Foreclosure: A Novel (34 page)

She nodded. “He’ll try. Losing his job has really gotten to him.”

“He got over it when the firm let him go.”

“This is different. He liked this job. And he made a mistake.”

“What kind of mistake?”

She shook her head. “He never explained it well. I don’t know that I’d understand it if he did. Something about the loan you guys were fighting over.”

David grabbed his keys. “Where is he, Lana?”

The pub was bustling with holiday cheer. David scanned the bar, knowing right where to find Justin. Sure enough, there he sat, hunched over at their old meeting place, staring at his stout like it was a crystal ball.

“How you doing, old sport?” David asked as he took the next stool.

Justin looked up, but avoided eye contact. He was unshaven, and looked like he’d aged about ten years in the past few months. “I miss this place. Not Fort Gaspar, but this bar.”

“I haven’t been here much since you left. I guess I’ve been busy.”

“They make you partner yet?”

David shook his head.

Justin grunted. “I hope you fail.”

“Thanks. I can see why you’d say that.”

“I didn’t mean it that way.”

“I know—you’re drunk.”

“Well, yes, that too.” Justin belched.

David studied Justin’s mane. “I never knew you could grow the beard of a Civil War general.”

“Neither did I. Funny the things you learn about yourself when you’re unemployed.”

David saw the window opening and didn’t want to let it close. “So what happened, man?”

Justin was fighting back tears already. “I messed up. I really messed up, man.” There was no fighting them now, and he started sobbing into the palms of his hands.

David patted his old friend on the back and gave him a moment. Then he reached down into his bag. “I just received this in the middle of trial. It’s the check the insurance company cut to pay off the mortgage.”

Justin stopped crying on a dime. His bloodshot eyes met David’s. “So?”

“Meridian Bank of Miami was acting as a loan servicer. You sold the loan.”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Is that why you were fired?”

“I said I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Then why are you here? Why did you ride two hours to come to Fort Gaspar?”

“Because Lana made me. And, like I said, I miss this bar.”

David glanced down and saw a backpack resting on the floor to the right of Justin’s barstool. “You ever hear of a company named Xerxes Capital?”

“Nope,” Justin said, fighting another swell of emotion.

“Why’d you sell the loan, Justin? Afraid I was going to kick your ass?”

“Actually, I was afraid we were going to kick yours. And I didn’t want to have anything to do with your downfall, regardless of what you did to me.”

“Too late for that, isn’t it? I mean, here I am. I’m on the precipice, old sport. I’m at the crossroads, looking down into the water. It’s murky as hell. Not really a place I want to go. So if you can shed some light down there for me, it could help me out a lot.”

Justin sat still, tight-lipped.

David stood up to leave. “All right, thanks anyway.”

As he started to move away, Justin finally spoke. “Right around the time you filed suit, we entered into negotiations with a company, a hedge fund of some sort. We didn’t know much about them.”

David returned to the barstool and pushed every thought out of his mind except what Justin had to say.

“That’s why we were really dragging Pinnacle along with the forbearance. We wanted to sell their loan. This company that came along was interested in distressed loans. They came in low-balling the note on Gaspar Towers.”

“When was this?” David asked.

“January. Not long after I started.”

“Shit,” David muttered. That was right around the time Alton first mentioned Dan Chase and Steve Salvo.

“What?” Justin said.

“Nothing, keep going.”

Justin shrugged. “I think they offered thirty cents on the dollar. I probably countered at ninety. But we were over-secured, especially if you took into consideration the escrow deposits.” He took a sip of beer.

“So what happened?”

“We talked for months. Eventually agreed on sixty percent, about eleven million. My boss just wanted it off the books. Only other condition—we had to remain servicer of the loan. They didn’t want to litigate. Something to do with regulations in their country, wherever that was.”

“Did you ever talk to anyone there? A guy named Dan Chase or Steve Salvo?”

Justin shook his head.

“You have the loan purchase agreement?” David asked.

“Funny you should ask.” Justin almost lost his balance as he leaned over for his backpack. He opened it and pulled out a soiled document that obviously had endured many nights in Justin’s ruminating hands. Beer, sweat, and tears. “Take a look.”

David skimmed the four-page purchase agreement and noticed all the standard terms. “The buyer was XCLP as trustee for the GS7900 trust?”

“They wanted to take title in the name of a trust. That’s why the check was made out like that.”

“XCLP. Xerxes Capital, LP.”

“And take a look at this.” Justin took the document back and flipped it open to the signature page. “See anything notable there?”

David checked it out, but didn’t recognize any of the names. “What am I looking for?”

“No, here.” Justin pointed to the footer of the document. “That look familiar?”

David’s heart sank as he recognized the footer. HA-XXX-11016. “That’s our footer.”

“Exactly, drafted by someone at Hollis & Alderman.”

David sat stunned. “You never talked to anyone at the firm during the sale?”

Justin shook his head.

“You didn’t know anything about this?” David said.

“Not at all. Didn’t even notice the footer until I was canned.” Justin caught his breath. “And see the date it was signed?”

“Two weeks before the fire.” David’s thoughts were still spinning.

“Pretty fortuitous, don’t you think?”

“So they paid eleven million, and a month later get paid twenty. Not a bad investment.”

Justin finished his beer.

“So why did you get the blame for this?” David asked.

“Because someone had to. And I never confirmed in an email that this was my boss’s decision. He lied. Threw me under the bus. Told the board I sold the loan without his approval.”

David looked at the signature page again and saw Justin’s signature. “Just business, eh?”

“Makes you wonder, doesn’t it, about who really set the fire?”

David didn’t even want to think about that right now. “This explains a lot,” he said. “Why the insurance company doesn’t know what to do with this case.” And why Vasquez had been running around like a decapitated chicken for the past six months.

“I wouldn’t know what to do with it either,” Justin said. “But I can see why they’d want to cut their losses.”

“Just like the bank did.”

Justin nodded as he finished his beer. Then, he turned to David. “What about you?”

“What about me?”

“When are you going to cut your losses?”

The next morning, David beat the staff and the rising sun to the office. He searched the firm’s database for drafts of the purchase agreement or any related emails. He was looking for any indication of who authored or emailed the agreement—or more importantly, who opened the client file—but he found nothing. If the firm was holding secret documents for Xerxes Capital, there was only one place they would be stored: in Alton’s locked walnut cabinet.

David didn’t give Beatrice time to turn on her computer and remove her jacket before he asked her what time Alton would be in. “I haven’t seen him all week,” he said.

She nervously scanned the hallway. “He’s had meetings. Plus, you’ve been in trial.”

“I need to talk to him.”

“I will let him know. You can always email him.”

“Tell him I need to meet. Tonight.”

She started typing, clearly hoping David would walk away.

“And one more thing.”

“Yes?” she said impatiently.

“I need to know about a firm client, XCLP, or Xerxes Capital, LP. Does either name mean anything to you?”

“Why do you ask?” she said with her best poker face.

“I need a conflicts search run on them. They’re adverse to a potential client.”

“Who’s the potential client?”

“It doesn’t matter, Beatrice. I just need to know if there’s a conflict.”

“You know they’ll want to know who the client is.”

“Just run the damn search already!” His scream echoed through the empty hallway.

Amidst all his fretting over Xerxes Capital and the escrow records, David had nearly forgotten who was taking the witness stand today: Fire Marshal Al Ashcroft. David knew Ashcroft wouldn’t testify that Frank had anything to do with the fire, but he wasn’t sure that would do them any good. His deposition testimony had been consistent with his office’s investigation findings: his office had suspicions that the fire was not accidental. While Vasquez could prove that Ashcroft believed the fire was caused by arson, David would not be allowed to tell the jury that Frank was never arrested in connection with the fire. Under Florida law, Vasquez’s client could have its cake and eat it too.

When Vasquez announced Ashcroft as the plaintiff’s next witness, the jurors’ heads swung toward the double doors, and Ashcroft promenaded into the courtroom, clad in his formal uniform, his face glowing red like he’d been in the sun all his life.

Frank nudged David and whispered, “This should be good.”

David retreated at the smell of Frank’s smoky morning breath. “Act like you care, Frank, even if you don’t,” he whispered back.

Vasquez cleared his throat while he reviewed his notes on the lectern. “Fire Marshal Ashcroft, please introduce yourself to the jury.”

“I’ve been the fire marshal in Gaspar County for twenty-nine years, and fighting fires since I was old enough to vote.” Ashcroft’s answers rolled off his tongue like the politician he was. His voice was strong and confident enough to narrate commercials—a friendly, old-fashioned voice, more suited to radio than television. Within thirty seconds it was clear that Fire Marshal Ashcroft had the respect of everyone sitting on the jury.

He certainly had more than that from juror five, David noted. Ms. Ida McCormick, the eldest juror, was a native Floridian. She beamed at the sight of this stately man touting the highlights of his illustrious career, first as a firefighter, fighting the infamous fire that burned down Gaspar Elementary in 1967, through the prominent elected position he’d held for the past fifteen years.

“In all, I’ve overseen the investigation of three thousand fires during my career,” Ashcroft explained. He wiped his bald brow in a polite, deferential way. David thought Ms. McCormick might swoon.

“Three thousand fires,” Vasquez repeated with feigned admiration. “And many of those involved allegations of arson?”

“Absolutely,” Ashcroft said.

“And you oversee criminal investigations as well?”

“I do. My office often works with the Florida Department of Law Enforcement.”

“Mr. Ashcroft, you’re familiar with the fire that destroyed the south tower of the Regency Gaspar Towers in August of 2008?”

Ashcroft nodded. “I am. My office investigated its cause and origin.”

“After your investigation, your office concluded that it was most likely caused by arson?”

Ashcroft glanced in David’s direction. “That was our initial conclusion, yes.” Something about his pronunciation of “initial” grabbed David’s attention.

Frank leaned over and whispered, “He said
initial
conclusion.”

David nodded, but kept his attention on the witness. Vasquez was taking a long pause, probably considering whether to clean up that word—“initial”—that lingered in the courtroom like the smell of a diaper that needed changing.

“Chief Ashcroft, please explain to the jury why that was your conclusion.”

Ashcroft leaned forward and faced the jury. “Explosions of that magnitude usually do not occur accidentally, especially within a building—
especially
a new building. And our
initial
investigation revealed no accidental causes of the fire.”

There it was again. Maybe Ashcroft was just being precise, but it sure felt like he was inviting David to question him on it.

Apparently Vasquez was torn about the word, too. He took a deep breath at the podium. “So you found no evidence that the fire was accidental, is this right?”

“That was our
initial
conclusion.” This time, Ashcroft looked David dead in the eyes.

“That’s all I have for now, Judge.” Vasquez tried to exude confidence, but his hue was a shade paler than when he’d begun the examination.

“Thank you, Mr. Vasquez. Does the defendant wish to question this witness?”

“We do,” David said as he stood and carried his notes to the lectern. He had planned to cross-examine Ashcroft with the defendant’s expert report, written by a hired gun who for five hundred bucks an hour gladly opined that the fire was caused by the faulty gas line under the Towers. But before he got to the technical evidence, he wanted to clear the air of something. “Captain Ashcroft. You’ve referred several times today to your
initial
conclusion and your
initial
investigation.”

Ashcroft nodded and smiled. “Yes, sir, I have.”

“Have you revised your opinion in any way since conducting your initial investigation?”

“I have,” Ashcroft said.

The courtroom was quiet—afraid-to-wake-a-sleeping-baby quiet.

“And how so?” David’s stomach felt like he was trapped in a carnival spinner. A collective held breath sucked the air out of the courtroom. Even inspector Ashcroft seemed to be fighting off a wheezing spell.

“I have concluded,” Ashcroft paused momentarily, “that our initial opinion was wrong.” Judge Cox sat up attentively.

David couldn’t speak. He felt Frank smirking,
told you so.

Ashcroft continued without waiting for another question. “So I reviewed the expert reports, and I realized that we had missed something in our investigation. There was a construction defect in the gas line. We should have seen that during our investigation. It was plain as day.”