She tugs at her cigarette and cackles loudly.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Mike. He was a few hours from athree-million-dollar bonus. That’s all he ever cared about. He’dchanged wives more times than most people change socks.” She throwsher head back and laughs again.
“No, he wasn’t distraught about the divorce.
Hell, he was probably looking forward to it.”
I’m sorry I asked.
“So the answer to your question,” she continues, “is no. He wasn’t theleast bit upset about the divorce or the deal with Russo or anythingelse. The only thing he was upset about was that his little floozy,Diana, wasn’t sleeping with him anymore. He wouldn’t have killedhimself for it. Not a chance. Not with a threemillion-dollar checkwaiting for him.”
She blows a smoke ring toward me.
“You don’t have to take my word for it. You can talk to his shrink.She’s that nutcase up in Marin County with her own radio show. Dr.Kathy Chandler. Give her a call. If you can’t get her office, try heron the radio.”
“Mrs. Fink,” I say, “I know this is difficult, and I appreciate yourtaking the time to see me.” Diana’s mother, Ruth Fink, lives byherself in a dark bungalow at Twenty-second and Clement, about a milefrom Joel’s house. She’s a heavyset woman in her late fifties withgray hair and lifeless eyes. The kitchen cabinets are at least sixtyyears old and look as though they haven’t seen a paintbrush in the lastforty. There are two pictures of Diana in the living room. Unlesssomeone told you it was the same person, you’d never know. The womanin the first picture weighs at least 250 pounds and has brown hair anda long, crooked nose. The woman in the second picture is the trim,blond, sexy Diana that I knew. Joel was right. It was a rebirth.
“It’s been very difficult,” she says.
“My husband died when Debbie was in her teens.”
I’d forgotten that Diana was Debbie until her first year of lawschool.
“We managed to get by,” she continues, “on my salary at the JCC and afew odd jobs that I picked up. We were lucky. We had enough lifeinsurance to take care of most of the basics.”
“Did Mr. Fink die young?”
Her eyes turn sad.
“He had a heart attack when he was in his late thirties.”
“Were you and Debbie close?”
“Yes, until she went to law school at UCLA. She got in with adifferent crowd.
She changed.” She glances across the room at Diana’s picture.
“She became less attentive to her studies. She stopped coming home atthe holidays. She became fixated on herself. And making money.” Shetakes a sip of water.
“Then she got married to that boy Billy. He was her instructor at thehealth club. I knew from the start it wouldn’t work out. She barelyknew him.” She shakes her head.
“In some respects, I blame myself. I tried to stop her. I’m sure itonly pushed her toward him. The marriage lasted less than a year.”
For a brief moment I think about Grace and wonder how I’ll react whenshe brings home her first boyfriend. The kid better have an impressiveresume.
“Mr. Daley,” she says defensively, “I just wanted what was best for mydaughter. I wanted her to go to good schools and to get a goodeducation. Is that so terrible?”
“Of course not, Mrs. Fink,” I say.
“That’s what we all want for our kids.”
“Toward the end, I hardly knew her. She started dating married men.”
“Mrs. Fink,” I say gently, “it doesn’t always work out just the wayyou hope.
Did she ever mention Joel Friedman?”
She closes her eyes at the mention of Joel’s name.
“Yes, Mr. Daley. She was very fond of Joel. He was a very popularboy in the neighborhood. I’ve known Joel and his father for years. Ialways thought Joel was a good boy. Now, I’m not so sure.”
I figure it’s best not to push this line of questioning too far.
“Did Debbie have many friends?”
“Not really. She kept in contact with some of her friends from lawschool. The only people she ever mentioned from the office were BobHolmes and Joel.”
I’m beginning to thank her for her time when she interrupts me.
“You know, Mr.
Daley,” she says, “there’s one other thing you should be aware of. Shehad resigned from the Simpson firm. She’d accepted a job with a firmin San Diego.”
“Why was she leaving?” I ask.
“She wanted a fresh start. She was pregnant, you know.”
“I know.” I look out the small window for a moment.
“Why San Diego?”
“My sister lives there. I was planning to move down there myself. Ithought it might be a good time for a fresh start for all of us. Thishouse has a lot of memories.”
“I see.” Joel didn’t mention that Diana was moving.
“Mrs. Fink,” I say, “I know this question is going to soundindiscreet.”
She stops me.
“I know what you’re going to ask, Mr. Daley. The answer, I’m afraid,is I don’t know who the father is.”
“Thank you very much, Mrs. Fink. You’ve been extraordinarilyhelpful.”
CHAPTER 24
I’D NEVER ASK YOU TO VIOLATE ANY CONFIDENCES, CHARLES
“The only things in life that are certain are death, taxes and the needfor tax lawyers.”
—charles stern. continuing LEGAL EDUCATION SEMINAR.
The next morning I’m at the S AND G office on a fishing expedition.Charles Stern has promised to give me copies of the firm’s key-man lifeinsurance policies. He’s trying to appear cooperative. I couldsubpoena the firm’s records. He knows it. It’s a shot in the dark. Iknow S AND G carried a life insurance policy on Bob. I’m trying toconfirm how big the policy is. More importantly, it’s a pretext for meto see if I can find out anything else about his will and finances.
I’m surprised he’s agreed to see me. And I’m really surprised he’sagreed to see me alone. Seems like every time I show up at S AND G,I’m greeted by the entire executive committee. I accept his offer ofcoffee. He buzzes his secretary and a cappuccino magically appears.There’s something to be said for bigfirm amenities.
His functional office on the forty-sixth floor has S AND G’sstandard-issue executive furniture: large, industrial-strength rosewooddesk, matching credenza, two guest chairs and a bookcase. Most of thepower partners have fancy custom-built furniture that they pay forthemselves. Not Charles. He’s too cheap for anything other than basicinventory. There’s a small gray sofa next to the door, which hepilfered when one of my partners was fired a few years ago. The onlypicture on the wall is a New Yorker cartoon of an accountant hoveringover a tax return. An antique adding machine sits on a small tablebeneath the cartoon. He once told me his father is the oldest livingperson still licensed to practice accounting in the state of New York.The bookcase holds about a dozen black loose-leaf volumes. The goldlettering on the spine proclaims they’re called the CCH StandardFederal Tax Reporter.
His desk is immaculate. Not a scrap of paper. Not a speck of dust.I’ve always admired people who have a clean office. I don’t know howanybody can possibly work that way. A state-of-the-art laptop sits ona small table next to his desk.
It isn’t turned on. It’s a trophy. It shows he got the firm to buyhim the computer. He isn’t expected to use it.
He drinks coffee from a mug that bears the S&G logo. He’s wearing hisgray suit jacket. He straightens his tie and looks at meuncomfortably.
“What can I do for you?” he asks. I wonder if he’s forgotten hisoffer.
“I was hoping you had a chance to put together the copies of the firm’sinsurance policies.”
He’s relieved.
“Yes,” he replies. He buzzes his secretary and asks her to bring in afile marked “Insurance Policies.” Charlotte Rogers is a middle-agedblack woman who’s been with Charles for about fifteen years. She’s thelucky soul who gets to type all of his memos on billing procedures.She’s reasonably pleasant about it. She appears with a large filefolder almost as soon as he hangs up.
“Our malpractice policy is in there,” he says.
“I haven’t the slightest idea why you’d want to look at it. I put in asummary of our medical policy. If you want the policy itself, I’ll getyou a copy.”
I couldn’t care less about the malpractice and medical policies.
“Were you able to track down any life insurance policies?”
He nods.
“There’s a key-man life insurance policy on every partner. I’veenclosed a summary of the policy terms. If you’d like the details, youcan talk to our insurance agent.”
“Hopefully, that won’t be necessary.” I’ll see what I can get out ofthe insurance agent later.
“How much life insurance do you carry on the partners?”
This is, of course, something I should already know. I’m sure it wasin a memo Charles sent out to the partners sometime in the last decadeor so.
“It depends,” he replies.
“On what?”
“On how valuable the partner’s practice is to the firm.”
“I see.” This means they probably had a milliondollar policy on Boband a fivethousand-dollar policy on me.
“How big a policy did you carry on me?”
I get the hint of a grin. The crow’s-feet around his eyes crinkle.
“The minimum. Twenty-five thousand.”
More than I thought.
“And the policy on Bob?”
“I think it was about two and a half million dollars.”
Not bad. Bob was worth only a hundred times more than I was. I’m sureBob would have said he was worth more.
“Do you have any other policies on the partners?”
“No. We’re just starting the process of changing carriers. BrentHutchinson is in charge of insurance issues,” Perfect. S&G’s bestbullshitter gets to spend his free time schmoozing with insurancesalesmen. I wonder if some sort of harmonic convergence occurs whenthat much bullshit is jammed into one room.
“Maybe I should talk to Hutch,” I say.
“I doubt he’ll be able to tell you much,” he replies.
“He was just getting started.”
If past history is any indication, Hutch hasn’t started at all. I haveno doubt he won’t be able to tell me much about anything.
“I was hoping you might be able to help us figure out Bob’s will.”
He looks at his watch.
“I’ll do what I can.” He hits the do-not-disturb button on his phone.He probably wishes he’d had a similar button installed on his brain.
“I can’t say much,” he says.
“Attorney-client privilege, you know. And I’ve got a meeting.”
So many meetings. So little time. I glance at the picture of theaccountant. The resemblance is striking.
“I understand. I’d never ask you to violate any confidences, Charles.”The game begins. A small grin. For a moment, I think I can see a hintof color in his cheeks.
“I understand you’re the executor of Bob’s will.”
He studies his antique adding machine.
“I am,” he replies.
“It’ll become a matter of public record as soon as it’s submitted tothe probate court. We’ve notified the beneficiaries.”
I’m watching him closely. He’s being a little too forthcoming. Thisprobably means there’s nothing much of any consequence in the will.
“I appreciate your honesty, Charles. It’s a lot easier to do thisinformally. I was afraid Art was going to make me get a subpoena justto talk to you.”
“He was just being careful. I’d rather tell you what I can. There’sno point in turning this into something contentious.”
Now I’m sure there’s nothing important in the will.
“I appreciate that, Charles.”
“Besides,” he says, “I like to help out my partners whenever I can.” Ihadn’t noticed this generous side of his personality when he and theother partners voted to fire me.
“I understand his estate’s divided into three parts. A third goes toBeth, a third goes to the kids and a third goes to some charity inBermuda.” I’m trying to set him up. I know the InternationalCharitable Trust is set up in the Bahamas. I want to see if he’llcorrect me. And if he’ll talk about it.
“Actually,” he says, “the charity is in the Bahamas.” I pretend tomake a note on my legal pad.
“The Bahamas,” I say slowly.
“What’s the name of the charity?”
“What difference does it make?” he says, a little too defensively.
“Probably none,” I lie.
“I’m just trying to complete my file.” He scowls.
“It’s called the International Charitable Trust,” he says. I continuewriting.
“Does it benefit underprivileged kids or something?” I askinnocently.
“Something like that. I’m not really sure.” He’s a lousy liar.
“Is it managed in the Bahamas?”
“Oh yes.”
“You wouldn’t happen to know who manages it, would you? I’m sure wecould look it up, but it’ll save me some time if you know. I’ll betthere’s a registry of charitable trusts.”
He looks uncomfortable.
“I really don’t know very much about it.” I take it back. He’s notjust a lousy liar. He’s a really shitty liar.
“Actually,” I say, trying to sound offhand, “it’s probably notimportant. I’m sure the money goes to widows and orphans.” I shufflemy papers and look at a blank sheet on my legal pad.
“My investigator got a little information. Says here the trustee isFirst Bank Bahamas. A guy named Trevor Smith. I’ll give him acall.”
His face returns to its customary pasty color.
“I know Smith,” he says.
“I’ve worked with him on some matters. I’d be happy to give him acall. I’ll see what I can find out.”
“I don’t want to impose on you. I know you’re busy. I’ll call him.”His eyes always give him away.
“It’s no problem—really,” he says.
“Let me save you the trouble. He’s a banker in the Bahamas who workswith a number of our foreign clients. I’m sure he won’t tell youanything more than what I’m about to tell you now.”
How magnanimous. Obviously, Mr. Smith has never been subject to mypersuasive powers.
“Bob checked it out,” he says.
“I’m sure everything is completely legal and aboveboard.”
I’m convinced. I decide to let him squirm.
“Does First Bank get a fee for acting as the trustee?”
“What difference does it make?”
“Probably none. I’m just curious.”
“I think they get a fee.”
He’s digging himself in deeper.
“A large fee?”
“I don’t know. It’s probably based on the amount of assets in thetrust.”
“I see.” I watch his eyes.
“And do you know how much that fee might have been last year?”
His eyes dart toward the adding machine again.
“I really wouldn’t be able to venture a guess.”
He’s a really really shitty liar.
“Are you involved in the administration of the trust?”
He squirms.
“Technically, I hold the title of trust protector. It means I’m theadministrative agent. It’s just a formality. All the management is inthe Bahamas. Bob asked me to act as trust protector in case theyneeded a signature in a hurry.”
“Does S and G get a fee for the time you spend assisting with theadministration of the trust?”
He tugs at his tie and sips his coffee. It must be cold by now.
“No, it doesn’t.”
I’ve been watching too many Columbo reruns late at night.
“If you’re the administrative agent, how come S and G doesn’t get afee?” S&G doesn’t do a lot of pro bono work.
“Actually,” he says, as he shifts in his chair, “I’m paid a modest feefor my efforts.”
“You mean the firm gets a fee, right?”
“No. I get the fee.”
“I don’t understand. If you’re doing this trust administration onbehalf of the firm, why doesn’t the firm get the fee?”
He takes a gold pen from his drawer and begins to play with it.
“I do trust administration on my own time, and not on behalf of thefirm. It’s a liability issue.”
“A liability issue?”
“Yes. This is a law firm. The services I provide to the trust fallinto the category of fiduciary activities, which our malpractice policydoesn’t cover. We notified our malpractice carrier when I was firstasked to serve as trust protector. They wouldn’t let me do it unless Iagreed to do so in my individual capacity, and not in my capacity as anattorney in the firm.”
Sounds like our malpractice carrier wants to insure just the right sideof his brain, but not the left.
“So you did this at the insistence of our malpractice carrier?”
“I had no other choice.” Then he adds, “I had to sign an agreementstating that I would indemnify the firm for any losses it incurs inconnection with the activities of the trust.” He gives me a “so there”look.
“You must collect a fairly substantial fee for this work—especially ifyou have to carry your own insurance and bear the risk of indemnifyingthe firm for any losses.”
“In reality, my fee is very modest. I did it as a favor to Bob.”
And out of the goodness of your heart.
“If you don’t mind my asking, Charles, about how much was your fee lastyear?”
He tenses.
“That’s none of your business, Mike.”
It’s the answer I expect.
“I understand. What happens to the trust now? Where does the money gonow that Bob’s dead?”
“I believe it’s distributed among various charities in the Bahamas.”
Of course.
“Charles, do you happen to know what those charities are?”
“I don’t recall, Mike.” He smiles nervously.
Very persuasive, Chuckles. You’re the administrator of a trust inwhich you don’t even know who the beneficiaries are. The fog isgetting really thick in here.
“Think you could find out for me?”
“Probably. It may take some time.”
I’ll hear from him the Tuesday after hell freezes over.
“Maybe Trevor Smith can get me a list.”
“I’ll call him for you.”
“That won’t be necessary.” I love to watch him squirm.
“Charles,” I say, “you know Beth served Bob with divorce papers rightbefore everything happened. Was he going to change his will?”
“Not that I’m aware of,” he replies. There’s a tentative note to hisvoice.
“Did you do the estate planning work for Vince Russo?”
He nods.
“As a matter of fact, I did.”
“Would you mind telling me the names of the beneficiaries of hisestate?”
He frowns.
“I’m afraid that’s confidential, Mike. I realize some people thinkVince may have committed suicide. However, until a court declares himlegally dead, his estate does not become a matter of public record. Asa result, I’m not at liberty to discuss his situation with you.”
“I see. You haven’t heard from Vince, have you?”
“Nope.”
“Well, if you hear from him, I’d appreciate it if you’d let me know.”
“I promise.”
I glance out the window.
“Let me ask you one other thing, Charles. How’s the firm doing?”
“Just fine.”
He’d never make it as a trial lawyer.
“I’m sure the tragedy has taken its toll.”
He tries to look solemn.
“It has. We’ve had some difficult times. But nothinginsurmountable.”
I look at the adding machine.
“I saw in the paper you decided to let some people go.”
“Yes we did. It wasn’t easy.”
“Layoffs never are, Charles.”
“They weren’t layoffs. We do reviews this time of year.”
I’m convinced.
“I’ll let you know if I need anything else, Charles. By the way, couldyou ask your secretary to give me the phone number for Trevor Smith?”
“He’s full of it, Mike,” Rosie says. Later the same evening, Rosie,Grace and I are eating at Spanky’s, a burger joint in Fairfax, not farfrom my apartment.
It’s been Grace’s favorite restaurant since she won a free sundae in acoloring contest a couple of years ago.
Rosie’s reaction to my report on my discussion with Charles Stern issuccinct.
“I’ll bet he knows everything there is to know about the InternationalCharitable Trust,” she says.
“He’s yanking your you-know-what.” Rosie’s vocabulary switches from Rto PC when Grace is around.
Grace’s eyes open wide as she takes a long drink other milkshake. Shewipes her mouth with the back of her hand and says, “What’s your ‘you-know-what,” Daddy?”
I smile.
“Ask your mother.”
Rosie looks at her seriously.
“I’ll explain it later, honey.”
I turn back to Rosie.
“I called Trevor Smith when I got back to the office. He has abeautiful British accent.” I grab a trench fry.
“And he wouldn’t tell me anything.”
“And?”
“He’s going to be off the island, as they say, for at least the nextfour weeks. Meetings in Kuwait.”
“Does he have an assistant who can help us?”
“She’s going to Kuwait, too.”
“What a surprise,” says Rosie.
“What are you going to do?”
“I’m going to have Pete check it out. He’s been looking a little tiredlately.
I think he may need a vacation.”
She grins.
“Any place in particular you have in mind?”
“I understand the Bahamas are very nice this time of year.”
“When might he be going?”
“I think he might be able to clear his calendar about four weeks fromnow.”
Rosie’s pleased.
CHAPTER 25
TERMINATED IN THE ORDINARY COURSE OF THE REVIEW PROCESS…
“We regret the media has characterized our personnel moves as‘layoffs.” While it is contrary to firm policy to discuss individualsituations, the attorneys who were asked to leave were terminated inthe ordinary course of the review process for performance reasons.”—arthur patton. san francisco legal journal.
thursday, february 19.
Wendy Hogan calls the next morning.
“I suppose you’ve heard by now?” she says.
“Heard what?” I ask.
“Come on, Mike.”
I haven’t a clue.
“What is it?”
“There were layoffs at S and G.” She pauses.
“I got fired.”
“Shit.”
“They told the papers we were canned for performance reasons. It’s allchickenshit. We were laid off because there wasn’t enough work and thefirm is in financial trouble.”
“Everybody knows what’s going on at S and G. Nobody will believe theirbullshit.”
Silence.
“How am I supposed to find another job when they said we were fired?
We’re the lepers of the San Francisco legal community.” She pauses.
“Andy called last night. He said he’s going to go to court tochallenge our custody deal.”
“He’s an asshole. Your attorney should be able to take care of it.”
“My attorney’s on vacation. He won’t be back for two weeks.”
I don’t say anything.
“Mike,” she says, “can you help me with this?”
Except for what I learned when Rosie and I split up, I know nothingabout divorce law.
“I’ll see what I can do. Why don’t you come down to my office aroundnoon and we’ll talk.”
What the hell. It’s not like I have to prepare for a murder trial.Besides, I like her.
Wendy and I are eating Chinese takeout in my office at noon. She looksaround.
“Pretty tight space,” she says.
“You get used to it.” I nibble on a pork bun.
“Sounds like I need to find you a good divorce lawyer,” I say.
“I need a job.”
She’s right. It helps to be employed when you’re in a custody fight.Believe me, I know. When Rosie and I split up, I got the bright ideathat I was better suited to have custody of Grace. Bad idea. It ledto the nastiest fight in my life. Ultimately, at the suggestion ofRosie’s mom and mine, I came to my senses and gave in. Then thingsstarted to get better.
Wendy’s ex-husband may be a horse’s ass. At the moment, however, he’san employed horse’s ass.
“You’re good at what you do. You’ll find something.”
“It’s not that easy. I don’t have my own clients. Firms aren’t hiringtax lawyers.” She takes a deep breath.
“Could you use some help? Maybe I could work on Joel’s case.”
I lean back in my chair. I’m buying time. How do I say this?
“We do criminal law around here. You know—we represent crooks.”
She twirls her hair with her finger.
“And most of my clients are in the real estate business. They’recrooks, too. Except for the fact that what they do is technicallylegal.”
Touche.
“I’d like to help you. But what I really could use is anotherexperienced criminal defense attorney. Preferably one without MortGoldberg’s ego. It isn’t that you aren’t good at what you do. It’sjust that what you do isn’t what we do. You wouldn’t hire me to doan
IPO.”
“I can do research. I can interview witnesses.”
I frown. This isn’t a good idea. I can’t afford another attorney.
“I’m in a tight spot,” she says.
“Maybe there’s something else I can bring to the table. I’ve done taxplanning for Bob and Vince. Maybe I can help you with theinvestigation.”
This is intriguing. But it also presents a potential problem.
“How much tax planning?”
“A lot.”
I pause.
“Slow down. For one thing, the judge won’t let you testify if you workfor me. It confuses the jury.”
“I know. I used to work for a superior court judge.”
“I remember. There’s another thing. The stuff you know is probablyprotected by the attorney-client privilege.”
“Most of what I know is already a matter of public record. Besides,Bob is already dead. In all likelihood, so is Vince.” She takes offher glasses.
“The privilege died with them. Who’s going to complain? Theirghosts?”
Technically, that may not be entirely correct. Just because you diedoesn’t mean your lawyers can tell the world all your deep, darksecrets.
“What about the beneficiaries under their wills?”
“What about them? The beneficiaries under Bob’s will have already beennotified. Nobody’s going to complain. They’ll notify thebeneficiaries under Vince’s will as soon as he’s declared legally dead,if that happens. Like I said, who’s going to complain?”
Without getting into the finer points of the potential claims of theirrespective heirs, I have to admit she may have a point.
“I won’t tell you anything you couldn’t find out yourself from publicrecords,” she says.
“And you don’t have to hire me directly. I could start my own firm andyou could retain me as special counsel. My name wouldn’t appear on thepleadings. I won’t appear in court unless I’m called as a witness.What’s wrong with that?”
“Nothing I can think of, I suppose.”
She smiles.
“You see, we’re making progress. As Bob Holmes used to say, goodlawyers provide practical solutions to real-world problems.”
Right. I’ve been in practice for a month and a half and I have a real-world problem—another mouth to feed, even if her name doesn’t appearon my letterhead.
“I can’t afford to pay you much.”
“I understand. At least I can tell a judge with a straight face I’mbuilding my practice.”
“All right. The law offices of Wendy Hogan are hereby retained asspecial counsel. Don’t even think about asking for a retainer. Youcan help Pete with the investigation.”
“Anything you say.” She’s pleased.
“Thanks, Mike.”
I finish my moo shu pork.
“Let me ask you something. Do you know anything about an entity inthe Bahamas called the International Charitable Trust?”
She grins.
“What would you like to know? I did the legal work to set it up.”
Bingo.
Wendy opens a fortune cookie.
“The International Charitable Trust,” she begins, “is something of amisnomer. For one thing, it isn’t really international. It was formedin the Bahamas by one guy—Bob Holmes. For another thing, it isn’t theleast bit charitable. Unless, of course, your favorite charity happensto be Bob Holmes. It’s a tax dodge. I set up a similar trust in theBahamas for Vince Russo called the Charitable Trust for Humanity. Itisn’t charitable, either.”
I read my own fortune cookie. It says, “You are about to embark on agreat romance.” Even the fortune cookies know I’m hard up.
“You aren’t violating anybody’s attorney-client privilege here, areyou?”
“What if I was?”
“Nothing. Just asking.”
Her eyes sparkle.
“Everything I’m about to tell you is a matter of public record. Ofcourse, the public records in the Bahamas are a little trickier totrack down.”
I grin back.
“So what were these two trusts all about?”
“They were set up so Bob and Vince would each have a place to park somemoney outside of the U.S. in a hard-to-find, safe, tax-free place.”She’s getting excited.
“Bob and Vince hated two things more than anything else in theirlives:
taxes and alimony. And when you made as much money as they did, andwhen you got divorced as many times as they did, you paid a lot oftaxes and alimony.”
I can picture Bob and Vince swapping stories about who paid more totheir respective ex-wives. Wendy explains that they wanted to find aplace to stash as much money as they could in a tax-free jurisdictionwhere it would be hard for their ex-wives to find. The Bahamas hadeverything they needed. Perfect weather. Established financialsystem. Excellent bank-secrecy laws. So Bob and Vince each formed atrust. First Bank Bahamas was the trustee. Trevor Smith handled allthe arrangements. It’s a standard tax scam. She says Smith is verysmooth.
I take a gulp of water.
“Actually, I spoke with him yesterday,” I say.
“You’re right. He’s very polished.”
“And very slippery. Trying to get a straight answer from him is liketrying to hold a gallon of water in your bare hands. They did alltheir investing through the trusts.”