The Rooster Bar

36

Mark was sleeping on the fold-out sofa when his phone erupted at 6:50 Tuesday morning. Jockety said, “Mr. Rackley can meet with you at ten this morning in our offices. We’re in downtown Brooklyn, on Dean Street.”

Mark said, “I know where you are.” He didn’t but the firm would be easy to find.

“I’ll meet you downstairs in the lobby at 9:50. Please be prompt. Mr. Rackley is a very busy man.”

“So am I. And I’ll have a friend with me, another journalist, name of Todd McCain.”

“Okay. Anybody else?”

“Nope, just the two of us.”

Over coffee, they speculated that Rackley did not want them near his domain on Water Street in Manhattan’s financial district. It was undoubtedly the gilded lair befitting a man of his stature, something a couple of reporters would have a field day describing. Better to meet them on turf crawling with his own lawyers. Litigation had already been threatened. They were stepping into his world, a rough place where his privacy would be protected at all costs and intimidation was always a useful tool.

They didn’t shave and dressed in jeans and old jackets, the shaggy look of journalists unimpressed with anyone’s surroundings. Mark packed a well-used nylon attaché case they’d found in a secondhand store in Brooklyn, and when they left the hotel on foot they certainly looked like a couple of guys not worth suing.

The building was tall and modern, one of many packed in the center of downtown Brooklyn. They killed time in a coffee shop around a corner and entered the atrium at 9:45. Marvin Jockety, looking at least ten years older than his website photo, was standing near the security counter, chatting with a clerk. Mark and Todd recognized him and introduced themselves, with Jockety reluctantly shaking hands. He nodded at the clerk and said, “This guy needs to see some identification.” Mark and Todd reached for their wallets and handed over their fake D.C. driver’s licenses. The clerk scanned them, glanced at both to compare faces with photos, and handed them back.

They followed Jockety to a row of elevators where they waited without conversation. When they stepped onto the empty elevator, he turned his back, faced the door, and said nothing.

Friendly bastard, Mark thought. What a jerk, Todd mumbled to himself.

The elevator stopped at the seventeenth floor and they stepped into the rather pedestrian lobby of Ratliff & Cosgrove. In their brief careers as lawyers they had visited several nice offices. Jeffrey Corbett’s splendid digs in D.C. were by far the most impressive, though Mark still favored Edwin Mossberg’s unique trophy museum down in Charleston. Trusty Rusty’s was by far the worst, with its medical office feel and wounded clients. This place was only slightly better. What the hell. They weren’t there to analyze the decor.

Jockety ignored the receptionist, who ignored them in return. They rounded a corner, walked through a door without knocking, and entered a long, wide conference room. Two men in dark, expensive suits were standing at a sideboard sipping coffee from porcelain cups. Neither stepped forward. Jockety said, “Mr. Finley and Mr. McCain.”

Mark and Todd had three images of Hinds Rackley, all from magazine articles. One was from Gordy’s research, the enlarged head shot he had tacked to his unforgettable wall. The other two they had found online. Rackley was forty-three years old, with dark, thinning hair severely slicked back and narrow eyes behind semi-rimless frames. He nodded at Jockety, who left without a word and closed the door.

“I’m Hinds Rackley and this is my chief counsel, Barry Strayhan.” Strayhan scowled and nodded and made no effort to take the introduction any further. Like his client, he held the cup in one hand and the saucer in the other; thus, they were unable to offer anything to shake properly. Mark and Todd kept their distance, which was at least ten feet away. A few awkward seconds passed, long enough for the two trespassers to get the message that notions of politeness had already gone out the window. Finally, Rackley said, “Have a seat,” and nodded at the row of chairs on their side of the table. They sat down. Rackley and Strayhan sat opposite them.

Todd placed his cell phone on the table and asked, “Mind if I record this?”

“Why?” Strayhan asked like a real ass. He was at least ten years older than his client and gave the impression that everything in his life was contentious.

Todd said, “Just an old habit that most reporters have.”

“Do you plan to transcribe the recording?” Strayhan asked.

“Probably,” Todd said.

“Then we’ll want a copy.”

“No problem.”

“And I’ll record it too,” Strayhan said as he laid his cell phone on the table. Dueling cell phones.

Throughout the exchange Rackley glared at Mark with a smug, confident look, as if to say, “I have billions and you don’t. I’m superior in all respects so accept it.”

One benefit of practicing street law without a license was that it had chipped away all traces of reticence. As Mark and Todd had brazenly gone about their business in the D.C. courts, they had grown accustomed to pretending to be people they were not. If they could stand before judges and use fake names and assume the roles of lawyers, they could certainly sit across from Hinds Rackley and act like journalists.

Mark returned the stare without blinking. Rackley finally said, “You wanted to see me.”

Mark said, “Yes, well, we’re working on a story and we thought you might want to comment on it.”

“What’s the story?”

“Well, the headline will be ‘The Great Law School Scam,’ for starters. You either own or control or somehow have your finger in several companies that own eight for-profit law schools. Really profitable law schools.”

Strayhan said, “Have you found a statute somewhere prohibiting anyone from owning a for-profit law school?”

“I didn’t say it was against the law, did I?” He looked to his right, at Todd, and asked, “Did I say that?”

“I didn’t hear it,” Todd said.

Mark said, “It’s not against the law and we’re not alleging anything criminal. It’s just that these law schools are nothing more than diploma mills that entice lots of students to apply, regardless of their LSAT scores, and then to borrow heavily to cover the high tuitions charged by your schools. The tuitions are, of course, passed along to you, and the students graduate with tons of debt. About half of them are able to pass a bar exam. Most of them can’t find jobs.”

“That’s their problem,” Rackley said.

“Of course it is. And no one forces them to borrow the money.”

Todd asked, “Do you admit that you own or control eight law schools?”

“I don’t admit or deny anything, especially to you,” Rackley snapped. “Who the hell do you think you are?”

Now that’s a good question, Todd thought. As his many aliases blurred together, he often caught himself trying to remember his current name.

Strayhan laughed sarcastically and asked, “Do you happen to have any proof?”

Mark reached into his cheap attaché and removed a sheet of thick paper, twelve inches square. He unfolded it, then unfolded it again, and slid it across the table. It was a condensed version of Gordy’s wall, the grand conspiracy, with Hinds Rackley’s name all alone in the top box and the maze of his empire flowing below him.

For a second or two, Rackley looked at it with little curiosity, then picked it up and began a casual perusal. Strayhan leaned over for a closer look. Their initial reaction would be revealing. If Gordy was right, and they were convinced that he was, Rackley might realize that they were on his trail and had the proof. He might nitpick here or there, or concede the truth that he owned or controlled the swarm of entities. He might also deny everything and threaten to sue.

He slowly placed the chart back on the table and said, “Interesting, but not accurate.”

Mark said, “Okay, care to discuss the inaccuracies?”

“I don’t have to. If you publish a story based on this little flowchart, you’ll be in serious trouble.”

Strayhan added, “We’ll sue for defamation and hound you for the next ten years.”

Mark shot back, “Look, you’ve already tried the litigation scare tactics, okay, and obviously that’s not working. We’re not afraid of all your big talk about suing us. We own nothing. Fire away.”

Todd said, “True, but we’d certainly like to avoid getting sued. What, exactly, do you find wrong with our research?”

“I’m not answering your questions,” Rackley said. “But any half-assed reporter should know that it’s illegal for me or anyone else to own a law firm that I’m not a member of. A lawyer cannot be a partner in more than one firm.”

Mark replied, “We’re not alleging ownership in the four law firms, only control. This firm, for example, Ratliff & Cosgrove, is run by your friend Marvin Jockety, who happens to be a limited partner in Varanda Capital. The other three firms have similar relationships. That’s the connection, the control. And you use the four firms to hire graduates from your law schools at attractive salaries. Your law schools then advertise these wonderful jobs to entice even more unsuspecting kids to enroll and pay your jacked-up tuitions. That’s the scam, Mr. Rackley, and it’s brilliant. It’s not illegal; it’s just wrong.”

“You guys are all wet,” Strayhan said with another laugh, but one with a slight trace of nervousness.

Rackley’s cell phone beeped and he removed it from a pocket. He listened and said, “Okay, step in please.”

The door opened immediately and a man entered. He closed the door and stood at the end of the table holding some papers. Rackley said, “This is Doug Broome, my chief of security.”

Mark and Todd looked at Broome, who did not acknowledge them. Broome adjusted his reading glasses and said, “Can’t find anything on Mark Finley and Todd McCain. We searched all night and all morning, nothing. Not a single article, or blog, or book, or report anywhere online. There’s a Mark Finley who writes about gardening for a newspaper in Houston, but he’s fifty years old. There’s another one who blogs about the Civil War, but he’s sixty years old. There’s another one who once wrote for a campus newspaper in California, but he graduated and became a dentist. Beyond that, nothing. For Todd McCain, all we found was a guy in Florida who writes for a local magazine. So, if these two claim to be journalists, then their careers must be off to a slow start. As far as the names, there are 431 Mark Finleys and 142 Todd McCains in this country. We’ve checked every one and nothing matches. And most interesting of all, the two driver’s licenses presented at the security desk downstairs are from the District of Columbia. Surprise, surprise, they’re both fake.”

Rackley said, “Thanks, Doug. That’s all.” Doug left the room and closed the door.

Rackley and Strayhan were both grinning. Mark and Todd kept their cool. At this point, there was no turning back. Mark managed to control his nerves by maintaining the attack. “Very impressive! That’s some outstanding work.”

“Really impressive,” Todd chimed in, but both were thinking of bolting for the door.

Rackley said, “Okay, boys, with all credibility shot to hell, why don’t you tell us who you are and what’s your game?”

Mark said, “If you’re not answering our questions, then we’re not answering yours. Who we are is really not that important. What’s important here is that our little chart is close enough to the truth to expose your scam and embarrass the hell out of you.”

Strayhan demanded, “You want money? Is this extortion?”

“No, not at all. Our plans haven’t changed. We’ll sit down with the right reporter and hand it over. There’s a lot more in the file. For example, we have testimony from former associates of your law firms who feel as though they were used as propaganda. We have statements from former law professors. We have all the data regarding the rotten bar exam pass rates of your graduates. We have the data that clearly shows that you greatly expanded your enrollments at the same time the Feds opened the Treasury to thousands of unqualified students. We have dozens of testimonials from these students who graduated with tons of debt but couldn’t find jobs. The file’s pretty thick, and it will make a helluva splash on the front page.”

“Where is this file?” Strayhan asked.

Todd reached into a shirt pocket, removed a thumb drive, and casually bounced it across the table. “It’s all right there. Read it and weep.”

Rackley ignored it and said, “I have contacts with the Times and the Journal. They assure me they know nothing about this.”

With great relish, Mark smiled at Rackley and said, “Bullshit. Arrogant, preposterous bullshit. You expect us to believe that you know everyone at these newspapers, and not only do you know them but they trust you enough to pass along inside information? What a joke! And this from a man who is notorious for dodging reporters. Come on, Mr. Rackley.”

Strayhan said, “Well, I certainly know the attorneys for the Times and the Journal, and you can bet your sweet ass they want no part of a defamation suit.”

“Are you kidding?” Todd said, laughing. “They’ll love it because they can crank up the firm at a thousand bucks an hour. They want their clients to get sued every day.”

“You’re clueless, son,” Strayhan said, but it meant nothing. The chart had clearly rattled them, along with the fact that Mark and Todd were not who they claimed to be. Rackley shoved his chair back, stood, and took his cup to the coffeepot. Nothing in the way of beverages had been offered to the impostors. He slowly poured from a silver pot, added two cubes of sugar, stirred slowly, deep in thought, then returned to the table. He sat down, took a sip, and calmly said, “You’re right. It’s a nice front-page splash, but it’s a twenty-four-hour story because everything is proper and legal. I don’t cross the line, and right now I’m really not sure why I’m wasting my time explaining this to you.”

Mark replied, “Oh, it’s more than a twenty-four-hour story. By the time they flesh out the law school math and print the numbers that show you net about twenty million bucks a year from each of your eight schools, the story will have serious legs. Tie the money back to the federal treasury, and you’ll have a public relations nightmare that won’t end.”

Rackley shrugged and said, “Maybe, maybe not.”

Todd said, “Let’s talk about Swift Bank.”

Rackley said, “No, we’re tired of talking, especially to a couple of guys who use fake names and fake IDs.”

Todd ignored him and said, “According to your SEC filings, Shiloh Square Financial owns 4 percent of Swift, making it the second-largest stockholder. We think you own a lot more than that.”

Rackley blinked and recoiled slightly. Strayhan frowned, as if confused. Mark reached into his attaché case and removed another sheet of paper. He unfolded it once but did not slide it over.

From the grave, Gordy landed a final blow.

Todd continued, “We have a list of Swift Bank’s largest shareholders, about forty in all. Most are investment funds that own 1 or 2 percent of the company. Some of these funds are foreign and appear to be legitimate investments. Some, though, are offshore shells, fronts for other fronts that own pieces of Swift. Shady-looking names of companies domiciled in places like Panama, Grand Cayman, the Bahamas. They are almost impossible to penetrate, especially for a couple of non-journalists like us. We can’t issue subpoenas and warrants; we can’t tap phones and make arrests. But the FBI certainly can.”

Mark slid the second sheet of paper across the table. Rackley took it calmly and studied the chart. It was a continuation of the first one, with all the activity flowing under Swift Bank. After a few seconds, Rackley shrugged again, even smiled, and said, “I don’t recognize any of these companies.”

Strayhan managed to mumble, “Just garbage.”

Mark said, “And we’re not alleging you’re involved with them, you understand? We have no way of digging inside offshore companies.”

“I got it the first time,” Rackley said. “What do you want?”

“Are you after money?” Strayhan demanded.

“No, and you’ve already asked that once,” Todd said. “What we want is the truth. We want you and your great law school scam exposed on page 1. We’re victims of it. We signed on at one of your diploma mills, racked up a fortune in federal debt, none of which we can repay because we can’t find jobs, and now we’re a couple of dropouts staring at a pretty dark future. And we’re not alone. There are thousands of us, Mr. Rackley, all victimized by you.”

Mark said, “The guy who drew those charts was our best friend. He cracked up and killed himself in January. There were several reasons, and plenty of blame all around. And some of it lies with you. He owed a quarter of a million dollars in student loans, money passed along to you. All of us got caught up in the law school scam. I guess he was a little more fragile than we realized.”

Nothing that registered on the faces of Rackley and Strayhan could even remotely be described as remorse.

Calmly, Rackley said, “I’ll ask you again. What do you want?”

Mark said, “A quick settlement of all six Swift Bank class actions, beginning with the one filed by Cohen-Cutler in Miami.”

Rackley raised both hands, held them in the air as if flabbergasted, and finally said to Strayhan, “I thought we were settling those cases.”

“We are,” Strayhan said, frowning.

Mark added helpfully, “Well, according to reports that the bank keeps leaking to the press, it is in the process of negotiating settlements, but that’s been the story for the past ninety days. The truth is that your lawyers are dragging their feet. There are one million customers out there who’ve been screwed by Swift and they deserve to be compensated.”

“We know that!” Rackley snapped, finally losing his cool. “Believe me, we know all that, and we’re trying to settle, or at least I thought we were.” He turned, glared at Strayhan, and said, “Find out what’s going on.” Then to Mark he said, “What is your interest in the litigation?”

“It’s confidential,” Mark said smugly.

“Really can’t talk about it,” Todd added. “Right now it’s almost 10:30 on Tuesday. How long would it take before the bank could announce a settlement for all class actions?”

“Not so fast,” Rackley said. “What happens to your story about the great law school scam? The front-page sensation?”

“Here’s the deal,” Todd said. “Tomorrow at 4:00 we meet with a reporter for the Times.”

“A real reporter?” Rackley asked.

“Damned right. One who can peel skin. And we’ll give him the story. If he runs it, and we have no reason to think he will not, then you’re the villain of the month. Worse, the story attracts the attention of the FBI, which, as I’m sure you know, is already hot on Swift’s trail anyway. The bit about the offshore ownership will be like throwing gasoline on a fire.”

“I get all that,” Rackley said. “Cut to the chase.”

“If Swift announces a full settlement within twenty-four hours, we won’t meet with the reporter.”

“And you walk away?”

“We walk away. You ramp up the settlement. Make sure the Miami class gets its money first, and when that cash hits home, we walk away. Not a word. The law school scam story is left for someone else to pursue.”

Rackley stared at them for a long time. Strayhan knew better than to speak. A minute passed, though it seemed like half an hour. Finally, Rackley stood and said, “The bank has no choice but to settle anyway. It will make the announcement this afternoon. Beyond that, I suppose I’ll have to trust your word.”

Mark and Todd stood, more than ready to leave. Mark said, “You have our word, for what it’s worth.”

“You can go now,” Rackley said.