Authors: Steven Gore
Power Blind (24 page)
I
'm picking up drumbeats from all over,” Brandon Meyer told Gage in his chambers in the San Francisco Federal Building the next day.
Gage had responded to Meyer's voice mail demanding he call back by dropping by an hour and a half after his flight from the Caymans landed at SFO.
“Good ears.”
“I haven't had a thing to do with Pegasus since I left my law firm, and the worst anyone can say is that what we did was in a gray area of tax law.” Brandon pounded his desk with his knuckle. “The IRS never even published a notice prohibiting the practice until two years after I was appointed to the bench.”
“That's not the question the drums were asking,” Gage said, from where he stood near the window overlooking the city and the Pacific Ocean beyond. “The question is whether you had anything to do with the payoffs to Wilbert Hawkins and Ray Karopian in TIMCO.”
“And I assume the next accusation is I had something to do with the deaths of those two and recruited John Porzolkiewski to poison them.” Brandon smirked. “That verges on the ludicrous.”
“I'm not making that accusation. But I'm also not sure Porzolkiewski did it.”
“There was enough probable cause to arrest him. Despite your rather jaundiced view of how some judges do their work, none of us would sign a search warrant unless the probable cause was convincing.”
“Aren't you worried about
how
convincing the evidence might be? And who might be implicated?”
Brandon's face twisted with anger. “There'll be hell to pay if my name is in it.”
“Your name isn't. Anston's is.”
Brandon rocked himself out of his chair and walked over to the bar. He poured two fingers of bourbon into a highball glass. He didn't offer any to Gage. He took a sip as he turned back.
“You don't have a clue about the relationship between Anston and Palmer, do you?” Brandon asked.
“I know exactly what their relationship was.”
“I don't think so. You think there was ever a time in the twenty-some years they worked together that Marc Anston called up Charlie and said, âGet rid of the witnesses.' It's the same on both sides. You think any DEA agent has to skirt the law by telling a snitch to go search somebody's house and check if the drugs are there before the agent bothers to get a warrant? The snitch knows what to do.”
“It's not the law that's rough, it's how some people practice it.”
Brandon turned away and walked toward his desk.
“I don't know why we're talking about this,” Brandon said. “You can't prove what Anston does has anything to do with me.”
“We'll see.” Gage rose to his feet. “Did you get your wallet back from SFPD?”
“Yes.”
“Everything there?”
Brandon's face colored as he slid onto his chair.
“I believe so.”
“Including theâ”
“I said everything was there.”
Gage persisted. “Including the Cayman Citibank credit card?”
“Yes, including the credit card.”
“How do you pay the charges?”
“I don't believe it's any of your business.”
“You're right, it's not my business, except to the extent it's paid for by money you and Anston received offshore for making TIMCO and other cases disappear.”
“It doesn't make any difference where the firm received legal fees as long as it paid taxes on the income. And as far I know that was always done.”
“I'm not sure anyone would call the money you got from TIMCO a legal fee.”
“That's neither here nor there since I've received no compensation, directly, indirectly, or deferred since I left the firm.”
“The money had to come from somewhere.”
“Don't play naïve. There are few things judges may do to earn money beyond their salaries. Books, lectures, and investments. And I don't write books and I don't give lectures.”
“Then why make the investments offshore?”
“Tax planning, man. What else?”
“There are lots of other possibilities.”
Brandon held up a palm toward Gage. His face went dark.
“Don't even go there. I challenge you to find one instance where I profited from a decision in a case.”
“Thinking back over the records, there seem to be lots of payments to Pegasus from companies appearing in your court.” Gage waited a beat. Brandon's expression remained fixed. “Aren't you supposed to look offended now?”
Brandon waved away the accusation.
“The suggestion is too ludicrous. While I have no direct knowledge, I suspect you'll find they were clients of Anston. Remember, he's not a trial lawyer. He's hired to advise on corporate issues. It was between him and his clients if he suggested offshore insurance is a wise investment. Countless U.S. corporations are engaged in self-insurance and he happens to be an expert in the field.”
“And your investment portfolio doesn't include any of those corporations?”
“Yes, it does. But you'll find I recused myself in each case involving those corporations. Check the dockets.”
“Look, there's a reason why all these companies hire Anston to play trial lawyer, especially on cases in your court. They figure they'll get something for their money.”
“That's a crock. He files motions, the other side responds, then I decide them on the merits. The Ninth Circuit has never reversed me. Never. I make every decision with twenty-eight appeals court judges peering over my shoulder. I don't control the entire game.”
Brandon rose again, then put his shoulders back and glared at Gage.
“I'm starting to lose patience with this little exercise,” Brandon said. “I have no need to explain my finances to you.” He pointed at Gage. “And I'm warning you. Make any of your accusations public and I'll bury you. Anston will be more than happy to disclose whatever Pegasus bank records are required to show I didn't receive a dime since I left the firm.”
Gage let the threat slide by.
“So Pegasus is Anston's company?”
“Does it make a difference who owns it? I don't know whether it was Anston's or Charlie's or somebody else's. I never inquired.” Brandon paused and a half-smile came to his face. “Let's just say Charlie and I had sort of an investment club. In exchange for his managing the fund, I let him piggyback off my investments.”
“Socorro doesn't seem to have any record, not even a clue, what were the investments that funded her annuity and the life insurance policies for her kids.”
“That's not my problem. Charlie apparently chose not to include her in on his financial decisions any more than I include my wife in mine.”
H
e just walked out of the building,” Brandon Meyer told Marc Anston in a telephone call a few minutes after Gage left his chambers. “I can see him crossing Golden Gate Avenue, heading toward the parking lot.”
“What happened?”
“I conceded what I couldn't deny. The plan worked perfectly. He'll be spending the next month trying to prove you're paying me off through Pegasus for decisions.”
“What about the credit card?”
“He's still hung up on it. Just like he was when he went to see Quinton.”
“And TIMCO?”
“He's obsessed with tying it to me, and me alone. You could've driven Hawkins to the airport yourself and he wouldn't care.”
“Are you sure he hasn't started to put it all together?”
“As sure as I can be.”
T
he pattern is there, boss,” Alex Z told Gage as they sat with Shakir around the worktable in the Oakland loft. “I can match up fifty cases involving companies that made offshore insurance payments to Pegasus and appeared in Meyer's court, some before and some after the money came into its CEB account.”
Alex Z pointed at the list of company names. “Nearly every company was a defendant in some kind of civil or criminal action. Toxic spills, industrial accidents, insider trading.”
“And at least some of them, like TIMCO, used Pegasus as a tax-deductible slush fund to pay off witnesses.”
“That's what it looks like.”
“But it doesn't get us anywhere unless it leads back to Brandon himself.”
“There are a hundred other companies that bought insurance that didn't have cases in front of Meyer,” Alex Z said. “That seems to suggest this was solely an Anston-operated scam. Tax or otherwise.”
Gage thought back on his last meeting with Brandon and realized he was no longer sure what had been the judge's purpose, now troubled, wondering whether it was a defense or a deflection.
“Why not just narrow our focus?” Alex Z said. “Go after Anston and try to reopen TIMCO and Moki's cases? Maybe sic the IRS on the fake insurance scam?”
“Because everything that's happened began with the wallet. It's a link between Charlie and Brandon and led to Charlie's death. I'm sure of it. And Socorro won't be safe until we figure out why.”
Gage scanned the list of Pegasus star names to which Alex Z had added the wire transfer information from Joe Casey.
“Quinton referred to what Charlie was doing as investments,” Gage said. “And Brandon said he and Charlie had a sort of investment club.”
Shakir spoke up. “Sounds like they're trying to push you in that directionâ”
Gage smiled. “Us.” He pointed at Shakir. “You're in this, too, kid.”
Shakir smiled back. “Thanks, boss.”
“And they're succeeding in moving us that way,” Gage said, “either because they're clean or because it's a dead end.”
“It seems like a dead end,” Alex Z said. “None of the acronyms match the names of any of the companies that appeared in his court or were part of the insurance scam. And we haven't been able to match them with the cases Anston handled.”
Gage leaned forward, resting his elbows on his thighs and interlinking his fingers. He closed his eyes, thinking.
Finally, he opened them.
“Maybe they really did have a little investment club,” Gage said, “and they're more than happy if we spend our time investigating it. There's nothing illegal about him and Charlie investing together.” He glanced at Alex Z, and then pointed at the star list. “Did you compare those acronyms with Charlie's retirement account statements?”
“No match, even after we tried decoding them different ways. They're not stock symbols.”
Gage shook his head. “We're not seeing something. It could be something as simple as Brandon not wanting it exposed in the press that he's using offshore money to make investments. It would remind voters that Landon is a child of privilege and not a regular guy.”
“I don't know,” Alex Z said. “We've had lots of wealthy presidential candidates who swaggered around like itinerant cowboys and golly-gee-whiz farmers and voters bought the act.”
“Maybe times have changed.” Gage rose and said to Alex Z, “Run GRID and the rest through the code-breaking program again. See if any meaningful words emerge unrelated to either cases or investments.”
Gage stepped toward the door, then turned back and smiled as he pointed down at Shakir's forearm.
“I like the tattoo,” Gage said.
Shakir grinned and held it out. “Mighty Mouse.”
I
wish I could've delivered a clean victory, Mr. President,” Landon Meyer told President Duncan in the Oval Office, “but it doesn't appear possible. The vice president will have to break the tie, assuming there's no filibuster.”
Duncan rose from his desk chair and walked the few steps toward the window facing the South Lawn. He centered himself as though the pose would be memorialized someday as part of a Smithsonian retrospective on presidential decision making.
Landon almost turned his head toward the door to see whether the White House photographer had slipped in behind him.
“I don't see a filibuster in the works,” Duncan said. “None of the Democrats would even mention the word on the Sunday talk shows.”
“Still, all it takes is one and we'll have a constitutional showdown. It's one thing to filibuster a district court judge, another to filibuster a justice of the Supreme Court.”
Duncan returned to his desk. He picked up the telephone and pressed the intercom. He listened, and then said, “I need you in here.”
Stuart Sheridan, Duncan's chief of staff, entered less than a minute later carrying a yellow legal pad, his pen already poised.
“We need some talking points,” Duncan told him. “This nuclear option threat is sounding stale. We need something that'll turn a filibuster into a turd nobody'll want to touch.”
Sheridan tapped the pen against the pad and closed his eyes, then he opened them and smiled. “Tyranny of the minority.”
“Brilliant,” Duncan said, grinning. “Tyranny of the minority. FOX News will go rabid on the Democrats with that one.”
Duncan laughed, and then grinned at Landon. “Did you see the head of the Democratic National Committee on FOX last night?”
Landon shook his head. “I was at a fund-raiser.”
“Hilarious. Every time they cut to a commercial, it was for Preparation H.” Duncan slapped his hands together. “Hilarious. I'll bet Wyeth Pharmaceuticals didn't even ask for it. A couple hundred grand of advertising and it probably didn't cost them a dime.”
Landon didn't smile in return.
Sheridan pushed through the awkward moment by turning the conversation back to strategy.
“After we do the tyranny of the minority,” Sheridan said, “we'll send the vice president out to compare the Democrats to the Sunnis in Iraq under Saddam. A minority dictatorship.”
“And then . . .” The excitement rose again in Duncan's voice. “And then we wait a couple of days and add something like: Why did we fight for democracy in Iraq only to lose it at home?”
Landon spoke up. “Isn't that somewhat excessive, Mr. President? The Democrats aren't traitors.”
“We aren't calling them that. We're just making it a matter of majority rule.”
“I'd be careful how far you push the analogy,” Landon said. “The other side will surely point out it's only the vice president's vote that gives us the majority and we've used the filibuster ourselves a hundred times. And look at the polls. Less than fifty percent want the nominees confirmed.”
“Plus a margin of error of four percent,” Sheridan said.
“Or minus a margin of error of four percent. And how about the rest of the data? A majority favors abortion. Seventy percent of the public believes innocent people are being executed. Seventy-two percent want stricter gun control. And only thirty-six percent think you're doing even a half-decent job. We need to be careful about how we construct our talking points.”
“You're not getting weak-kneed on this, are you, Landon?”
“No, Mr. President. Sometimes we have to do what's in the people's interest even if they don't recognize it at the time, and this is one of those moments.”
D
uncan looked over at Sheridan after the door closed behind Landon.
“Did you hear his speech to the Press Club yesterday morning?” Duncan asked.
Sheridan shook his head.
“I couldn't tell whether it was brilliant or just bullshit.” Duncan opened a folder on his desk. “Listen to this: âConditional charity for the poor, not a free lunch . . . Return matters of governance to the states, reserve for the federal government matters of national character . . . A humble foreign policy aimed at retilting the trade balance, not at leveling every Islamic dictator.' ” Duncan closed the folder. “Conditional charity? What the devil does that mean?”
“I think it means the poor eat at the Salvation Army instead of at the public trough.”
Duncan laughed. “Once you translate it into plain English, it sounds like what every Republican president has been saying since Reagan.”
Sheridan shrugged. “Saying and doing are two different things.”
“Except I have a feeling if Meyer gets elected, they'll be exactly the same.”
It was Sheridan's turn to laugh. “You mean he'll be a one-term president?”
“Better a one-term messianic Republican who knows what he believes than a one-term Democrat who navigates by polls and focus groups.”