J.D. Trafford - Michael Collins 03 - No Time To Hide (20 page)

CHAPTER FIFTY SEVEN

It took another two days before the jury was selected. Michael’s heart pounded through his chest as he watched the jurors stand, raise their right hands, and take another oath to follow the court’s instructions and deliberate fairly.

These were the people who would decide his fate.

Judge Husk coughed into a handkerchief and concluded. “Do you promise to faithfully execute the duties and responsibilities of a juror for the Federal District Court of the State of New York and administer those duties to the best of your abilities?”

In unison, the jurors agreed, lowered their hands, and sat down.

“Very well.” Judge Husk nodded his head. “Then I see no reason to delay.” He looked at the prosecutor’s table. “Ready?”

United States Atto
rney Brenda Gadd stood. “I am, Your Honor.”

“Then proceed.”

Gadd walked up to a podium in the center of the courtroom, but it wasn’t an ordinary podium. This was federal court. A mere wooden stand for an attorney to put his or her notes was inadequate. This podium was outfitted with its own computer, projector, and touch screen. The thousands of documents that had been dumped on Quentin when the case had first begun were now pre-loaded into the podium’s computer. Each document image was one-click away, if Gadd needed any of the documents at any point during the trial.

“As you may remember from our brief introductions at the beginning of jury selection,” Gadd paused and smiled, making eye contact with each of the individual jurors. “I am Brenda Gadd, and I’m the United States Attorney for the State of New York.”

Gadd took a step away from the podium. She walked toward the jurors. “We’re here because the government must prove beyond a reasonable doubt that Michael Collins is guilty of multiple counts of wire fraud. Michael Collins is an attorney, and we will prove that he stole his client’s money and ran away to a beach in Mexico. Some people might say that this is a complicated case.” Gadd shook her head. “I don’t think so. There’s no such thing as an easy case–otherwise you wouldn’t be here–but the documents do not lie. The documents speak for themselves. The wire transfers tell a clear story of theft.”

She turned and looked at Michael, and then d
ismissed him with a shake of her head. “Here, Michael Collins had an opportunity to get rich by taking a client’s money. He took it, and then he ran. That’s it. That’s theft. That’s wire fraud, because he transferred the money multiple times across state and international boundaries via telephone and electronic wires. If you find that this money didn’t belong to him, which obviously it did not, then that constitutes fraud.”

Gadd stepped back to the podium, allowing the silence to emphasize her last word: fraud. Then she began a new thought.

“Sure there are a ton of documents, spreadsheets, and reports issued by forensic accountants. I’ll try not to overwhelm you with numbers.” Gadd smiled and a few jurors smiled and nodded back at her. Everybody hated numbers.

Gadd was attempting to establish trust and familiarity with the jurors. Michael and Quentin saw that it was working.

“But all the stuff is mostly about Michael Collins’ elaborate scheme to cover-up his crime,” she said. “The spreadsheets and numbers merely document the lengths that Michael Collins went to cover-up his crime and escape prosecution for wire fraud. By  electronically transferring money from one foreign bank account to another, Michael Collins tried to stay one step ahead of investigators.”

Gadd paused as she allowed the jurors and opportunity to think about what she had just told them. Gadd’s message was unmistakable: anybody who used foreign bank accounts must be guilty of something.

“But in the end, Michael Collins got caught and here we are. By the end of this trial you’ll know–beyond a reasonable doubt–that Michael Collins saw the opportunity, took the money, and ran.” Gadd lowered her head, a subtle bow.  “Thank you.”

As Michael watched Brenda Gadd return to the prosecutor’s table a cold bead of sweat ran down his neck. It was a confident opening statement. Gadd kept it vague and simple. She was careful not to over-promise. Michael couldn’t think of any opportunity that she had given Quentin to claim that Gadd didn’t deliver. And, unfortunately, Michael thought, everything that Gadd said was true.

He had seen the opportunity, took the money, and ran.

Wouldn’t anybody?

CHAPTER FIFTY
EIGHT

Quentin Robinson was the opposite of Brenda Gadd. He approached with a stack of notes and papers, most of which were unnecessary. His hand shook, slightly, as he put the papers down on the high-tech podium.

When the papers on the top of his stack started to slide, Quentin caught them, but when he did, Quentin pressed a button. An overhead projector came on and a screen behind the empty witness stand lit up in a bright, white light.

“Sorry.” Quentin pushed the papers to the side, trying to locate the button that he had accidently pressed. He found it. The light went off, and he tried to begin, again.

But the papers were still a problem. The top sheets started their downward slide. In mid-sentence, Quentin stopped. “Why don’t I put these back at my table.”

Michael watched in horror as the jurors raised their eyebrows and exchanged concerned looks. One woman suppressed a giggle, as Quentin gathered up his papers and walked back to the defense table.

Judge Husk leaned back in his gigantic black leather chair, amused.

“Okay.” Quentin set the papers down near Michael, and then returned to the podium. “Let’s try this, again.” He took a deep breath. “And I promise not to touch any more of these buttons.” He put his hands behind his back. Standing like a child who had just been caught stealing a cookie, Quentin continued.

“Listening to the prosecutor, sounds like they have a pretty good case.” Quentin looked back at Brenda Gadd as a few of the jurors shifted uncomfortably in their seats. “But remember what the Judge said when he was giving you your instructions. He said, ‘wait.’ And you all swore an oath to follow his instruction
s.”

Quentin’s voice trembled. He was used to the dirty, crowded, and noisy city courts. He was used to the hustle and bustle of poverty law. They were cases that were won more by bluster than the rules of evidence. He could get a good deal by being a pain in the ass, rather than using an actual legal defense. The federal courtroom,
however, was a different world, Quentin was an invader. He didn’t belong, but he pushed his self-doubt aside and barreled forward.

“The judge told you to wait before all the evidence is in before deciding whether my client is guilty or not guilty. That means you will listen to the prosecutor, and then, you will also wait…and listen to me. The defense gets an opportunity to call witnesses and offer evidence too. The defense gets an opportunity to tell its version of what really happened and make a closing argument. So, wait until everything is done before reaching your decision. This proof that Ms. Gadd speaks so highly about,” Quentin tilted his head to the side, “may not be all
it’s cracked up to be.” 

Quentin wiped the sweat off of his forehead. He looked at Michael, and then back at the jury. He needed to repeat his theme one more time. Quentin needed to be sure that the jurors understood.

“It will be only natural to think that my client appears guilty when you see some of the documents that the prosecution offers and listen to the testimony of their witnesses. It will sound, just as Brenda Gadd said, like a simple case of a guy who takes a bunch of money and runs. But, I ask you and, more importantly, this Court has instructed you, to withhold judgment. Wait until the end.” Quentin’s confidence had now returned after his disastrous beginning. “I assure you that things are not always as they appear.” He held out his hand. “Just wait.”

Quentin turned and walked back to the defense table. He sat down next to Michael, and then Judge Husk adjourned for the day.

“We’ll return tomorrow for the start of testimony. You are not to discuss this matter with anyone or conduct any independent investigation.” The judge nodded. “Very well.”

A gavel sounded. A bailiff shouted. “That concludes the day’s calendar. Court is adjourned.” The gavel banged a final time.

People in the courtroom rose as the jurors walked out a side door in a line, and then Judge Husk was assisted out of his chair and led out of the courtroom with the aid of his law clerk.

Michael could hardly control himself. “What the hell was up with the stack of paper and the projector?”

Quentin whispered back. “Michael, I’m sorry,” he said. “It happens sometimes. I was just off at the beginning. Don’t worry. We’ll get it back.”

CHAPTER FIFTY NINE

His apartment was depressing. Brent Krane had been gone for so long that he had forgotten, for a moment, that he was actually poor. Unlike his sister, he had no trust fund and his mother had forgotten him as she started her new life with a new man.

Brent turned on the kitchen light. He walked over to the refrigerator and opened the door. There was nothing in the refrigerator except a bottle of spoiled milk and a block of moldy cheese.

He shut the refrigerator door and walked back to his bedroom. Although he wasn’t happy, leaving the rental house in Montauk had made the crowd happy. They were quiet for the moment, and Brent decided to get some sleep.

Tomorrow he had to figure out a plan, and find out what his sister was scheming. 

CHAPTER SIXTY

There weren’t any other bank accounts or boxes of gold coins. The accounts in the Cook Islands were it.  All other foreign banks had cooperated with the government’s requests, and either the government didn’t know about the Cook Island accounts or they weren’t telling.

It had taken Andie about three weeks to test all of the accounts that Michael had identified. She didn’t do it all at once. She spaced the inquiries, waiting and seeing if there would be any reaction.

Eventually she discovered that the relatively small amount of money in the Cook Island accounts were still active and apparently unfrozen. This made some sense to Michael, since he  hadn’t funded them directly through a wire transfer. Rather, the accounts were built indirectly through a series of skims.

It was a combination of processing fees, which he charged himself every time the money was moved from one account to another, to innocent looking fees written into his purchase agreement of the Sunset Resort & Hostel. The purchase agreement, like all closing documents, had line items for property taxes, property insurance, appraisals, second mortgage pay-off, a standard 10% real estate agent commission, and a finder’s fee. Some of these line item charges were inflated and others were bogus. None of the individual amounts, however, were large enough to raise suspicion. But, all together, the skims added up.

Andie stood and leaned into Michael. “We’re going forward.” She whispered into Michael’s ear, knowing that the government was listening.

Michael nodded. “Good.” He looked around at the people sitting at the various tables in the MDC’s visitation room, wondering who was actually an FBI agent.

“Everything else okay?” Andie pulled away.

Michael closed his eyes. “It’s okay.” He tried to be strong. “It’ll be better when it’s all over.”

Andie turned, but Michael stopped her.

“Just don’t trust her,” he said.

“I’m not.” Andie smiled.

CHAPTER SIXTY ONE

It was early in the morning, but Vatch was already awake when there was an unexpected knock on his door. “Coming.” Vatch closed a notebook filled with five years of notes about the Michael Collins investigation, and then rolled away from the small desk in his bedroom.

Today was the day he was scheduled to testify. Agent Frank Vatch was preparing to be the prosecution’s first witness, and he was annoyed at the interruption.

He crossed the living room, stopping in front of the door. “I said I was coming.” Vatch looked through the peep-hole, and then turned the deadbolt and removed the chain. “It’s open.” He rolled back.

Anthony’s mother came inside.

“He ain’t home.” She looked at Vatch. Then she looked around the apartment, hoping to see her son. “Thought he might be here.”

Vatch shook his head as he closed the door. “Haven’t seen him.” Vatch  shrugged. “Not as popular as I used to be.”

“I’m worried.” She sat down on Vatch’s couch. “He comes and goes whenever he wants. Got a call from the school. They’re thinking about dropping him.” She started to cry. “Don’t know what to do.”

Vatch looked at his watch. It was a quarter past six in the morning. “Where have you been all night?”

“Working.” She answered too quickly, defensive.

“Well, like I said, he’s been avo
iding me. Hanging out with me isn’t cool.”

“You’ve got to talk with him.”

“I’m not his dad.” Vatch looked past her at the clock on the wall. He didn’t want to talk about it. Vatch told himself that he was just a guy who lived in the same building, and Anthony was just another kid from the neighborhood. Vatch didn’t want to believe that somebody like Anthony could hurt him. A kid shouldn’t make him feel sad or lost. Vatch tried to tell himself those things, but he knew that none of it was true.

“You’re as close to a father as he got.” Anthony’s mom stood up. “You’ve got to help him. I don’t want to lose Anthony. I don’t want to lose him.”

She walked toward the door with a little stumble and left.

Long after she had gone, the room still smelled like alcohol.