The third partner, Jimmy Havarac, stood along the back wall and chatted quietly with a deputy. He ignored the stares and glances from people he knew, many of whom were other lawyers who secretly had been delighted when the money vanished and the firm lost its fortune. It would have been, after all, the largest single fee earned by any firm in the history of the state. Jealousy was the natural tendency. He hated them, as he hated virtually everyone else in the courtroom. A bunch of vultures waiting for a carcass.
Havarac, the son of a shrimper, was still stout and
crude and not beyond a barroom brawl. Five minutes alone with Patrick in a locked room, and he’d have the money.
The fourth partner, Ethan Rapley, was at home in the attic, as usual, working on a brief in support of some insipid motion. He would read about it tomorrow.
A handful of the lawyers were old buddies who came to cheer Patrick on. Escape was a common, usually unspoken, dream of many small-town lawyers trapped in an overcrowded, boring profession where expectations were too high. At least Patrick had the guts to chase the dream. There was an explanation for the dead body, they were sure of that.
Arriving late and pushed into a corner was Lance. He had loitered around back with the reporters, taking the measure of the security. It was quite impressive, at least for now. But could the cops keep it up every day during a long trial? That was the question.
Many acquaintances were present, people Patrick had known only in passing but who now suddenly claimed to have been his dearest friends. Some in fact had never met Patrick, but that didn’t stop their idle chatter about Patrick this and Patrick that. Likewise, Trudy suddenly had new friends who had stopped by to scowl at the man who had broken her heart and abandoned precious little Ashley Nicole.
They read paperbacks and scanned newspapers and tried to look bored, as if they didn’t really want to be there. There was movement among the deputy clerks and bailiffs near the bench, and the courtroom instantly grew quiet. The newspapers were lowered in unison.
The door next to the jury box opened and brown uniforms poured into the courtroom. Sheriff Sweeney entered, holding Patrick by the elbow, then two more deputies, then Sandy brought up the rear.
There he was! Necks strained and stretched and heads bobbed and weaved. The courtroom artists went to work.
Patrick walked slowly across the courtroom to the defense table, his head down, though from behind the sunglasses he was searching the spectators. He caught a glimpse of Havarac on the rear wall, his scowling face speaking volumes. And just before he sat he saw Father Phillip, his priest, looking much older but just as amiable.
He sat low, his shoulders sagging, chin down, no pride here. He did not look around because he could feel the stares from every direction. Sandy put his arm on his shoulder and whispered something meaningless.
The door opened again, and T.L. Parrish, the District Attorney, entered, alone, and walked to his table next to Patrick’s. Parrish was a bookish sort with a small ego, contained ego. No higher office was calling him. His trial work was methodical, absent of any trace of flamboyance, and lethal. Parrish currently carried the second-highest conviction rate in the state. He sat next to the Sheriff, who had moved from Patrick’s table to where he belonged. Behind him were agents Joshua Cutter, Brent Myers, and two other FBI types Parrish couldn’t even name.
The stage was set for a spectacular trial, yet it was at least six months away. A bailiff called them to order, made them stand while Judge Huskey entered and
assumed his perch on the bench. “Please sit,” were his first words, and everyone obeyed.
“The matter of
State versus Patrick S. Lanigan
, case number 96-1140. Is the defendant present?”
“Yes, Your Honor,” Sandy said, half-standing.
“Would you please rise, Mr. Lanigan?” Huskey asked. Patrick, still handcuffed, slowly pushed his chair back and got to his feet. He was semi-bent at the waist, with his chin and shoulders down. And it was no act. The depressant had deadened most parts of his body, including his brain.
He stiffened a bit.
“Mr. Lanigan, I’m holding a copy of an indictment returned against you by the grand jury of Harrison County, in which it is alleged you murdered one John Doe, a human being, and for this you have been charged with capital murder. Have you read this indictment?”
“Yes sir,” he announced, chin up, voice as strong as he could make it.
“Have you discussed it with your attorney?”
“Yes sir.”
“How do you wish to plead?”
“Not guilty.”
“Your plea of not guilty is accepted. You may sit down.”
Huskey shuffled some papers, then continued: “The Court, on its own motion, hereby imposes a gag order on the defendant, the attorneys, the police and investigating authorities, any and all witnesses, and all court personnel, effective now and lasting until the trial is over. I have copies of this order for everyone to read. Any violation of it will result in contempt of
court, and I will deal harshly with any violators. Not one word to any reporter or journalist without my approval. Any questions from the attorneys?”
His tone left little doubt that the Judge not only meant what he said, but relished the thought of going after violators. The lawyers said nothing.
“Good. I have prepared a schedule for discovery, motions, pretrial, and trial. It’s available in the clerk’s office. Anything else?”
Parrish stood and said, “Just one small matter, Your Honor. We would like to get the defendant in our detention facility as soon as possible. As you know, he’s now at the base in a hospital, and, well, we—”
“I just talked to his doctor, Mr. Parrish. He’s undergoing medical treatment. I assure you that as soon as he is released by his doctor, then we’ll transfer him to the Harrison County Jail.”
“Thank you, Judge.”
“If nothing else, then we stand adjourned.”
He was rushed from the courtroom, down the back stairs, into the black Suburban as the cameras clicked and rolled. Patrick nodded then napped as he was returned to the hospital.
Eighteen
The only crimes Stephano possibly committed were the kidnapping and assault of Patrick, and convictions were unlikely. It happened in South America, far from U.S. jurisdiction. The actual assault was conducted by others, including some Brazilians. Stephano’s lawyer was confident that they would prevail if pressed to trial.
But there were clients involved, and a reputation to protect. The lawyer knew all too well the FBI’s ability to harass without actually prosecuting. It was his advice that Stephano cut the deal—agree to spill his guts in return for the government’s promise to grant immunity to him and his clients. Since no other crimes were involved, what was the harm?
The lawyer insisted on sitting with Stephano while his statement was taken. The sessions would last for many hours over several days, but the lawyer wanted to be there. Jaynes wanted it done in the Hoover
Building, by his men. Coffee and pastries were served. Two video cameras were aimed at the end of the table where Stephano sat calmly in his shirtsleeves, his lawyer by his side.
“Would you state your name?” asked Underhill, the first of the interrogators, each of whom had memorized the Lanigan file.
“Jonathan Edmund Stephano. Jack.”
“And your company is?”
“Edmund Associates.”
“And what does your company do?”
“Lots of things. Security consulting. Surveillance. Personnel research. Locating of missing persons.”
“Who owns the company?”
“I do. All of it.”
“How many employees do you have?”
“It varies. As of now, eleven full-time. Thirty or so part-time, or freelancers.”
“Were you hired to find Patrick Lanigan?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“March 28, 1992.” Stephano had files packed with notes, but he didn’t need them. “Who hired you?”
“Benny Aricia, the man whose money was stolen.”
“How much did you charge him?”
“The initial retainer was two hundred grand.”
“How much has he paid you to date?”
“One point nine million.”
“What did you do after you were hired by Benny Aricia?”
“Several things. I immediately flew to Nassau in the Bahamas to meet with the bank where the theft occurred.
It was a branch of the United Bank of Wales. My client, Mr. Aricia, and his former law firm, had established a new account there to receive the money, and, as we now know, someone else was waiting on the money, too.”
“Is Mr. Aricia a U.S. citizen?”
“Yes.”
“Why did he establish an account offshore?”
“It was ninety million dollars, sixty for him, thirty for the lawyers, and nobody wanted the money to appear in a bank in Biloxi. Mr. Aricia lived there at the time, and it was agreed by all that it would be a bad idea for anyone locally to see the money.”
“Was Mr. Aricia trying to avoid the IRS?”
“I don’t know. You’ll have to ask him. That was none of my business.”
“Who did you talk to at the United Bank of Wales?”
The lawyer snorted his disapproval, but said nothing.
“Graham Dunlap, a Brit. A vice president of some sort with the bank.”
“What did he tell you?”
“Same thing he told the FBI. That the money was gone.”
“Where did it come from?”
“Here, in Washington. The wire began at nine-thirty on the morning of March 26, 1992, originating from D.C. National Bank. It was a priority wire, meaning it would take less than an hour for it to land in Nassau. At fifteen minutes after ten, the wire hit the United Bank, where it sat for nine minutes before it
was wired to a bank in Malta. From there, it was wired to Panama.”
“How did the money get wired out of the account?”
The lawyer was irritated by this. “This is a waste of time,” he interrupted. “You guys have had this information for four years now. You’ve spent more time with the bankers than my client has.”
Underhill was unfazed. “We have a right to ask these questions. We are simply verifying what we know. How did the money get wired out of the account, Mr. Stephano?”
“Unknown to my client and his lawyers, someone, Mr. Lanigan we presume, had accessed the new offshore account, and had prepared the Malta wiring instructions in anticipation of the money coming in. He prepared bogus wiring instructions from my client’s lawyers, his old firm, and rerouted the money nine minutes after it landed. They, of course, thought he was dead, and had no reason to suspect anyone was after the money. The settlement which produced the ninety million in the first place was extremely secret, and no one, with the exception of my client, his lawyers, and a handful of people at the Justice Department, knew exactly when or where the money was wired.”
“As I understand it, someone was actually at the bank when the money arrived.”
“Yes. We’re almost certain it was Patrick Lanigan. On the morning the money was wired, he presented himself to Graham Dunlap as Doug Vitrano, one of the partners in the law firm. He had perfect identification—passport, driver’s license, etc.—plus he was well dressed and knew all about the money which was
about to be wired from Washington. He had a notarized partnership resolution authorizing him to accept the money on behalf of the firm, then wire it to the bank in Malta.”
“I know damned well you have copies of the resolution and the wire transfer authorizations,” the lawyer said.
“We do,” Underhill said, flipping through his notes and paying little attention to the lawyer. The FBI had tracked the money to Malta, and from there to Panama, where all trails vanished. There was a blurred still shot taken from the bank’s security camera of the man who presented himself as Doug Vitrano. The FBI and the partners were certain it was Patrick, though he was wonderfully disguised. He was much thinner, his hair was short and very dark, he had grown a dark mustache and worn stylish horn-rimmed glasses. He had flown in, he explained to Graham Dunlap, to personally monitor the receiving and transferring of the money because the firm and the client were quite nervous about the transaction. That was certainly not unusual in Dunlap’s view, and he was happy to oblige. He was sacked a week later and returned to London.
“So we went to Biloxi, and spent a month there looking for clues,” Stephano continued.
“And you found the law offices to be wired?”
“We did. For obvious reasons, we were immediately suspicious of Mr. Lanigan, and our task was twofold: first, to find him and the money, and, second, to determine how he had pulled the heist. The remaining partners granted us access to their offices for one weekend, and our technical people picked the place apart. It was, as you say, infested. We found bugs in
every phone, in every office, under every desk, in the hallways, even in the men’s rest room on the first floor. There was one exception. The office of Charles Bogan was completely clean. He was fastidious about locking it. The bugs were high in quality; twenty-two in all. Their signals were gathered by a hub we found hidden in a storage file box in the attic, in a spot no one had touched in years.”
Underhill listened but didn’t hear. This was, after all, being recorded on video, and his superiors could study it later. He was quite familiar with these preliminaries. He pulled out a technical summary which analyzed, in four dense paragraphs, the bugging scheme installed by Patrick. The microphones were state of the art—tiny, powerful, costly, and manufactured by a reputable firm in Malaysia. Illegal to buy or possess in the United States, they could be purchased with relative ease in any European city. Patrick and Trudy had spent New Year’s in Rome, five weeks before his death.
The hub found in the attic storage box had impressed even the FBI experts. It was less than three months old when Stephano found it, and the FBI reluctantly admitted it was at least a year ahead of their latest wizardry. Made in Hungary, it could receive signals from all twenty-two bugs hidden in the offices below, keep them separate, then transmit them, one at a time or all at once, to a satellite dish nearby.