Camino Winds (Camino Island #2)(73)
Sid was not the coach, but rather the equipment manager, for the Raiders. They found their dugout, greeted other teammates and coaches, and relaxed as a grounds crew raked the infield and laid down chalk. The game was an hour away, and the boys tossed balls in the outfield as their coaches and fathers argued over last night’s Astros loss to the Cardinals.
Four FBI agents, all dressed casually as baseball dads, moved in closer.
Eventually, Sid left the dugout and headed toward the concession stand for a soft drink. He bought one and took it to another field where a game was underway, and as he stood at the chain-link fence and scouted a future opponent, a man holding a business card stepped close and said softly enough for no one else to hear, “Sid, Ross Mayfield, FBI.”
Sid took the card, seemed to examine it carefully, and looking at the field asked, “A pleasure. What can I do for you?”
“We need to talk, and the sooner the better.”
“About what?”
“About Grattin, Flaxacill, Medicare fraud, maybe even Nelson Kerr. Lot of territory to cover, Sid. There’s a huge net out there, Sid, and it’s closing rapidly. We have the goods. You could be facing forty or more in the slammer.”
He actually closed his eyes as if punched in the gut but tried not to show it. His shoulders sagged slightly, but, as the agents debriefed later, he handled that awful moment remarkably well.
“Do I need a lawyer?”
“Oh yes, maybe two or three. Get ’em on the phone and let’s arrange a meeting within forty-eight hours.”
“And if I choose not to?”
“Don’t be stupid, Sid. We’ll get a warrant and come kick down your doors at three in the morning. Might be a bit traumatic for your wife and five kids, and the neighbors would see it all. And, Sid, we’re listening to everything. One word to Ken Reed or any of the others and a golden opportunity vanishes immediately. Understand? It’s time to look after your own neck. Reed’s history, and I doubt the company will survive.”
Sid clenched his jaw and nodded slightly.
“Twenty-four hours,” Mayfield said. “I want to hear from you or your lawyers within twenty-four hours, okay? And we’ll meet in forty-eight.”
Sid kept nodding.
* * *
—
Early Sunday morning, after a sleepless night, Sid Shennault drove to his lawyer’s office in Bellaire, an affluent community in Houston’s sprawl. The lawyer, F. Max Darden, was a well-known specialist in white-collar crime and had never heard of either Ken Reed or his company. For two hours, Sid Shennault spilled his guts and told him everything he knew about Grattin, Reed, the management, and the use of vitamin E3, or Flaxacill. He claimed to know nothing about Nelson Kerr.
At eleven, on cue, Agent Ross Mayfield and three of his colleagues, now dressed in the standard black suits, arrived, and F. Max directed everyone to the conference room of his splendid office suite. A secretary served coffee and doughnuts as the men jawed aimlessly in a vain effort to break the tension.
After the secretary was gone, F. Max took control of the meeting with “I assume you are here to offer my client some type of deal.”
Mayfield said, “That’s correct. We are working with the U.S. Attorney here in Houston and our plans are to indict most of the top management of Grattin, including Mr. Shennault. We are certain that your client has been involved in an enormous Medicare and Medicaid fraud for many years, and he will certainly be indicted for it, along with many others who work for the company.”
“And how would you describe this fraud?” F. Max asked, probing, though he already knew the basics.
“It involves a drug called Flaxacill, better known throughout the company as vitamin E3. It’s registered but unapproved because it’s a bad drug. It was discovered by accident in a Chinese lab about twenty years ago, and at first it was thought to have enormous potential because it could possibly extend life by keeping a heart beating. Turned out, though, that it only works for patients who have lost all other brain functions, plus it causes blindness that is almost instantaneous. Somehow, the good folks at Grattin found out about the drug and cut a deal with the Chinese lab. For the past twenty years Grattin has been using its miracle vitamin to keep tens of thousands of dementia patients breathing for a few more months.”
“So the drug actually extends life?” F. Max asked, as if in disbelief.
“For critically injured or advanced dementia patients. There’s also the blindness issue. I’m not sure you want to ask a jury to believe it’s really a good drug.”
“I know what to do with a jury, Mr. Mayfield.”
“I’m sure you do and we just might give you the chance. We’re not here to bicker and negotiate. I’m sure you’re a real hero in the courtroom, Mr. Darden, but, to put it bluntly, you ain’t got no case.”
Sid cooled things with “So what’s the deal?”
Mayfield took a sip of coffee and continued to stare down Darden. Finally, he put down his cup and addressed Sid. “First, you inform. You have about two weeks to deliver the documents. We need payment routing for the drug. How much and where does the money go? And for how long? Who’s involved in getting the money to the Chinese lab? That’s accounting and that’s your expertise. We also need names of other execs or senior management people who approved of or knew about the drug. Second, we’ll get the indictments and make the arrests. These will be carefully coordinated because Ken Reed is an obvious flight risk. So far, we’ve identified three corporate jets and three homes outside the U.S. You’ll be arrested first, and we’ll do it quietly, discreetly, no one will know. The next day we’ll send in the SWAT team for the big drama. Third, you’ll turn state’s evidence, give us all the affidavits we need, and prepare to testify if necessary. We’ll enter into a plea agreement and ask the judge for leniency.”