Sparring Partners(91)
From there, Kirk went to his hotel room and got drunk.
Rusty didn’t have access to booze but he would kill for a drink. He was still tucked away in a clinic getting rehab he didn’t need, and he was already bored. They took away his laptop, but he managed to cajole them out of it, so he was watching his world crumble on the internet.
On Friday morning, one week after the arrests, his attorney, F. Ray, met with Houston Doyle in the big office in the federal building. F. Ray was ten years older and the two had known and respected each other for years. Normally, Houston would have deferred to his elder and been happy to have the meeting in F. Ray’s office, a splendid suite forty floors above St. Louis. But these days Houston was the U.S. Attorney and all meetings were held at his beck and call. Besides, F. Ray needed something, a huge favor, and Houston wanted the begging to be done on his turf.
After sipping coffee and dissecting the election, F. Ray got serious with “Look, I know this is preliminary, but I want to plant a seed. I want you to think about cooperation from my client. If he rolls over, takes a deal, then your case gets much easier.”
“Thanks, Ray. I know you’re really concerned about how easy my cases are. What can Rusty offer me?”
“Full cooperation.”
“You mean he’ll squeal on his own brother?”
“There’s no love lost. They’ve been at war since they were kids.”
“So what’s his story?”
“Bolton had the deal cut at two million for a full pardon. Kirk wants Bolton in prison, so he went to Jackal with a better deal. Rusty thought it was a joke—bribing a governor to keep someone in prison.”
“Ha, ha.” Doyle stood and walked to the mahogany conference table. At one end was a small audio box with a round speaker wired to it. He pointed to a seat and said, “Please, join me.” F. Ray was puzzled but did what he was told.
When both were seated, Doyle said, “There are three tapes. The first was made by a witness who will not be named. The second and third are FBI. I think you’ll enjoy them.” He tapped a button and the first recording began. “Kirk and Rusty at their office,” Doyle said. “The woman’s voice has been altered, not that you would recognize it.”
Half an hour later, Doyle tapped a button and the third tape stopped. He said, “Your client is lying to you.”
F. Ray was shaking his head, deflated. “Well, it won’t be the first time.”
“No cooperation, Ray, because I don’t need it. With these tapes I got both of them by the balls. You want to play these recordings to a jury?”
F. Ray shook his head some more. Finally he said, “What do you want?”
“Unofficially, I’ll offer thirty months each, full fine of ten grand, five years before they can apply for reinstatement.”
“Ouch.”
“Could be worse. We could go to trial and play the tapes. Kinda reminds me of when Bolton took a dive to keep that big snake away from the jury. Sometimes the proof is just too strong.”
(47)
Later that morning, Diantha sent an encrypted email to the associates and all other employees of the firm. She explained that the actions of the State Bar in freezing the licenses of Kirk and Rusty gave the firm no choice but to remain closed for an indefinite period. She was optimistic that business “might” resume after the new year. She cautioned that the situation was fluid and nothing was certain. Signing off, she wrote: “In spite of it all, I wish you Happy Holidays. Diantha Bradshaw, Managing Partner.”
They had always known her as the managing director. Did this signify that she was the sole remaining owner of the firm?
At 2:00 p.m. Friday afternoon, she met Stuart Broome in the lobby of the Robert A. Young Federal Building downtown. He seemed older than ever and was walking with a cane. They rode the elevator to the offices of the IRS and were shown to a small conference room. The appointment with Ms. Mozeby, the field director for the state, was for 2:15. She arrived five minutes late and brought two flunkies with her. No one offered coffee.
In securing the meeting, Diantha had been forced to slog her way through several layers of bureaucracy until she found someone who understood the gravity of the situation. That person, name now forgotten, had successfully lobbied Ms. Mozeby to grant an audience. To expedite matters, Diantha had emailed a secure document, two pages in length, outlining the issues. At least they would not start from scratch, and some of the shock would be negated.
Diantha set the tone by beginning with “I’d like to offer you a copy of an immunity agreement signed by the U.S. Attorney for the Eastern District. It covers both myself and Mr. Broome here.”
“I’ve spoken to Mr. Houston Doyle and am aware of the agreement,” Ms. Mozeby said coldly, officially.
Diantha nodded and continued, “The tax evasion involved here is ongoing and we, on behalf of the law firm, want to address it, file amended returns, and pay what is owed.”
“How much has Bolton Malloy received in fees from the tobacco settlement?”
“Fifteen million. Three million a year for the past five years.”
Ms. Mozeby was impressed and glanced at the flunky to her right. She asked, “And how much has he declared in income?”
Diantha looked at Old Stu who said, “We’ve run about ten percent of it through the firm. The rest has been kept off the books and hidden in tax havens around the world.”