Found money

19

By midafternoon, Ryan could see the Denver skyline from the interstate. A hint of the infamous brown cloud hovered over the city. Despite serious clean-up efforts, Denver hadn’t completely shaken the ghost of air pollution. The worst Ryan had seen it was a year ago last winter. That was the last time he’d come to visit his old friend Norman Klusmire.

The once inseparable twosome had met as freshmen at the University of Colorado — roommates, in fact, though it was just the luck of the on-campus housing lottery that had thrown them together. They didn’t exactly seem destined to become lifelong friends. Ryan was the more serious student, with an eye on med school from the first day of orientation. Norm had chosen UC because it was close to the ski slopes, a curious move for a native of southern Mississippi who had absolutely no use for ice, save for mint juleps. His grades were lousy in one sense; astounding if you considered he never went to class. On a dare he took the Law School Admissions Test and scored in the top one-half of one percent. The sea change was complete when he met another transplanted southerner, the radiant Rebecca — though he nearly blew it with her right on their wedding day. In probably his only lapse of judgment since his twenty-first birthday, Norm put his hell-raising older brother in charge of his bachelor party. Norm awoke an hour before the ceremony with a permanent nipple ring big enough to set off a metal detector and absolutely no memory of how it got there. Ryan did the emergency removal in the basement of the church. The stitches blended nicely with the chest hair. Rebecca never knew. They’d been married ever since.

Norm had always said that if Ryan were ever in a crack, he could count on Norm to return the favor. It was intended as a joke. Norm’s specialty was criminal defense.

Ryan called from the truck stop just outside Denver to say he needed to cash in on that old offer. Norm laughed, recalling the old joke. Ryan didn’t laugh with him. Norm immediately dropped everything and invited his old buddy over to the house.

Norm lived on Monroe Street in the Cherry Creek North subdivision. A million dollars didn’t buy what it used to in Denver, but Ryan still thought it should have bought more than Norm’s five-bedroom, mausoleum-like home with no yard to speak of. It had that multilevel, overbuilt look that the same builder had achieved in a dozen other new homes in the neighborhood, all in the hefty million-plus price range. For the money, Ryan preferred the restored Victorian jewels in the Capitol Hill area.

Ryan parked behind the Range Rover in the driveway. Norm came out to greet him. He wore baggy Nike shorts and a sweaty T-shirt, much like his three sons. They were having a game of two-on-two basketball. Norm had been a decent athlete at one time, but he’d put on a few pounds since Ryan had last seen him. Lost a little more hair, too.

They exchanged their usual greeting — a big bear hug from Norm, never mind the sweat.

Ryan stepped back, making a face. “What was that BS you used to give me? Southerners don’t sweat. They glisten.”

“It’s absolutely true,” said Norm, giving him another wet hug. “Just some of us glisten our ass off.”

Norm toweled off as he led his friend around back to the patio, where they could sit and talk in private. The housekeeper brought them a pitcher of iced tea that had been sweetened in the extreme, another of Norm’s connections to his southern roots. Norm poured as they talked about the funeral he was sorry to have missed. Then the conversation turned serious.

“So,” Norm said between gulps of tea. “What’s the terrible crisis that brings you all the way to Denver to talk to a big-shot criminal defense lawyer?”

“This is all attorney-client, right?”

“Absolutely. Completely privileged and confidential. The fact that we’re friends and this is a freebie doesn’t change that.”

“I can pay you for your time, Norm. I wasn’t really looking for charity.”

“Nonsense. Trust me when I say you can’t afford me. And please don’t take that as an insult. Hell, if I needed a lawyer, I couldn’t afford me.”

“That’s kind of why I’m here, Norm. I could afford you. Seems my dad left me some money.”

His interest piqued. “How much?”

“More than you’d think.”

“I see. Seems like you’d want a probate specialist. Who are you using?”

“I was planning on using the same lawyer who drafted Dad’s will. Josh Colburn. Kind of local legal beagle.”

“You mean legal eagle.”

“No. I mean beagle. Not too smart, loyal as a puppy dog. Basically he does everybody in Piedmont Springs. But it’s starting to look like this is way over his head.”

“In what way?”

“I have some real questions about the source of the funds.”

“What kind of questions?”

Ryan hesitated. Suddenly the fact that he knew Norm and Norm had known his father was a hindrance. It had nothing to do with trust. An acute sense of shame kept him from uttering the word “extortion.” He skipped ahead, glossing over it. “My dad had a safe deposit box in Panama.”

“The country of Panama?”

“ Si,” said Ryan.

“That doesn’t mean anything by itself.”

“Norm, cut the politically correct bullshit. We’re not talking about a high-rolling international businessman. We’re talking about a sixty-two-year-old electrician from Piedmont Springs.”

“I see your point.”

“He rented the box almost twenty years ago. Went down on a Tuesday, came back the following day. As far as I can tell from his passport, he never went back.”

“You know what’s in it?”

“Supposedly there are some papers inside that will explain the source of the money.”

Norm shook his head, confused. “You gotta give me a little more information here. When you say money, you talking stocks, bonds, gold doubloons — what is it?”

“Cash. Seven figures.”

His eyes widened. “Congratulations, old buddy. You can afford me.”

“What do you know about Panamanian banks?”

“It all depends. Back in the days of dictatorship, things were different than they are now. Very strict bank secrecy. Frankly, a lot of drug money was laundered through Panamanian banks. Some would say it’s still prevalent to this day, just that it’s no longer sponsored by the government.”

“This is so crazy.”

Norm leaned closer. “I don’t mean to alarm you, amigo. Even though I do mostly criminal work, I’ve done enough probate to know you’re in somewhat of a crack yourself.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re the executor of the estate, right? That means you have ethical and legal obligations of your own. For starters, where did the money come from?”

“I don’t know exactly.”

“Where do you think it came from? Be honest with me.”

Ryan still couldn’t say it — he couldn’t call his father a blackmailer. “I’m afraid it may turn out that Dad wasn’t entitled to this money.”

“All right. Just so we can have an intelligent conversation here, let’s say your old man cheated somebody. I presume he didn’t pay income tax on the money.”

“Definitely not.”

“There’s problem number one. The IRS has absolutely no sense of humor about these things.”

“So I suppose I’ll have to report the money on some kind of estate tax form.”

“Not just that. The probate court requires you to file a schedule of assets. And you have to give legal notice to potential creditors, who then have the right to file a claim against the estate. If your dad did cheat somebody, I suppose the victims would be considered creditors. In the strictest ethical sense, you would be obligated to send them a notice so they could get their money back, if they wanted to make an issue out of it.”

“What if I don’t know who they are?”

“You’re the executor of the estate. It’s your duty to find out. Within the exercise of reasonable diligence, of course.”

The mention of a legal duty only heightened Ryan’s sense of moral responsibility — not to mention his curiosity. “I just can’t believe my dad would be involved in anything… unsavory. I always thought he was such a good person.”

“That’s what we always want to think. We think that about ourselves. Then one day, opportunity knocks. And that’s when we find out. Are we truly honest? Some people are. Some people are hardcore crooks. Those are the extremes. Most of the people I defend are in the middle. They’ve done the right thing all their life, but only because the fear of doing time outweighs the rewards of the crime. For them, morality boils down to simple risk analysis. The thing is, you never know which way those people will turn until the right opportunity comes along.”

“I’m afraid my dad may have flunked the test.”

“It’s not a test, Ryan. At least not the kind you can cram for the night before, like we did in college. It’s a question of what you’re made of. Now, I don’t know where your dad got that kind of money. Maybe it’s totally legitimate. Maybe it’s not. But maybe he still had a damn good reason for doing what he did.”

“I don’t know the complete picture yet.”

“Then you have a couple of choices. You can go down to Panama and open the box. Or you can ignore it. My hunch, however, is that if you go down there, you’re going to find out what your father was made of. Can you handle that?”

“Yeah,” he said without hesitation. “I have to.”

“Okay. That was the easy one. Here’s where it gets complicated.”

“What do you mean?”

“Once you start chasing the money trail, you might well find out what you are made of. So before you hop on an airplane, you need to ask yourself: Can you handle that?”

Ryan looked his friend in the eye. “I brought my passport,” he said flatly. “That question was answered before I got here.”