Money to Burn

29

I WAS BACK IN MANHATTAN IN TIME FOR A LATE LUNCH, BUT THERE was barely time to eat. I had dozens of calls and e-mails from my team at Saxton Silvers, and a half dozen more from reporters who were casting their nets for quotes from anyone in management about the impending demise of the firm. One in particular was spearfishing for something far more specific.

“Michael, it’s Rosario Reynolds at FNN,” she said in her voice-mail message. “Calling to invite you onto my show. I know you were as shocked as we were by Chuck’s shooting, but it’s starting to look like he was probably on to something when he suggested a possible link between your identity theft and a bigger attack against Saxton Silvers. Love to get your views on the air. Call me.”

I wasn’t sure what to think. But there wasn’t a minute to respond, even if I’d wanted to. At one-thirty P.M., my brother and I were in family court.

“All rise!”

Mallory had filed for divorce that morning, and if there had been any question as to whether it was “full speed ahead,” the answer was now clear. The bailiff called the case, and the lawyers announced their appearances and introduced their clients to the judge. The knot in my stomach was beyond description. I was living a scene I had never dreamed I’d see-Mallory on the other side of the courtroom, refusing even to look at me in the case of Cantella vs. Cantella.

“Mr. Highsmith,” said the judge, “your motion had better be the emergency you claimed it was when my secretary squeezed this onto my docket.”

“It is, indeed,” he said, rising.

Elgin Highsmith was the go-to divorce lawyer for Saxton Silvers wives, a Brooklyn-born former cop who walked into a courtroom with a set of brass balls. Literally. It was a bizarre intimidation tactic. He held them both in one hand as he approached the lectern, and I heard those balls of brass clacking together as he worked them through his fingers before eventually tucking them into his pants pocket. It seemed comical, but there was nothing funny about this guy. Plenty of Wall Street hotshots could still hear those balls rattling around in their brain as the tow trucks hauled away their Bentleys and Aston Martins. This was the same master strategist who had told Mallory to clear out our bank account before I even knew what was coming.

“May it please the court,” he said, stepping away from the lectern. He had no notes-more of the brass balls approach. “Your Honor, my client seeks to freeze all of Mr. Cantella’s assets, and she demands a full accounting of all investments that were liquidated in the last forty-eight hours and moved to an offshore account in the Cayman Islands.”

I nearly jumped from my seat, but my brother beat me to it.

“What?” said Kevin.

“One at a time!” said the judge, banging his gavel.

“But, Your Honor, this is-”

The judge cut him off with two bangs of the gavel, the second one so hard that it knocked his nameplate-THE HONORABLE SIDNEY STAPLETON-to the floor. Kevin started toward the bench to pick it up, but the judge again admonished him.

“Sit down, Mr. Warfield!”

I was beginning to wonder if Judge Stapleton had ever lost money with Saxton Silvers.

Who are your enemies, Michael?

The bailiff retrieved the judge’s nameplate.

“Mr. Highsmith,” said the judge, “you may continue.”

Highsmith’s hand went in his pocket, and I heard that rattling again. “Judge, in my thirty years as a divorce lawyer, I have never seen a more despicable and transparent attempt by a man to hide his assets from his wife.”

On cue, his paralegal brought out demonstrative charts to help him explain the transfer of funds from Saxton Silvers to the Cayman Islands.

Highsmith continued, “You will note that-with the exception of Mr. Cantella’s holdings in Saxton Silvers-many of these equities were sold at a substantial loss. Which raises the question: Why would such a knowledgeable man have such an indiscriminate investment strategy? Why was everything liquidated and sent off to a numbered account?”

“Because it was stolen,” said Kevin.

The judge scowled, this time pointing with his gavel. “Not another peep out of you until I tell you it’s your turn to talk. Mr. Highsmith, continue.”

“This is a scam, Judge. Mr. Cantella knew that his wife had uncovered his secret and was about to file for divorce. That is when Mr. Cantella cooked up this identity-theft scheme and conspired with his lover to hide his assets from his wife.”

“What?” I said, sounding like my brother.

“Mr. Warfield, I warned you-”

“I didn’t say anything!”

It was just like old times, my kid brother blaming me.

“Sorry, Your Honor,” I said, but I was looking at Mallory as I spoke. “It’s just that my wife knows this isn’t true.”

Her eyes were cast downward, not even a glance in my direction.

“Mr. Warfield, please control your client. Mr. Highsmith, I’m warning you as well. I am not going to turn this hearing into a mini-trial on Mr. Cantella’s alleged infidelity.”

“Understood. For purposes of this motion, I have just three e-mails for the court to consider.” Highsmith brought out three poster boards, one for each blowup. “Mr. Cantella received the first e-mail on the night of the birthday celebration his wife Mallory had planned for him-the same night that his equities were liquidated and moved into the secret account. The message simply reads: “Just as planned. xo xo.”

I whispered to my brother, “I showed that one to Mallory and gave it to the FBI.”

Highsmith said, “Clearly the ‘xo xo’ suggests that this plan was from someone who had an intimate relationship with Mr. Cantella. The second and third e-mails are more recent, coming after my client asked her husband for a divorce. Read together, these two recent e-mails propose a secret meeting at the Rink Bar at four o’clock today. These messages are signed JBU.”

Kevin looked at me, but I was dumbfounded. My tech guy had already removed the spyware. “I have no idea how she got those,” I whispered.

“Objection,” said Kevin, rising.

“This isn’t a trial,” said the judge.

Highsmith jumped on it. “Exactly, Your Honor. And at this preliminary stage of the proceedings, I believe we have made a sufficient showing to warrant the relief requested-a temporary freeze on Mr. Cantella’s assets and a full accounting of every penny that was transferred offshore.”

Kevin said, “Mr. Highsmith should at least be required to establish the authenticity of those e-mails. We have no idea where he got those last two about this supposed secret meeting.”

The judge looked at Highsmith and said, “How did you get those e-mails?”

Highsmith smiled, and the hand went back into the pocket, reaching for the brass balls. “As the court knows, I’m a very resourceful trial lawyer.”

“So resourceful,” said Kevin, “that Mr. Cantella’s wife planted spyware on her husband’s computer.”

I cringed. Kevin had pushed the wrong button, as was evident from the judge’s sour expression.

“Stop the sniping,” the judge said. “Let me just get to the bottom of this question of whether the e-mails are authentic or not. Mr. Cantella: Did you receive these e-mails or did you not?”

I hesitated. This was going to be news to my brother-and he wasn’t going to be happy. “I did, Your Honor. But they’re not from a lover.”

“Who are they from?

“Well…I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?” said the judge.

Highsmith chortled.

Kevin said, “What my client means to say is-”

The judge gaveled him down. “I told you that this is not going to be a mini-trial. The time will come for you to rebut these allegations, but for now I will grant the motion and prohibit Mr. Cantella from making any further sales or transfers of assets valued at more than five hundred dollars. Mr. Cantella has five days to submit to the court a full accounting of all assets transferred from his accounts within the last forty-eight hours.”

“That’s impossible,” I whispered to Kevin.

“Judge,” Kevin said, “that’s-”

“That’s my ruling. We’re adjourned.”

With one final bang of the gavel, it was over-or, as the expression on Highsmith’s face suggested, we were just getting started.

“All rise!” called the bailiff.

As the judge stepped down from the bench, I heard a muffled noise from the rear of the courtroom-someone else rising from the wooden bench seats in the gallery. I turned and looked. It was Ivy’s mother.

A sickening feeling came over me. Olivia wasn’t just helping the FBI.

Could she be helping Mallory?

Kevin pulled me out of Judge Stapleton’s courtroom and into the men’s room across the hall. He checked the stalls to make sure we were alone, and then he tore into me.

“I want the truth: Were you having an affair?”

“No.”

“Are you working with someone to hide your assets from Mallory?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Then who is JBU, and why does he or she want to meet with you in secret?”

“I don’t know for sure. It’s hard to explain.”

“Why didn’t you tell me about those other two e-mails?”

I breathed in and out, wary of his reaction. “Because I knew that you and I would not see eye to eye on them.”

He folded his arms and leaned against the paper-towel dispenser, as if he had more than enough time for the whole story. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, but I’m all ears.”

“On the first e-mail-the one that says ‘I can help’-I had no idea who JBU was. But it hit me immediately when the second one came in. It was hard to ignore the fact that the meeting place was the Rink Bar at Rockefeller Center, the table right in front of the gold statute of Prometheus.”

Kevin shrugged. “What about it?”

“That was where Ivy and I had our first date.”

“Oh, no,” he said, groaning.

I could see that I was losing him. I continued, “Ivy and I had a business relationship before I asked her out. If things between us didn’t work out, she didn’t want the hedge fund she was working for to exclude her from deals involving Saxton Silvers. That’s why she chose the Rink Bar for our first date, a tourist attraction where we were less likely to see anyone we knew. But we hit it off, partly because we discovered that we were both fans of Norman Brown.”

“Who?”

“He’s a jazz guitarist, and he happened to be playing at the Blue Note the following week. We agreed to make his show on our second date, but we also agreed to keep the fact that we were dating ‘Just Between Us,’ which was the title to Brown’s debut album.”

“JBU,” said Kevin.

“Right. It wasn’t someone’s initials.”

He was with me-sort of. A look of concern came over his face. “But you don’t think that-”

“That the e-mails came from Ivy?” I said, finishing his thought. I could almost see his head throbbing.

“Please, Michael. Don’t tell me we’re going down this Ivyis-alive path again.”

I said nothing, knowing he would resist.

Kevin suddenly dug into his briefcase, as if an idea had come to him. He pulled out a hard copy of another e-mail-the one from Mallory that had transmitted the happy birthday video and planted the spyware on my computer.

“Just as I thought,” said Kevin. “This e-mail from Mallory has that song title in the subject line. It says ‘Just Between Us.’ Mallory is JBU.”

“I told you we wouldn’t see eye to eye on this.”

Kevin scoffed. “Don’t you get it? The e-mails came from Mallory, who is scheming-probably with Highsmith’s help-to create a bogus paper trail that makes it look like you have a mistress.”

“I don’t think Mallory would do that.”

“Oh, get a grip, will you?”

“I’m serious. Mallory has a lot of resentment toward me-enough to put spyware on my computer. But make up evidence? That isn’t even close to the woman I married.”

Kevin came toward me, laying his hand on my shoulder. “Michael, Ivy is dead. She is not JBU.”

“There’s one way to find out.”

He knew what I meant. “If you go to the Rink Bar at four o’clock, you will be playing right into Highsmith’s hands. He will cite it as proof that you have a lover, and that the two of you are plotting to hide your assets from Mallory. As your lawyer, I absolutely forbid you to go.”

“I don’t care,” I said, looking him in the eye. “I’m going.”