that Mack Stafford had forged all the signatures on the Johnson and Jumper settlement agreements. There was little doubt he had kept the entire $200,000.
All in all, it appeared as though Mack’s haul from his fraudulent scheme totaled $400,000, not the $200,000 he was entitled to—40 percent of the half a million dollars wired down by Mr. Marty Rosenberg.
Lenzini said, “Call it what you want—embezzlement, larceny, or grand theft, not to mention the forgeries. It’s a two-hundred-thousand-dollar crime. And it’s state, not federal. In other words, guys, it’s all yours.”
“What’s your game?” Dyer asked.
“Bankruptcy fraud is federal. The documents speak for themselves, gentlemen. The cases are open-and-shut, no way he can wiggle out. He forged the sigs, paid off Odell Grove and Jerrol Baker, and kept the rest for himself.”
Dyer studied some papers and Musgrove asked, “And you think he’s back in the country?”
“Well, we haven’t seen him. You got any sources around town?”
“Not really, just the local gossip. I know Jake Brigance pretty well, bumped into him in court last week, but he’s not talking.”
Lenzini lifted another sheet of paper and frowned at it. “We’ve checked with the airlines, and no one of that name has entered the country in the past month. I’m sure he’s using another name.” He laid down the papers, took a sip of coffee, and said, gravely, “Gentlemen, I don’t have to tell you how delicate this is. When you convene your grand jury—”
“You mean ‘if’ we convene,” Dyer interrupted.
“Well, surely—”
“I’m in charge of our grand jury, Mr. Lenzini. I decide if and when it’s called, without direction from the FBI. I’m sure the U.S. Attorney in Oxford would not want me meddling with his grand jury.”
“Of course not, Mr. Dyer, but these crimes are serious and they’re open-and-shut.”
“Sure looks that way, doesn’t it? However, we’ll do our investigation and decide. I’m sure we’ll indict, but we’ll do it our way.”
“Very well. As I was saying, this is a touchy situation because we’re dealing with a man who knows how to disappear.”
“Got it,” Dyer snapped.
“We have to be very careful who we talk to about Stafford.”
“Got it,” Dyer snapped, even quicker.
After he left, Dyer and Musgrove reviewed the paperwork for half an hour, and what was obvious became even more so. Both had known Mack for years, though they were not close friends, and they were reluctant to get involved in a case that would send a fellow lawyer to jail. It was apparent that the victims, the clients who were bilked, had no knowledge of Mack’s wrongdoing until the FBI told them about it.
But the more they talked, the more they liked the case. It was a nice change of pace from their daily docket of meth cookers, drug dealers, car thieves, and wife beaters. Rarely were they presented a case involving white-collar crime, and never had they seen one so blatant. Mack had chosen to steal from his clients, and it was their duty as representatives of the State to solve the crime and bring about justice.
Keeping it quiet would be the challenge.
(29)
On a sweltering Saturday, Mack was busy at the Varsity Bar & Grill, and as he puttered around and served the handful of customers, he kept one eye on the parking lot. At precisely 1:00 p.m., he saw a familiar car turn off Highland and park in the front.
It was a 1983 Mercury Cougar he had purchased used about two years before he left town. Lisa, of course, got the car in the divorce, along with everything else, and evidently it had now been handed down to his daughter. Margot bounced out of it and looked almost giddy at the thought of entering a college bar. She was dressed for college, in skin-tight jeans, sandals, and a plunging blouse that was almost indecent. He told himself not to say a word about her appearance.
He met her at the door and they retreated to the back of the restaurant. Mack flagged over a waiter, one he didn’t like and who leered a bit too long at his daughter, and they ordered cheeseburgers and ice tea.
“I can’t get a beer?” she asked, her first attempt to provoke him.
“You’re seventeen years old, young lady. The law says twenty-one, plus you’re driving today.”
“I have an ID, says I’m twenty-four. Wanna see it?”
“No. I spend half my time checking fake IDs. Where’d you get it?”
“I’ll never tell.”
“Figures.”
“Everybody has one, Mack.”
“I’m still Mack.”
“I like Mack better. You were never much for the Dad thing.”
“May I ask the latest on your mother?”
The smile vanished and her eyes watered. The tea arrived in tall glasses and she took a sip. She gazed out a window and said, “Nothing has really changed, except that she’s not eating much. She’s weak and frail and, well, just pitiful, really.” Her lip quivered and she closed her eyes and put a hand over her mouth. Mack patted her arm and whispered, “I’m so sorry.”