Authors: John Ellsworth
"Actually, we did. See, he was out on parole, and one condition of parole is that the parolee shall not possess a firearm. Hiding a gun under your mattress is being in possession of a firearm. So he had violated his parole, which is the same thing as a crime. Or maybe it's not, but either way, he had to be arrested until the prosecutors decided if they would violate him or not."
"Did they violate him?"
"No. We got the report back on the gun—it matched the murder weapon in the Pennington case—they filed murder not parole. So, here we are."
"When you arrested Lamb that night, did he cooperate?"
"No, sir. He was on speed."
"Describe that."
"Talking a hundred miles an hour, couldn't sit still, ideas coming and going through his head like comets."
"What happened next?"
"Agent Fordyce brings out the gun and nods at Lamb. I ask him to stand and put his hands behind his back. He asks why, and I tell him we need to go downtown and ask him some questions. He immediately extends his hand toward me and pushes me back. There's a coffee table there, and I trip and hit the floor. Lamb's laughing, which is irritating. But still, I get up to my feet and ask him again. Very nicely, hands behind your back. He reaches for me again and this time, I'm ready. I carry a lead-filled sap in my coat pocket. I whip it out and rap him a good one across the mouth. I was aiming for his nose—that's where the blood spurts always stop them cold. But I got his mouth instead. Broke off four teeth, I think it was. But he immediately bends over and turns his back to me, hands behind for cuffing. I throw the cuffs on him, and we take him down to our ride. That's exactly what happened."
Bob LaGuardia studies his notes, reviews the Activity Reports from the agents, and tells the judge he's concluded his direct examination of the witness. Now it's my turn.
"Mr. Burns."
"Special Agent Burns, sir."
"What, your first name is ‘special'?"
"My title is Special Agent."
"All right, Mr. Burns."
"Your Honor," LaGuardia starts to complain.
"‘Mister' and last names are sufficient in this courtroom," the judge tells the witness. "Please proceed with your examination, Mr. Gresham."
"Mr. Burns, you're saying, I take it, the defendant deserved to have his teeth knocked out?"
"No, I'm saying he was resisting arrest. That's why I rapped him."
"Actually, you didn't say he was resisting arrest. You said, and I wrote it down word-for-word, ‘He reaches for me again,' and I'm wondering why you assumed his mere reaching toward you called for a sap across the teeth. What's that sap weigh, about one pound?”
"About that."
"And in your book, reaching out to you is the same as resisting arrest?"
"It sure looked that way. The top of that coffee table was glass, and I was afraid he was trying to shove me down on it."
"But you said he was reaching. You didn't say he was shoving."
"Reaching, shoving: what's the difference?"
"Well, one might be to hold out his hands to surrender to the cuffs, the other might be to push you down on the coffee table. The truth is, you don't know whether he was surrendering or he was resisting by the mere act of extending his arm, do you?"
"I could see in his eyes he was coming for me. He was speeding."
"Did he tell you he had taken a methamphetamine?"
"No, but I know the signs."
"So a person who's taken a meth pill and extends a hand toward you deserves to be hit in the mouth with a pound of lead?"
"That isn't at all what happened."
"No? But that's what you just told the jury. So there was more you haven't told us about?"
"I spent eight years on the streets. I know when someone is attacking and when they're only surrendering. That's all I can tell you."
"So let me see if I understand you. My client lost his teeth because he was resisting arrest, correct?"
"That's correct."
"Now you're sure this didn't happen down at the police station when he refused to confess to you?"
There's a momentary pause, slight, but you felt it.
"No, it didn't happen down at the station. It happened in his apartment. Just like I said."
"That will be all, Mr. Burns, thank you."
The AUSA then calls Beulah Wetmore, secretary to Judge Francis Pennington. Her sole reason for testifying, it turns out, is to establish the foundation for the admission into evidence of a letter allegedly written by James Joseph Lamb to Judge Pennington while Lamb was in prison for stabbing the U.S. Marshal. I have seen the letter before and Lamb told me he had written no such letter, so I offered to have the handwriting analyzed and then he came clean and said that yes, he wrote the letter but when he did it he was under the influence of some drug they were putting in all of the prisoners' food. Highly unlikely, I thought and still think so today. The old saltpeter tales of chemical castration. Were they ever true? Damned if I know.
She finishes up her testimony and the AUSA moves the letter into evidence. I object on the grounds the handwriting hasn't been validated as my client's handwriting; LaGuardia says he's calling a handwriting expert next to validate it. I withdraw my objection, stipulate that it's Lamb's handwriting, and the letter comes into evidence. It is passed around to the jury, which eats up another half hour. By the time they are finished reading, it is half past four and LaGuardia says he has just one more witness but he'd rather wait until in the morning to begin. I don't have any problem with it because I believe I know what's coming and that would be Judge Pennington, who's going to tell one hell of a horror story about his dead wife when he got home and found her that terrible day. Those are images I'd rather the jury not take with them tonight, so I agree to call it a day.
We are adjourned.
I
walk
off the elevator on my floor, hit the restroom, and head for my office.
Even as I approach the door, I don't have a great feeling. My sixth sense is kicking in.
As I pass through the door to my office, I see why.
Four Latinos wearing expensive suits and gold watches are waiting impatiently to see me. I shoot a look at Mrs. Lingscheit, who only shrugs and raises her eyebrows.
I stop and give them a look. They must all buy their hair product from the same lube shop.
"And you are?" I ask, looking from face to face.
"Mr. Gresham, I am Roberto Aguilar, and I am a lawyer from Mexico City. This gentleman on my left is Juan Carlos Munoz Perez, the CEO of MexTel. MexTel provides ninety-nine percent of the communications services in Latin America."
I nod and consider my next move. I actually intend to hurry on over to the U.S. Attorney's office, but I've got a very strong feeling this is more about Arnie, and I need to deal with it for his sake. I hold up one finger and turn to Mrs. Lingscheit.
"Tell the Schmidts I'm busy for about ten minutes when they get here? Then interrupt me.“
She understands, because there are no Schmidts. "I will."
I turn back to my visitors.
"Gentlemen?" I say, raising my arm and inviting them into my office, "Please follow me."
As a unit, they stand and follow into my lair. Four chairs, four visitors. Mrs. L closes the door behind us.
"All right," I say as I remove my blazer and hang it on the back of my chair. "What can I do for your gents?"
Again, Aguilar speaks. "Your brother is Arnold Gresham, and he has been representing MexTel for several years now. It is a case of groundwater pollution that several thousand people are claiming MexTel should be responsible for. There are billions of pesos at stake. At a twenty-five to one rate of exchange, generally speaking, that makes this a billion dollar case in U.S. dollars."
I nod appreciatively. "Go on. How can I help?"
"Señor Perez tells me you came to the deposition this morning and took your brother away. He was handcuffed to a young lady. We have spoken to Mr. Sam Shaw at your brother's firm and we have somewhat of a clearer understanding what that was all about. But at this moment, we are left with our—as you Americans would put it—our ass hanging out. Sorry to be so blunt, but there you are. Your brother's got our entire case up here“—he touches his head with his finger—“and we cannot afford to lose him off the case. Mr. Shaw agreed. Mr. Shaw will have the second-in-line senior member of the litigation staff assigned to the case immediately, but that doesn't solve our problem."
"I don't understand. The case gets more staffing, and you're covered. Why is Arn—my brother—such a key to all this?"
"Because a file is missing. It's an in-house file, and it cannot be turned over to the plaintiffs. If it is, we face a massive loss. An unacceptable loss. Now let me be blunt."
He leans forward conspiratorially.
"These other two gentlemen with me, whose names you don't want to know, are security agents with MexTel. They are here to make sure our in-house file is preserved as secret."
I feel my gut drop. Security agents, hell. These guys are enforcers. That's why there are no names for me. That's why he didn't introduce them. I size them up. One has a banana nose, and his hair is shaved down to his skull. He favors a diamond earring in his left ear and a thick black mustache on his top lip. The second man fingers the buttons on his coat nervously and, as he does, I swear I can see a shoulder holster barely hiding beneath his left arm. Great, I'm thinking, just what Arnie needs.
"So where is this file?" I ask. The best thing I can do is run down the file and turn it over. If Arnie has it, I'll pry it loose from him before they get to him.
"We have tossed his condo. It's not there."
Astonishment crosses my face and attorney Aguilar nods violently.
"Oh, yes, my people have been there and have gone through everything. Including his laptop and iPad. Nada, Señor Gresham."
"How big is this file?"
"Not very big. Less than fifty pages."
"And what is it comprised of?"
"Groundwater test results from twenty years ago."
The picture is fine-tuning right before my eyes. MexTel evidently had notice of some bad stuff it was doing to the groundwater in Mexico and, I'm betting, buried the test results. Simple, but it always is something that simple in these huge cases. There's always the flimsy gas tank of the Ford Pinto, or the skimpy rubber of the Goodyear tires, or the cancer-causing side effects of a jillion pharmaceuticals manufactured and sold on the hurry-up. So the companies play hide-the-ball with the citizens they've injured, and litigation goes on forever because of it. And Arnie knows all this and has lifted their groundwater test results and jumped ship with them. For just a fleeting moment I am proud of my brother. But just as immediately, I am also fearful for him. These people will stop at nothing to get their documents put back in the bag. I have no doubt, not with a billion USD at stake. I'm going to have to find Arnie and get this stuff back to MexTel before they find Arnie and pry it loose from his cold, dead fingers.
"Groundwater test results? My brother has no use for that. Let me contact him and he'll turn those items back to you. No problemo."
Aguilar sits back, wraps his hands around a knee, and smiles curiously at me. "And how do we know you can do this? Do you even know where he's gone off to?"
How can I tell him I last saw Arnie headed into a Walgreen’s? That's probably not going to seal the deal.
"I do know where he's gone. Give me a full day and I'll make contact with him and get your documents back to you."
"Six o'clock tomorrow night. Or else—" Aguilar smiles.
"Or else what?"
"Or else there's no going back. It will be all over for your brother."
"Hold on. Are you threatening him?"
Aguilar again nods violently.
"Yes, I am. Make no mistake. It is a huge threat. The worst kind for him—and for you too, now that you know about our file."
I slide down an inch in my chair. It honestly hadn't occurred to me that I would become a player in Arnie's troubles. But here I am. I curse my brother and hugely regret saying I would track him down. The truth is, he could be anywhere from the Bering Sea to Aruba right now, and I would have no way of knowing.
"All right. Let me get to work on it now. Thanks for coming in."
No sooner have we said our goodbyes, and fingers been pointed at me, and threats underscored, and a noisy exit been made, than Mrs. Lingscheit buzzes. It's Sam Shaw, and it absolutely cannot wait. I pick up line two.
"Sam? Michael here."
"Holy shit, Michael, are they there? These guys are whack jobs! And the biggest whack job of all is Perez, the CEO. He came in and demanded access to Arnie's office so he could review his file."
"You didn't let him in, I hope."
"Dream on, dreamer. Of course, I let them in. I was polite and only too happy to help. I did everything I could to keep my firm and me, personally, off their radar. Your brother is bringing our world to an end if he doesn't get in here and unfuck this thing!"
"Easy, Sam, I'm working on it."
"You didn't tell them that?"
"Yes, I did. I had to tell them something, else they were going after Arnie to take him out. Of course, I told them I'm on it. And I am. So let's start with what we know."
"We don't know jack. Arnie's gone off somewhere without his medications handcuffed to some floozy who's going to test out the theory that American Express Platinum has no limits. God only knows what she's going to cost the firm."
"Cost the firm? Arnie's Amex card?"
"Firm card, Michael. Wake the hell up, brother."
"Can you cancel the card?"
"Tried that. Turns out Arnie has gotten himself on the account as co-obligor. We can't get him off, which means we can't get us off. But that's the least of our problems. What the hell do these thugs want that they think Arnie has?"
"A file. A dangerous file that could destroy their company."
"You mean an actual, physical paper file? Not a computer file?"
"I don't think it's ever been digitized. I don't think it exists on any computers."
"So that's what that was," Sam says. His reference is oblique, spoken more to himself than me.
"You just lost me."
"We've checked his emails. He's calling together a status meeting of all attorneys on the case in order to turn over documents he's just located. That's what his last email said. It was sent from his phone."
"He's turning them in?”
"Bingo. Your brother is a whistleblower."
T
wo hours later
, I have called everyone I know who has any dealings with Arnie. His ex-wife, Madeline, laughed me off and chided me about mixing medications and Arnie in the same sentence. She hung up on me, still having herself a grand laugh. That helped my mood. Neither of his secretaries knows anything. His four paralegals know nothing about any file he might have pulled and taken with him. They tell me their document list checks against their actual file documents. It's all there, they maintain. Nothing missing. Of course, Arnie would have kept the file off somewhere else; probably locked in a desk drawer off-limits to everyone. Then I call Arnie's grown, married daughter in Dallas, and she says she hasn't talked to her dad in five years. He used to call her every night and talk for hours, but since he started taking his meds he's been withdrawn and distant. I can offer her no explanations, but I do apologize for being such a loser of an uncle myself. I've lost track of her, and it almost makes me want to cry when I admit it to her. She tells me not worry, that she knows about my divorce and what I must be going through. She promises she'll reach out to me more, too, and we hang up.
Just in time for Mrs. L to buzz. She has Arnie holding on one.
"You bastard," I say when I pick up. "Where are you?"
"No need for you to know that, Michael. I'm just calling to give you a little tip on something."
"What would that be?" I am holding back. I don't want to cause him to hang up on me.
"Well, I'm preparing to divulge certain test results on MexTel. And the gentlemen who own that company are going to be very hot. So you need to watch your step."
"They've already been to see me, Arnie. I'm in it up to my ears."
"Oh, no! I should have called you earlier. But we just got in."
"Got in where, Arnie?"
"Not over the phone, Michael. Your lines are bugged. Remember? This guy owns the entire Mexican telephone system. No telling what kind of in he has with AT&T and Sprint and the rest of those miserable, money-grubbing public utilities that are so good at screwing us all. Don't get me started. But wait, now I'm getting the big picture. They're going to use you to get me back! They're going to threaten you to get their file back! You've got to get away, Michael. Will you come and join Esmeralda and me? It's the best I can offer."
How can I say this? My brother is so—so—I am livid. And I am literally without a next move.
"Arnie, I have a life here. I have clients. I don't want to come to where you are. I don't want to hide from the Mexican Mafia."
"That's not a wise choice, Michael, but I know how you can get, so I'm not going to argue the point."
"Look, Arnie. All these guys want is their file back. Let's return their file and they'll go away. Then you and Esmeralda and I can all go on with our lives."
"That's impossible. We can't let them off scot-free. They've introduced carcinogens into the drinking water of seventeen impoverished Mexican villages. They've killed dozens of people, sickened hundreds of others, and hundreds or maybe thousands more are going to die an early death because of them. Think of something else. The documents are staying with me. Until I turn them over to plaintiffs' counsel."
"Please tell me you're not really going to do that, Arnie. That's the worst possible—"
"Michael, you're not hearing me! I'm done with the old life! This girl—this seer—has helped me understand my life with all the blinders off. Chemical handcuffs—that's what she calls the drugs the doctors have been pushing on me. Chemical handcuffs. Have you ever heard a sadder turn of phrase? They've robbed me of my middle years, Michael. Kept me bound up in chains. Thank the powers that be for Esmeralda. I'm telling you, Michael, I really think I'm falling for this one. Yes, I am! I'm head-over-heels in love, Michael!"
"Oh my God."
I can only sit here and shake my head. This is the worst I've ever heard him go on. How many days has it been now without his meds? Two? Three? He's definitely at his bottom. I least I hope this is his bottom.
"Arnie," I begin. "I need you to hear this. It might be the last thing you ever hear from me if you don't listen."
"I'm listening, Michael. Just don't try to get me to medicate again. If you go there, we have nothing to discuss."
"Just shut the f—shut the hell up! More than any other time in our lives together, I need you to trust me. I need you to do what I say. For once, you cannot trust your own mind. Your mind is lying to you. You need to rely on me—just this once. And come home. Bring the file, don't turn anything over to anyone, and get on the next plane and come home. We'll work it out with the firm, with the doctors, everything else. Only, please. Come. Home."
"No can do, Michael. We're ordering room service and someone's knocking. Have you ever had lobster that's so fresh it's never even been on ice? That's how fresh tonight's meal is, Michael. I really wish you would reconsider and come and join me."
"I don't even know where you are."
"Come to Cozumel. When you get there, call me on my cell. I'll tell you where to go next."
"Hold on. You're using your cell?"
"Of course not. MexTel can find me in two seconds if I roam on my cell. Give me some credit, Michael."
"Then why did you tell me to call you on your cell?”
"I'll get your number from my cell when it rings. I won't answer it. I'll call you back on a landline."