Dead Lawyers Tell No Tales (29 page)

WHEN LANDON AND BILLY ARRIVED
back at the office, there were five cars sitting in the parking lot. One was Parker Clausen’s gray BMW. Landon didn’t recognize the other four, except that the black Porsche looked vaguely familiar.

“Wait here,” Billy Thurston said. He parked Landon’s truck and marched inside to see what was happening.

A few minutes later, Billy reappeared and motioned for Landon to come to the front door. Landon was met there by Parker Clausen.

The three men huddled in the front portico, and Parker gave him the bad news.

The death of Brent Benedict notwithstanding, Carolyn Glaxon-Forrester was still on a rampage. She was convinced that Benedict had been squirreling money away in some offshore accounts, and she wanted her client’s fair share. There had been a hearing earlier that day, attended by Parker Clausen as the firm’s managing partner. Glaxon-Forrester had argued that all firm accounts should be put in a constructive trust until
the judge could figure out whether Benedict had been illegally secreting money into these suspected offshore accounts.

“The court didn’t grant the motion, but she did allow Glaxon-Forrester to take my deposition and yours. I tried to tell the judge that you were in the middle of a trial, but she said you could spare an hour at night.”

“Are you kidding?” Landon asked. The last thing he needed—the
very
last thing—was to spend an hour being harassed by Carolyn Glaxon-Forrester. “I don’t have an hour.”

“I tried to tell that to the judge,” Parker said. “But I think she just wanted to get Glaxon-Forrester out of her courtroom.”

Landon shook his head and grunted. How did he get stuck with a managing partner who couldn’t argue his way out of a wet paper bag? “Fine. Let’s get it over with.”

Glaxon-Forrester, along with her client and a court reporter, were already set up in the firm’s main conference room. She was wearing skin-tight jeans and a body-hugging sleeveless white top. Landon threw his suit coat over a chair, rolled up his sleeves, and loosened his tie. He took a seat at the end of the long conference table and leaned forward on his elbows.

“One hour,” he said. “Not a minute more.”

Glaxon-Forrester sized him up over the end of her beaked nose, a contemptuous little grin on her face. She reached down and started her triathlon watch. Landon thought she did a little muscle flex just for the fun of it.

“Fair enough,” she said.

Landon had never been waterboarded, but he thought it couldn’t be any worse than this. Glaxon-Forrester had a list of questions that she spit out in rapid succession, each designed to make Landon look either complicit in Brent Benedict’s alleged wrongdoing or, at the very least, stupid and naive.

She started off by establishing that Landon was a partner in the firm. She then asked about how firm compensation worked, and particularly
about how Brent Benedict had been paid. Landon kept his answers short, his favorite consisting of three simple words: “I don’t know.”

“You’re a partner in the firm, and yet you claim not to know that the firm paid for Brent Benedict’s car, his health club memberships, golf club membership, private jet lease, health insurance, retirement plan, and life insurance premiums, all on top of his regular salary and bonuses?”

Landon’s voice remained calm. “I wasn’t a partner at the time. And if you know about those things, I assume they were all reported in the divorce proceedings.”

“Then let’s talk about some of the things that weren’t reported,” Glaxon-Forrester sneered. The court reporter sat next to Landon, her head swiveling from Glaxon-Forrester to Landon as she transcribed every word.

Glaxon-Forrester stood and walked the length of the table until she was standing over Landon’s shoulder. She plopped some documents in front of him. Parker Clausen, who was sitting a few seats away, tried to warn Landon with his eyes.

“Do you know what these documents are?”

Landon stared at them. He thumbed through the documents carefully. He had never seen them before.

“Nope.”

“You have no idea?” Glaxon-Forrester said, hovering over Landon.

“I can read what they say, but I’m assuming you could do that too. At least most of the words.”

“Strike that from the record,” Glaxon-Forrester said. The court reporter made a few keystrokes.

Glaxon-Forrester stayed there for a moment, arms crossed, and Landon had to crane his neck to look at her.

“Your client Elias King set up several offshore corporations in the Seychelles Islands; isn’t that correct?”

“No, that’s not correct. Besides, that’s got nothing to do with your case.”

“I’ll be the judge of that,” Glaxon-Forrester said. “So let’s start again.
Isn’t it true that the federal government is claiming Mr. King set up international business corporations in the Seychelles Islands to hide his insider trading activities?”

“That’s what the federal government says. But as far as we can tell, somebody else set them up.”

This brought a little smirk from Glaxon-Forrester. “As far as you can tell?”

“That’s what I said.”

“And that’s because it’s hard to tell who sets up a corporation when it’s done in the Seychelles Islands; isn’t that correct?”

Landon could see where this was going but was helpless to stop it. “That’s correct.”

“Because when you set up a Seychelles offshore company, you don’t have to name the shareholders. Right?”

“That’s my understanding.”

“You don’t have to file any public documents naming the officers or directors either, do you?”

“No.”

“You can make your stock certificates—which don’t even need to be filed—payable to bearer, meaning that whoever possesses them is the owner. Isn’t that right?”

“I believe that’s correct.”

“And you can have nonresident directors?”

“Yes.”

“And you don’t have to file any annual returns.”

“Correct.”

“And lastly, there are no corporate taxes to pay in the Seychelles Islands.”

“I believe that’s true as long as the company is an international business company.”

Glaxon-Forrester stood there for a moment enjoying her own little show. She nodded knowingly at her client, who smiled back. She asked the court reporter to mark the documents she had shown to Landon.

“You’re sure you’ve never seen these documents before?”

“I’m sure.”

Glaxon-Forrester walked to the other end of the table and took her seat. She thumbed through a pile of papers and apparently found what she was looking for. She stared at Landon for a few seconds, as if she were some kind of human lie detector who could make Landon flinch.

“Brent Benedict would have known about the allegations against Elias King for insider trading, and he would have known about these Seychelles offshore companies. Right?”

“I don’t know what he knew or what he didn’t know.”

“But he was the managing partner of your firm, and Elias King was one of your firm’s biggest clients. You don’t think the managing partner would have known about the details of the insider trading indictment against Elias King?”

Landon shrugged. “Brent Benedict and I didn’t talk a lot.”

“Fair enough. Do you know if he ever set up any of these offshore companies himself?”

“No.”

Glaxon-Forrester picked up a few of the documents, stood, and returned to Landon’s end of the table.

“If you want to sit next to me, it might expedite things,” he said. “I’m not contagious.”

“That won’t be necessary.” She placed a new set of documents in front of him. These documents showed deposits and withdrawals in a number of different accounts. “Do you know whether Brent Benedict was siphoning money from the firm’s operating account into an account controlled by a Seychelles offshore company?”

Landon looked through the documents, but they were Greek to him. “I have no idea.”

“Doesn’t that concern you—the thought that one of your former partners may have been siphoning money from the firm?”

“My concern right now is getting through this deposition so I can prepare for the second day of a murder trial.”

“This account right here—” Glaxon-Forrester reached over Landon’s shoulder and pointed her enameled fingernail at a document from a bank in the Cayman Islands, “has been closed out.” She shuffled a few documents. “So have two or three of these other accounts. Do you know what happened to the money?”

“No.”

“Did you get any of it?”

“I told you I don’t know a thing about any of these accounts.”

“That’s funny. Your partner, Parker Clausen, said the same thing.”

Glaxon-Forrester had the court reporter mark these new exhibits and then returned to her seat. She appeared to be deep in thought. Then her eyes lit up. “Harry McNaughten was the lead lawyer on Elias King’s case, wasn’t he?”

“Until somebody killed him.”

“Do you suppose these offshore accounts were opened by Harry McNaughten?”

“No way. The man didn’t care anything about financial matters and was basically illiterate when it came to computers.”

Glaxon-Forrester smiled, and Landon realized he had been suckered. “So if Parker Clausen says they’re not his accounts, and you’re pretty sure they’re not Harry McNaughten’s accounts, yet it appears that some firm money was transferred into these accounts, what partner would that leave?”

Landon frowned. “I don’t know anything about these accounts.”

“That’s your story and you’re sticking to it,” Glaxon-Forrester said sarcastically. “But I think you’ve already answered the question.”

ON THE SECOND DAY OF THE TRIAL,
Kerri woke up at four so she could be at the television station for the early morning newscast. She had taken Monday off to watch Landon’s opening statement and in the last few weeks had pretty much exhausted the good graces of her bosses at WTRT. If she wanted to see the closing arguments on Thursday or Friday, she would have to show up on days like today.

Landon was already at the kitchen table, paper scattered everywhere, his hair sticking up in a dozen different directions.

“How long have you been up?” she asked.

“Not long.” He didn’t look up from what he was writing. She gave him a kiss on the top of his head.

“You want another cup of coffee?”

“Already had two.”

When he was like this, it was best to leave him alone. She took Simba out to do his business and got ready for work. She left Landon at the kitchen table, pushing away the dog, who was determined to play tug-of-
war. She could tell that her husband was getting frustrated with the case, but she knew there was little she could do to help.

Kerri hadn’t gotten good vibes from the jury on day one, but there was still a long way to go. Landon was a good lawyer—he just didn’t have much to work with. Some people were saying that a rookie like Landon had no business trying this case, but Kerri knew better. Landon was bright, articulate, and a fierce competitor. Elias King was lucky to have him.

The morning news focused on some national stories and, of course, the opening day of the King murder trial. It always felt surreal for Kerri to be reading copy about her husband’s case, but she tried to keep it dispassionate and professional, as if the story dealt with a total stranger. She often received compliments from her colleagues about the way she handled things. Several people had told her how amazed they were at her objectivity.

Because their station had been stuck in third place in the local ratings war, the geniuses in charge had decided that the anchors should answer some live questions from callers and handle real-time text and Facebook messages during the morning newscast. It must have sounded like a brilliant idea in the boardroom.

At 6:25 Tuesday morning, a caller was patched through to Kerri, live on WTRT’s morning show.

“How does it feel to have your husband defend a baby killer?” the caller asked, his voice bitter and raw.

Kerri was stunned more by the venom in his voice than the substance of the question. She sat speechless for a moment, and her coanchor, a twenty-five-year veteran of the business, bailed her out.

“Everyone’s entitled to a defense under the Constitution,” he said. “And the whole point of our system is that nobody is guilty until they’re proven guilty beyond a reasonable doubt in a court of law. I admire Landon Reed for what he does.”

The show’s director had already cut off the caller, so there was no response. But Kerri’s face was flushed, and she was already beating
herself up. Why hadn’t
she
said something? Why did her coanchor have to defend Landon while his own wife sat silently by?

The next caller asked a softball question on a well-worn political issue, and Kerri did her best to recover.

“You okay?” Kerri’s coanchor asked during the next commercial break.

“Yeah, thanks. I don’t know what I would have done without you.”

“Haters are gonna hate,” her coanchor said. He smiled, but Kerri felt sick to her stomach.

FRANKLIN SHERMAN’S FIRST WITNESS
was Alistair Leonard, the distinguished managing partner of Elias King’s former law firm. Leonard had risen to the top a few years earlier during a tumultuous time at the firm. He was a highly regarded business lawyer and a sure hand at the helm as the firm navigated through some rough waters.

He looked dignified enough on the stand. White hair, designer glasses, and a thousand-dollar suit lent gravitas to his appearance. He was rail thin, one of the top distance runners for his age in Hampton Roads. Leonard had a reputation for being precise and disciplined. Even his enemies admitted that his integrity was beyond reproach. It would be Landon’s job to cross-examine the man. Elias King was saving his questioning for the one who mattered most—Detective Phillip Truman.

On direct, Leonard told the story of how assistant U.S. Attorney Mitchell Taylor had approached him about the possibility that someone at the firm was engaged in insider trading. Acting on an anonymous
tip, Taylor’s office had been investigating unusual stock option trades executed by offshore companies. The stock options were all for corporate clients of Kilgore and Strobel. The trades had typically taken place just a few weeks or months before a merger or acquisition that the firm was handling.

Mitchell Taylor had threatened to issue grand jury subpoenas if the firm didn’t cooperate. The publicity, Leonard testified, would have been devastating to the firm. Faced with no easy options, Leonard had allowed the U.S. Attorney’s office limited access to firm computers and servers, making sure he protected all client confidences in the process.

Each attorney, Leonard explained, had the option of using either a desktop or laptop computer. They were also issued iPads, which most attorneys kept with them. Elias King chose a laptop. Fortunately for the U.S. Attorney’s office, he left it at the firm most nights.

To play it safe, Taylor had obtained sealed search warrants for certain information on the firm computers, including Elias King’s hard drive. An independent commissioner had been appointed to review the hard drive and make sure that any attorney-client material was protected.

That process revealed that King’s computer had been used to set up several offshore companies and a maze of offshore accounts. Those companies and accounts were used for the stock option trades under investigation. Sherman introduced several screenshots from the computer into evidence, as well as the Kilgore and Strobel employment manual, which reminded attorneys that all electronic devices provided by the firm remained the property of the firm.

Sherman double-checked his list of questions and smiled in a self-satisfied way. “Please answer any questions that Mr. Reed or his client, Mr. King, might ask.”

Alistair Leonard took a sip of water and recrossed his legs. He was the epitome of calm.

“I’d like to ask you a few questions about the firm’s security,” Landon said.

“That’s fine.”

“When lawyers in your firm leave their offices each night, do they lock their individual office doors?”

“There’s no need to. We occupy the entire nineteenth, twentieth, twenty-first, and twenty-second floors of our building. The elevators have access codes, and each floor has a sliding glass door and its own separate access code. The only people who can get into our offices at night are lawyers and staff members of the firm, and even they would have to sign in at the security desk in the lobby.”

“How many lawyers are in your firm?”

“Ninety-four in our Norfolk office.”

“And how many staff members?”

“Probably another ninety or so.”

“What about cleaning crews?”

“What about them?”

“Do you have a cleaning crew, and do they have access to the office after hours?”

“Yes. But if you’re asking about access to Mr. King’s computer, you should know that much of the work done setting up the offshore corporations was done during working hours.”

“Landon.” It was a loud whisper coming from Elias King.

“Excuse me for a moment,” Landon said.

He huddled with Elias. “Anything he knows about what’s on the computers is hearsay,” Elias whispered. “He didn’t search the hard drive himself—he heard about it from someone else.”

Landon stood and took a few steps toward the witness. “How do you know that—the fact that much of the work setting up the accounts was done during working hours?”

“That’s what the FBI discovered when they downloaded the information from your client’s hard drive.”

Landon turned to Judge Deegan. “I ask that the answer be struck as hearsay.”

Sherman stood but evidently thought better of it. The jury had already heard the answer—that was apparently good enough for him.

“Sustained,” Deegan said.

“During working hours, if Mr. King wasn’t in his office, two hundred or so folks would have access to his computer; isn’t that right?”

“Yes. But there were never any reports of somebody sitting at Mr. King’s desk typing on his computer.”

“It’s a laptop. Someone could have taken it out of his office and into one of your file rooms or someplace else in the firm and typed on it there. Isn’t that true?”

“If we’re going to play the could-have game, I suppose you’re right.”

“Let me change gears for a moment and ask you a few questions about Erica Jensen. When did she join the firm?”

“About two and a half years ago,” Leonard said. It seemed to Landon that the witness was a little less at ease with this line of questioning; perhaps he had not practiced it with Sherman.

“Did she have prior experience as a legal assistant?”

“No. But she had a college degree, and, if I remember correctly, she had been in the military. She also had some glowing recommendations.”

“How did she end up working with Elias King?”

“I think she requested the opportunity to work in our criminal-defense section.”

“And your criminal-defense section was headed up by Elias King; is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“Did you ever see Elias King and Erica Jensen argue with each other or have any cross words?”

“No. Never.”

“In fact, did you ever see Elias King yell at any staff members or snap at anybody at the firm?”

“No.”

“Before any of this happened, would you have said that Elias King was a model partner?”

“Yes. Before he had an affair with one of the firm’s legal assistants and murdered her, he did just fine as a lawyer.”

Out of his peripheral vision, Landon saw Elias lean forward, rising slightly from his seat. “Landon,” he whispered. But Landon turned and motioned for his client to sit down. Landon might be a first-year lawyer, but he couldn’t let Elias dictate every move in the trial. If Landon was going to represent the man, Elias would have to trust him.

Elias hesitated for a moment and sat back down.

“In your line of work, you don’t do many jury trials, do you, Mr. Leonard?”

“I don’t see how that’s relevant.”

Landon moved closer to the witness. “Since that didn’t actually answer my question, let me try to be more precise. How many jury trials have you conducted in your illustrious career?”

Leonard’s face dropped into a scowl. He didn’t like being shown up by a first-year lawyer. “None,” he said. “I’m a business lawyer.”

“Then let me ask you to remember way back when you went to law school and took trial practice class. Do you recall your professor telling you that the ultimate question of fact—the issue of whether my client is innocent or guilty—is typically one for the jury to decide based on all the evidence?”

This brought Sherman to his feet. “Objection! He’s badgering the witness.”

“Sustained,” Judge Deegan said. But then she leaned toward the witness and took off her glasses. “Please avoid passing judgment on the defendant, Mr. Leonard. I think Mr. Reed is making a valid point.”

Alistair Leonard simply nodded. He turned back to Landon but seemed to shrink a little, as if some of the air had gone out of his inflated chest.

“Let’s try again,” Landon suggested. “What kind of lawyer was Elias King before the
alleged
insider trading and the tragic death of Erica Jensen?”

Leonard hesitated for a moment and spoke softly. “A good lawyer.”

“Did he appear strapped for money?”

“I don’t get into the personal affairs of my partners.”

“Did he drive a lot of fancy cars and live in a big mansion?”

“Depends on what you mean by a big mansion and fancy cars.”

“Okay,” Landon sighed, “we can do this the easy way or the hard way. If you’d like, I can list your cars and describe your house and then we can compare. On the other hand, you could just answer the question as to whether Mr. King lived an ostentatious lifestyle.”

Leonard glanced in the direction of Sherman, but apparently the General had decided not to draw any more attention to the testimony. “I’d say that your client is a man of relatively simple taste,” Leonard conceded.

“Thank you very much,” Landon said.

As he returned to his seat, Elias King leaned over and whispered, “Great job.”