Motion to Kill

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

The conference room had given birth to a landfill. It was littered with half-empty coffee cups, Coke cans, wadded paper, and pizza boxes. Phil and Maggie had matching sets of bags under their eyes. Diane Farrell looked fresh, rested, and completely in charge.

They had rolled in portable erasable whiteboards to keep track of O’Malley’s projects. Each project was cross-referenced to the others so that assets, ownership, and attorneys could be visualized at a glance. Diane was busily entering data on the computer so they could sort information into endless combinations.

“Diane, what do you know about these? We found one in Sullivan’s office here and the other one at his house.”

Mason handed her the two DVD cases.

“You found Richard’s porno flicks-big deal.” She turned back to her computer monitor. “What do you want-a psychohistory of a man who watched dirty movies on his computer? Give it a rest. Besides, we’ve got a lot of work to do.”

“In case you’ve forgotten, Diane, you work for me now, so unless you want to peddle your bullshit at another firm, cut the crap. Make sure there’s nothing else on these DVDs.”

Mason wasn’t certain he could fire Diane, but he doubted that anyone would fight to keep her now that Sullivan was gone.

“The king is dead. Long live the king. Would now be soon enough?”

For her, it was a surrender speech.

“That would be lovely, Diane.”

She inserted each disk into her computer and pulled up a list of the contents on the disks. The only document shown on each was the movie title.

“Satisfied, boss?”

“How do you know if the list identifies everything on the disks?”

“That’s what it’s for.”

“Can you put something on the disk that wouldn’t show up on the list, something that you’d have to have a special password to access?”

“I don’t know. Programming is not one of my areas. I just run the software on the system.”

“All right.” Mason turned his attention to Phil and Maggie. “How far have you gotten?”

“Phil and I are about halfway through the files. We should have the raw information compiled in a couple of days. Then we have to figure out what we’ve gathered. Some trends are starting to appear,” Maggie said.

She stopped, waiting for them to ask her to continue. It was the nature of too many young lawyers not to speak unless spoken to, especially if they’d been to the Sullivan school of intimidation.

“Well, Maggie-we’re waiting,” Sandra said.

“Right. The real estate deals handled through Quintex look clean. The property values are backed up by independent appraisals.”

“So far, so good. What else?” Mason asked.

“It looks like O’Malley set up a bunch of phony loans from the bank. The companies are mostly shells with no assets. The money ended up in his pocket.”

“We’ve known about that for a while. That’s what St. John has been pressing him on. Have you found anything else?”

“This may not be a problem yet. There’s another set of deals by Quintex that involve the purchase and leaseback of store fixtures. I never worked on those and we haven’t sorted them out yet.”

“Fine. Stay after it and, remember, nothing leaves this room. If St. John can tie Sullivan to those loans, he may get the keys to our office as part of the settlement we’ll have to make with the government.”

Mason dreaded the stack of mail and messages that he knew would be waiting on his desk. His secretary, Cindy, had divided them into piles marked Junk, I already stalled them until next week, and Ignore these and die. Fortunately, the last group was limited to five calls and three letters, which he spent the next two hours answering. He was starting to review the O’Malley billing memos when Scott Daniels walked in and closed the door.

“O’Malley isn’t happy.”

Scott’s pained expression meant that if O’Malley wasn’t happy, he wasn’t happy.

“I didn’t ask him to be happy-I just told him to tell me the truth. If he can’t do that, we’ve got serious problems.”

“He’ll fire us if you don’t ease up. He doesn’t want you digging up his life. Back off a little, just until things calm down. Let me deal with O’Malley. We can’t afford to lose him as a client.”

Mason wondered where Scott stood in all of this. They had been close friends for thirteen years. They had stood up for each other in their weddings and Scott had made a place for him at the firm. But someone had tapped Scott’s phone. That had to mean that Scott knew at least some of what had been going on even if he wasn’t directly involved. Mason decided to tell him parts of what he knew and let Scott’s reaction guide him.

“Kelly Holt says Sullivan was murdered. Someone tried to run me off the road on the way back from the lake. St. John is on us like white on rice. Pamela wants her million bucks. O’Malley is at the center of all of this. I’m not backing off.”

“You’re making a big mistake, Lou.”

He slammed the door on the way out just in case Mason missed his punctuation.

Scott’s reaction to Mason’s catastrophe checklist was near the top of the week’s bizarre turns. No questions or comments about the murder of his mentor or the attempt on Mason’s life, no concern for his own vulnerability, no solutions for the financial crisis they faced over Pamela’s demand for payment. Scott either didn’t care, which Mason didn’t want to believe, or trouble with O’Malley was the only thing that really frightened him.

The door was still vibrating when Harlan Christenson opened it, looking as if he’d just been sent to the principal’s office.

“St. John has upped the ante. I’m being audited.”

“Harlan, lawyers are audited all the time. I doubt if St. John has the clout to single you out. Just give the IRS agent your files and your accountant’s phone number and don’t worry about it.”

“It’s not that simple.”

Harlan picked up a pencil on Mason’s desk and rubbed it between his palms.

“How hard can it be? You give the IRS agent your tax returns and answer a few questions.”

“If all they wanted was my tax returns, there wouldn’t be an audit. I file my taxes on time every year. They’ve got the returns.”

Mason sat up straight, appreciating the seriousness of Harlan’s situation.

“Have they asked for any specific records?”

Harlan didn’t answer. He gripped the pencil with both hands, studying it as if the answer lay in the dull lead tip.

“They want records of my income outside the firm and my business expenses.”

“Is that a problem?”

Harlan snapped the pencil in half and dropped the pieces onto Mason’s desk. A thin trickle of blood dripped from the fat of his palm. He pulled a sliver of pencil from his skin and wiped his hand on his trouser.

“Lou, I can’t pass the audit. I’ve been underreporting income and overstating my expenses.”

Harlan shrugged his shoulders, stuck his hands in his pockets, and glued his eyes to the floor. He was a child hoping for his father’s promise that everything would be all right.

“Who else knows about your tax problems?”

“Scott. I tried talking to him but he just got angry and told me to get out. Said I should have known better.”

His eyes began to water.

“When’s your first meeting with the IRS agent?”

“Monday morning at ten.”

“Would you like me to go with you?”

Mason offered because he thought Harlan couldn’t bring himself to ask. Harlan wasn’t strong, but he was proud. It was a curiously sympathetic combination. Harlan was in trouble, which meant that Mason couldn’t keep his nose out of Harlan’s business.

Harlan straightened a bit and shook off the suggestion. “When the day comes that I can’t handle some snot-nosed IRS kid, I’d better hang it up.”

“That snot-nosed kid can send you away for a long time, Harlan. We’ve lost one senior partner this week. That’s my limit.”

“Don’t worry. The government will always make a deal for the right price,” he said before leaving.

Mason wondered what Harlan had to offer that would be good enough to wipe the slate clean on income tax evasion. He couldn’t decide whether the question or the answer bothered him more.