The Knowland Retribution

St. John

The phone rang at a quarter to eight. Wesley Pitts’s blood still flowed hot on a Mississippi asphalt two-lane beneath a lonely traffic light. Walter reached over to the end table where he put his cell phone the night before. He rubbed the cobwebs from his eyes and tried not to wake Isobel.

He said, “Yeah?”

“Good morning, Mister Sherman.”

“Who’s this?” The voice was vaguely familiar. Walter sought to clear his mind, get his bearings.

“You may remember me as Michael Del-”

“Leonard Martin.”

“Yes, I thought you knew back when-”

“What do you want?”

“Well, good morning to you too. It’s time for us to talk.”

Walter was struggling now, fighting what he knew was his stupid, damaged, ego-driven reaction. He tried to tell himself-quickly-that Leonard Martin had fooled him with his Michael DelGrazo act out of a sense of survival. What could he have expected in New Mexico? Did he ever really think Leonard Martin would welcome him with open arms, buy him a cup of coffee, tell him his life story? What would he have done in the same situation? “Oh, fuck it,” he thought.

“I’m glad you called,” he said. “I am.”

Leonard said, “Good. Let’s get together tomorrow, in the afternoon. How does that work for you?”

“Where do you want me to meet you?”

“No need. I’ll meet you. I like St. John. If Ms. Gitlin is there, I hope to see her too. Save me a trip.”

“Let me give you directions,” Walter said without skipping a beat. “Finding my house is not always the easiest thing. It can be confusing.” How did he know about Isobel? How did he know Isobel was here? What did he know about Isobel? Does he know…?

“I’ll find it okay. See you tomorrow,” Leonard said. And the phone went dead.

Leonard Martin was on a plane from Jackson to Atlanta before noon. While waiting to change planes there, he made one more phone call to Carter Lawrence. “Go ahead,” he told him, “tell Nick to get started. Have him make the call.” He landed on St. Thomas in the midst of the Caribbean afternoon’s slow and glorious multicolored fade to evening. He took the first ferry for St. John. He meant to rent a car and had made an Internet reservation with the island’s biggest rent-a-car agency, an enterprise owned and operated by one of Ike’s sons. Ike’s grandson Roosevelt met Leonard Martin at the dock. He held a sign in front of his chest with his customer’s name in bold, capital letters. He did not make Leonard for a tourist, but Leonard saw him.

“Mister DelGrazo?”

“Yes,” said Leonard.

Roosevelt introduced himself with a smile, a warm and friendly handshake, and a small apology. “I’m very sorry, sir, but can you bare with me a minute? I need to give a message to my grandfather. He’s just over there across the square.” He pointed to Ike, who was sitting at his regular table on the other side of the small square. “It will only take a moment, then we can be off to the paperwork and your vehicle. Then you can begin what I’m sure will be a wonderful stay for you here on our lovely island of St. John.”

“Quite alright,” said Leonard. “No apology needed. I’ve been sitting all day. I’d like a little stroll.” Roosevelt grinned broadly and the two were off on the short walk to the open-air bar called Billy’s. Not wishing to intrude on the young man’s words with his grandfather, Leonard stood at a respectful distance. Only a moment later he tensed up. His heart rate increased and in his fear he considered that he might have made a big mistake coming here-here to this tiny island, here to a place where there was only one way out and it was behind him. He was a man on the run. Only a few hours ago he’d killed someone. Was he now trapped? Although he was a complete stranger, newly arrived, Leonard had an uncomfortable feeling he was being watched.

Someone was indeed staring at him. At the far end of the bar he saw Isobel Gitlin looking right at him. A sense of shock rolled over him. He was riveted to the ground, undone by the dread he felt that his carefully constructed cocoon of privacy and safety had been pierced. Did she recognize him? How could she recognize him? She was blindfolded all the time. She hadn’t seen him, or had she? Then, next to her, he saw Walter Sherman. He was drinking from a bottle that appeared to be a Coke. Of course, Leonard realized with a comforting sense of relief, she had his description from him. There could be no other way. Unlike Isobel, Walter had not yet noticed him. Leonard chuckled. He tapped Roosevelt gently on the shoulder and told him to bring the rental car here, to Billy’s.

“I’m sorry. I can’t do that, sir,” said Roosevelt, confused and a little worried he’d somehow offended a customer, perhaps by stopping to talk with his grandfather. “There’s the paperwork, and I have to-”

“It’s okay, boy,” said Ike, not missing the stare that now both Walter and Isobel were giving to this bearded cowboy. “He ain’t no bushwhacker.” Leonard acknowledged the old man with a pleasant tip of his hat and moved slowly but easily toward the far end of the bar where Walter and Isobel sat motionless. Billy saw the connection too. His old friend Walter and his new friend Isobel looked right at this guy with the floppy, western hat. The surprise on their faces was unmistakable. They knew him, Billy figured, but were they happy to see him? He couldn’t tell. The cowboy seemed eager enough to see them. His gait as well as his smile was definitely friendly. Billy had reached for the baseball bat he kept behind the bar. It had been so long since he grabbed a bat, or anything like that, with bad intentions. He broke a sweat, but as Leonard passed him, he realized it was uncalled for. He dropped the wooden club and, shaken, wiped his face with a bar towel. Walter had not missed Billy’s clenched teeth or his hands beneath the bar. Even the sight of Leonard Martin could not overcome the nagging question in Walter’s mind: Who was this William Mantkowski?

“Ms. Gitlin, a pleasure to see you-again,” Leonard said, holding his hand out. She shook it and it seemed she was trying to say something, but nothing came out. “Mister Sherman.” Again, he tipped his hat politely.

Walter said, “Please call me Walter. And what should I call you?”

“Leonard will do just fine. I hope my deception can be forgiven between us.”

“You look just like Walter said you would.”

“Ms. Gitlin-”

“Isobel.”

“Isobel, you’re nervous. You know what I look like, so why haven’t you printed it?”

“We can’t. The New York Times won’t print something we can’t confirm to be true.”

“Of course not,” Leonard said. Even Walter caught that one.

“That’s not a joke.” Isobel was unnerved. Despite her education and experience, she believed in the integrity of the press in general and the New York Times in particular. Plus, Walter told her that Leonard Martin was coming tomorrow afternoon. Not now. Seeing him, like this, without even the semblance of a blindfold-she needed to collect herself. “Just because Walter told me what he saw doesn’t mean I can print it. I didn’t see it.”

“No, I suppose you didn’t and you can’t. And you couldn’t say that Walter Sherman saw me without explaining who Walter Sherman is. That I suspect would be just as difficult. So difficult that it will never happen.”

Isobel said, “Yes. That will never happen.”

A moment of awkward silence followed. Isobel had yet to fully digest what was going on, yet at the same time, she understood Walter actually encouraged moments like these. That whole character revelation thing, she remembered. Walter tried to gauge Leonard’s state of mind. He seemed unfazed by the absence of conversation. Walter noticed he hadn’t changed his clothes for a while. His boots were soiled and Leonard Martin gave off a scent Walter immediately recognized as country, rural, backwoods. No airplane ride was sufficient to hide this. This guy hadn’t gone back to New Mexico, had he?

Leonard asked Isobel, “You haven’t spoken to anybody today, have you?”

Isobel said, “No. I mean, who do y-you mean?”

“Check your messages. You have a call to return.”

“This is not a good place to talk,” Walter said. “Why don’t we go to my house.”

“I’m expecting a car here.”

“You won’t need one. Really, you won’t. If you need to go somewhere afterward, I can have you driven, wherever. Or, if you haven’t made arrangements, I have room. You can stay at my place.”

“Thank you,” Leonard said. “That’s very considerate, but I wouldn’t want to put you to any trouble.”

“No trouble at all,” said Walter. “Are you ready to go?”

Walter looked to Isobel. She answered his question with obvious uncertainty. “Sure,” she said. “I’m ready to go.” Walter left some money on the bar and the three of them walked out. As they passed Ike, Leonard stopped and said, “Please tell your grandson I won’t need that car after all. And give him this for any trouble I’ve caused.”

“That’s not called for,” said Ike, refusing the money, “but I’ll let him know.”

When they were gone, Billy yelled to Ike, “What the hell was that all about?”

“Don’t know,” Ike said, puffing like a locomotive running full steam ahead uphill. “Don’t know. But I seen that guy somewhere, I think-don’t remember, exactly. But something about him. I seen him, I think.”

Unlike Tom Maloney, Leonard Martin did not seem to notice the beauty of St. John or the darkening sea below and beyond the mountain road. The setting sun, the clouds floating over St. Thomas, the sailboats leaving their sunlit silver wakes-they held no interest for him. He was oblivious to the condition of the roads and didn’t bother to look when they passed a herd of noisy goats struggling to climb one of the hills. He sat in the back seat, alone and quiet. Walter thought he might have dozed off. He looked in the rearview mirror. Leonard had the brim of his hat pulled down, covering most of his face. Perhaps his eyes were closed. “If I had a gun,” thought Walter, “I could kill him right here.”

Even a man who’s lost his sense of natural beauty could not resist the view from the patio of Walter’s house. Leonard Martin was no exception. He stood, pressed against the railing, overlooking the steep mountainside and the sea. Walter seriously wondered what such a man could be thinking. He could make no guesses. Finally, Leonard turned to the covered table where both Walter and Isobel sat, took a chair, and accepted a glass of lemonade from Clara.

“This morning,” Leonard began.

“I know,” said Walter. “We know. We saw it on CNN earlier this afternoon.”

“I hope that doesn’t make this too uncomfortable.”

“This whole thing is a little creepy, is it not?” said Isobel.

“It is a bit. I don’t know,” said Walter. “A black man shot to death in Mississippi on Martin Luther King’s birthday.” A statement or a question-Walter’s words hung in the humid air.

“Judged by the content of his character,” Leonard said.

Walter went on. “That you could kill a man in Mississippi in the morning and by evening be a thousand miles away, on a tiny island, sitting in the very same chair he once sat in.” Leonard Martin showed no reaction. “What would you call that?” Walter asked.

“Serendipity?” said Leonard. “I can change seats, if you want.”

Isobel’s curiosity was near the bursting point. She said nothing, but inside her head she was screaming, “My God! What are we doing here?” Leonard tried to look completely at ease, but Isobel saw the movement of his upper lip, the increased respiration, and the occasional darting of his eyes. Walter had taught her well. His hat was off and the close cut of his hair no longer obscured his features. Looking closely-real closely-you could see it was him. From the corner of one eye she saw Walter, as calm as if he had been relaxing on the beach. His gaze was fixed on the other man, the one who used to be fat and blonde, the one who used to be a successful real estate lawyer, the one who used to be a husband and a father and a grandfather, the one who was now a killer.

“Isobel, I would really like you to check your messages and return that call while I talk to Walter. Please?”

“Sure,” she said, getting up and walking into the house, closing the glass sliding doors behind her.

“I have a message for your employers,” Leonard said when he and Walter were alone.

“Best I can figure, there’s only two of them left.”

“Yes, that’s quite correct. And it’s possible they may stay alive, die of natural causes in their old age.” He reached down and picked up an attache case he’d carried with him to the patio. Walter could not help remembering Wesley Pitts doing the same thing, reaching for his money-laden, million dollar case, in exactly the same place. His better judgment told him to keep such a remembrance to himself. Meanwhile, Leonard removed a file folder, stuffed with papers, and placed it on the table. “Stein and Maloney,” he said, “will each make a contribution to a named nonprofit foundation with which I am completely unconnected in any discernable way, and that will allow them to live. Additionally, the companies of Stein, Gelb, Hector amp; Wills, SHI Inc., which used to be known as Second Houston Holding, and Alliance Industries Inc. will make similar contributions. I realize that Christopher Hopman, Billy MacNeal, and Pat Grath are already dead, and I acknowledge that those now running these companies share none of their culpability. The current senior officers and directors of those companies, however, still maintain and benefit from the proceeds derived from the sale and effective combination of the two companies. Therefore, they are to make contributions equal to the amounts of money they made in, and as a result of, the IPO of Second Houston, just as Stein, Gelb will and just as Stein and Maloney individually will. Failure of these executives and directors to comply with this requirement will have the effect of making them accessories after the fact. I make no immediate threats against them, but they hold the fate of Nathan Stein and Tom Maloney in their hands. Their failure to respond according to my instructions, even if Stein and Maloney comply, will result in the deaths of both men. What happens afterward is yet to be determined.” He picked up the folder from the table, took a long drink of his lemonade, and looked at Walter. Walter looked back at Leonard Martin in amazement. Leonard Martin may be the most dangerous person he’d ever known. But he just changed the rules. Killing him was out of the question, totally unnecessary. The pressure on Walter had been relieved. He had nothing to say, and so said only, “After the fact?”

“You’ll find the amounts for each contributor spelled out on the cover sheet, and the basis for them in the documents in this folder, which I’ll leave with you. This will give all concerned the specific details as to how these amounts have been arrived at. These numbers are nonnegotiable. No one at the foundation, or anywhere else, will be authorized to make changes. I appreciate that this amount of money has implications that go well beyond the contributors. I have no desire to see the ramifications damage innocent people. Believe it or not, I grieve for the families of those I’ve killed. I do. Specific terms of payment-when, where, and how-will be worked out later, but it will be necessary for one half of one percent to be donated, in cash, within thirty days, and another one half of one percent within ninety days. After that, arrangements can be made with the foundation for delivery of the remaining funds. There will be a time limit. We’re talking about a large sum of money. Assets will have to be divested. I understand that. Nevertheless, half of the total must be delivered within three years. The rest of the money must be in the possession of the foundation within one additional year. If, at that time-four years from now-if the full amount has not been paid, the agreement will be deemed to have been broken. Nathan Stein and Tom Maloney, and possibly others whose bad faith in this matter may make them responsible, will die. These payment requirements are also stipulated in the cover letter. Finally, it’s important that all contributors know that any attempt to shift assets to a wife, a relative, an offshore subsidiary, for example, or to any entity, will be viewed as an attempt to avoid payment. Assure them that I will know if they try to bury it in their backyard or stuff a safe-deposit box in Malta. I will know and I will consider the arrangement broken. I will act accordingly.” He paused and looked very carefully at Walter. “Any questions about what I’ve said?”

“Isn’t this extortion?” Walter said matter-of-factly. “You can’t get away with this. How can you expect something like this-”

“Extortion is a legal term, Walter. To be extortion I would have to receive the money or the foundation would have to be seen as acting as my agent, with a benefit accruing to me. Neither condition exists. There might be an element of blackmail in it-I grant you that-as it relates to me. It’s no doubt accurate to say I’m making ‘terroristic threats,’ and, of course, killing someone is always illegal-even threatening to kill someone. But the foundation will not be a party to any of this information. They will just receive the money. No, this is more like a drug dealer getting ripped off by someone who gives the money to charity.”

“That makes no sense at all.”

“Sure it does. Don’t thieves, even murderers, give money to charity? If a thief sent the United Way a thousand dollars or a million dollars, wouldn’t they be free to accept and use it? Or what if somebody earned money and didn’t report it, in fact didn’t even file a tax return, but donated ten thousand dollars to the American Heart Association-would they be free to accept and use it? Of course they would, provided they have no knowledge of any illegality that either prompted the contribution or involved the source of the contributor’s money. Enron made charitable contributions. Did they all give the money back?”

“And just how do you deal with all this without everyone knowing everything?”

“I won’t tell. You won’t tell. Stein, Maloney, and the two corporations won’t tell. Instead, they will hold very public press conferences, admit to their ill-gotten gains, express their deepest sorrow and remorse, speak movingly of their desire to atone for the sins of previous directors, and then… then they will donate this money in the manner I’ve prescribed. They have stockholders who must support these noble efforts. And I’m sure they will. They must be seen to act willingly, openly, and publicly. Except, however, there will be no mention whatsoever of my role in this.” The puzzled look on Walter’s face merely encouraged Leonard to go on. “You will deliver these instructions to Nathan Stein and Thomas Maloney. They face the task of telling the key people-all of whom are named in the documents-at SHI Inc. and Alliance Industries Inc. to do their part. Under the circumstances, I don’t think there’s any chance at all anyone will name me in this matter. I’m sure the history of my ‘bad acts’ thus far will help Stein and Maloney convince their friends.” Walter said nothing.

“As for Nathan Stein and Thomas Maloney,” Leonard went on, “an attorney in New York-a lawyer who knows nothing, not even who his client is-will open a checking account for each of them. Every week he will deposit five hundred dollars in each account. That is all the money Stein and Maloney can use. If they spend a dollar more than that, I will consider that they have used hidden funds, worked for money, borrowed money, or received gifts-none of which are allowed-and I will kill them.”

“Christ,” said Walter, scratching his head, running both hands through his hair and down the back of his neck. “What if they refuse?”

“That’s entirely up to them.”

“This is-”

“Revolutionary?”

“Revolutionary? Jesus Christ!”

“I don’t think he can help me with this.”

“Help? You seem to be doing quite enough on your own. What about Stevenson and Daniels and Carter Lawrence?”

“Nick and Harvey know nothing. I can’t be responsible for what they may think, but they know nothing. I’m sure they’ll be cooperative with the authorities. They’ll answer all their questions. They have nothing to hide and nothing to offer. Their truthful answers won’t change a thing. As for Carter, what can I say? We share a certain immunity, one which I have surely violated and forfeited. But he has not. Carter is a victim. As this unfolds, I’m sure the press will present him in a very favorable light. For law enforcement to pursue and harass Carter Lawrence while the real culprits live and go free-that can’t happen. And besides, he knows nothing or almost nothing. He never knew where I was, or when, and he doesn’t know where I am now. None of them-Nick, Harvey, or Carter-have any of these details, nor have any of them been privy to my activities up to now. I’ve never admitted to them what I’ve admitted to you. I’ve never discussed it with them. If you think about it, you and Isobel are the only people with specific knowledge, directly from me, about what I’ve already done and what I plan to do in the future. You heard what Isobel said. What she knows can’t be published without your own exposure, and even then, it lacks corroboration. Just your word. This conversation, for example.” Leonard looked around the patio, out toward the open sea, then behind him at the closed sliding doors, shrugged his shoulders, and said, “We’re alone. Just you and me, Walter. No corroboration.”

“Michael DelGrazo,” Walter said. “You might just as well have said Kaiser Zoesay.”

“Do you have any more questions about this?” Leonard asked.

“Did you shoot Pitts with the Walther? Why did you meet Carter Lawrence, Nick Stevenson, and Harvey Daniels in Clarksville, Tennessee? How come-”

“No, Walter. Only questions about this.” Leonard held up the folder with both hands. “You already know the answers to the other questions, most of them, anyway. And in time you’ll figure out what you don’t know now. But we’ll never speak of it. Never.”

“Dr. Roy?”

“Never.”

“You think this is justice, don’t you?” said Walter. “You’re acting righteously? You believe that, don’t you?” Now it was Leonard who chose silence. Walter continued. “Your wife, your daughter, your grandsons-they ate lunch and died. The meat killed them, and there were people who let that happen. What did you do? You killed those people, the ones who could have prevented it. One by one, you shot them down. For their complicity, they died.” A touch of sarcasm, mixed with murky anger, rose in Walter’s voice. “Oh, of course, you saved the best for last. The guilty must pay, and pay, and pay some more. What you’re doing to Stein and Maloney is worse than death, at least for them it will be. Shit, they go from living on five hundred dollars a minute to five hundred a week. How are they going to do that? They can’t live in their homes if their wives own and keep the property, or you’ll kill them. They can’t use a car that belongs to someone in the family, or you’ll kill them. They can’t wear the same clothes, make phone calls on the same cell phones, eat the same food, use the same health insurance-God knows what else they can’t touch, or you’ll kill them. But they can stay alive. That you’ll allow. For men like that, they’d be better off dead.” Walter leaned forward across the table separating the two men. Leonard was perfectly still, stoic.

“For Stein and Maloney,” said Walter, “money is like drugs. They’re addicts, and you know that. A lifetime of fabulous wealth, and now they’re reduced to poverty. They can’t make it. They’ll cheat. Somewhere, somehow, they will. Maybe Nathan Stein gets some money-a hundred grand, two hundred grand-from one of his kids. You know, kids can have a hard time seeing their fathers suffer. Perhaps Maloney begs his wife to put some money in a Swiss bank account for him.

It could happen, right? They take the money and you kill them. You call this justice? For whom? For Nina? For Ellen? For her sons? I don’t think so. Vengeance, that’s what it is. ‘Vengeance is mine, sayeth the Lord.’ And who the hell are you, God? Whose guilt are you killing for?” Leonard didn’t say a word, the expression on his face remained unchanged. “Where were you?” Walter asked. “Where were you when it mattered?”

Now Leonard seemed about to say something, but instead, he breathed deeply through clenched teeth, sat back, and a small, almost imperceptible, nervous and hostile smile crossed his lips. He would not be baited.

“I know about Barbara Coffino,” said Walter. The smile on Leonard’s face disappeared. Walter could see him catch his breath before it choked him.

Leonard broke the awkward silence by asking, “Have you ever killed anyone, Walter? You look like the kind of man who’s killed. Perhaps you’ve considered killing me. I suppose I’ll never know. You also look like the kind of man who knows- who knows -killing is sometimes the only way. If I’m wrong, tell me. But I know I’m right and you know it too.” They looked at one another, each man keenly aware, whether they liked it or not, they shared a common value, a common judgment, a common past.

Isobel returned to the patio, this time leaving open the sliding doors behind her. Walter could not interpret her look. The expression on her face, the tightness in her cheeks, the lines across her forehead, this was all new to him.

Leonard said, “I hope you’ll take it, Isobel. For Nina, Ellie, and for the boys.” He turned to Walter and said softly, “If you’ll call a car I’d be grateful. It’s time for me to go.”

“Go where?” Isobel asked.

“Home.”

“When is the next ferry, Walter?” Isobel said.

He shrugged his shoulders. “Not sure,” he said, trying to recover himself.

“Doesn’t matter,” said Leonard. He knew there was a boat waiting for him in the harbor at Cruz Bay, and a chartered Gulfstream, fueled and ready to fly, on the tarmac at St. Thomas. Walter used his cell phone to make the call and told Leonard the car would be ready in ten minutes.

“If you’ll excuse me, I’ll wait at the gate. And I’ll see myself out. Please don’t get up.” He shook hands with Walter, who was still seated at the table, his back to the water, looking in at his own house through the glass. Then Leonard turned to Isobel, where she stood. He smiled and extended his hand to her. When she took it, he covered hers with his other hand and held on to her tightly. “I hope you’ll take it,” he said before walking out. He did not look back.

Walter reached over for the file folder Leonard left behind. He opened it and began to read the first page of the first document, the one Leonard referred to as the cover letter. “Holy shit!” he said.

“Holy shit is right,” Isobel said, her attention far away on one of the small, empty islands offshore, unaware of anything Walter was reading. “You don’t know the half of it. That was Nicholas Stevenson who called me. When I called him back he offered me a job. He wants me to be the Executive Director for a new organization of which he and his partner Harvey Daniels are trustees. You won’t believe this. It’s a nonprofit foundation called The Center for Consumer Concerns. He wants me to come to Atlanta to discuss the details. Isn’t that a bit strange, don’t you think? Leonard Martin’s law p-partners offering me a job, especially this sort of job?”

“Well,” Walter said. “It’s a foundation that’ll have a lot of money.”

“What are you talking about? Is this something you and Leonard discussed while I was away?” He told her everything Leonard Martin had said to him, repeating his exact words as best he could remember them. “And it says how much in there? How much money?” she said, pointing to the folder. Walter nodded. “How much?” she asked.

Walter leaned back in his chair, stretched his arms out as wide as they would go, breathed deeply, smiled broadly, and said, “A little short of six billion dollars.”

“Oh, m-my,” said Isobel.