The Reformers: A Matt Blake Novel (The Matt Blake legal thriller series Book 2) (30 page)

Chapter 71

“Wolf Blitzer for CNN ladies and gentlemen. And now for the evening news. In a strange story, we’ve heard that Harvard Law Professor Alan Dershowitz is missing. He had a full schedule of classes today and didn’t appear for any of them. We contacted his publicist, who asked that we respect the privacy of his family, which we will, of course. The publicist did tell us that Professor Dershowitz appeared on the
O’Reilly Factor
last night. His segment was taped in a studio on the Harvard campus earlier in the day. Nobody has seen the professor since early last evening. If anyone knows of the whereabouts of Professor Dershowitz, please call the 800 number you see at the bottom of your screen.”

***

Dee and I both arrived at the door of our apartment at 6:15 p.m.

“Have you heard about the disappearance of Alan Dershowitz?” I said, as I opened the door.

“Yeah, it’s been all over the news on the radio. Hey, Matt, last night you and I made a commitment to each other that we’re going to ignore all the negative garbage we hear. I’m going to keep that commitment. You?”

“Of course, honey, but I have to admit this Dershowitz thing has me bothered. I once met Dershowitz at a conference. Hell of a nice guy, but more on point, he is never without an entourage around him. It’s not just my observation, I’ve heard about that from other people. The man is simply never alone. And now he’s missing.”

“Matt, remember rehab. We both learned that the only way to deal with being an alcoholic drug addict is to take it one day at a time. I think that also applies to the new circumstances we find ourselves in. One day at a time, baby. I’m sure they’ll find the good professor soon. Hey, how’s this for good news. I put my cioppino on the stove. Hungry?”

Dee made cioppino the first night we made love. I took her dinner announcement as a good sign.

“After we eat,” I said, “let’s play a game of catch.” Next to sex, playing catch is our favorite pastime.

“Great idea, honey. After that we’ll watch the Bill O’Reilly show. I want to watch his born-again courage. Also, I’d like to see his take on Alan Dershowitz’s disappearance.”

After cioppino and catch, I clicked on the TV and tuned to O’Reilly’s channel.

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen and welcome to
The Factor
. “I’m Laura Ingraham and I’m sitting in for Bill O’Reilly tonight. Remember, we’re watching out for
you
.”

“I notice she didn’t say anything about O’Reilly, just that she’s sitting in for him,” I said.

“Don’t read anything into that, Matt. They seldom tell you in advance when the host won’t be there. It’s a way to keep viewers’ eyeballs. Let’s see what Laura has to say.”

We listened to Laura Ingraham and her guests. We both enjoy her, and she’s a good friend of Dee’s. Like O’Reilly, Laura knows how to throw a punch. But she wasn’t throwing any punches that night. The show was a boring report of various stories in the news, including a mudslide in California, a shooting in Indiana, a shopping center stampede, and a lot of other stuff that had already been in the newspapers. After the show was over, I looked at Dee.

“So how did you think your friend did tonight,” I said.

“I’ve known Laura for a long time. I first met her when she clerked for Justice Clarence Thomas. As you know, Laura and I have collaborated on a few articles, and she even had me on her radio talk show a few times.”

“So,” I said, “was that your old friend we watched tonight?”

“No,” Dee said, “I can’t exactly put my finger on it but Laura looked scared. I took notes, as I always do. Tonight’s show was just a rehash of the news. Laura is a tough cookie, and loves to mix it up politically. There wasn’t even one segment remotely involving politics tonight. She didn’t even mention that new Americans for Action law, which I expected would have her total attention. Not one friggin mention of it. It’s kind of late now, but I’m going to call her in the morning to say hello.”

***

Laura Ingraham received a call from her agent at 3 p.m. New York time to ask her to fill in for Bill O’Reilly. “Nothing like short notice, Pam. Where the heck is Bill?”

“Don’t know, Laura. His producer asked if you can be at the studio in 45 minutes.”

Ingraham walked into the Fox News offices and went right to the office of Nicole Hampton, the producer of
The O’Reilly Factor.

“Hi, Nicole. Where’s Bill? You guys usually give me a few days’ notice when I’m going to be sitting in. What’s up?”

“We don’t know, Laura, to get right to the point. We haven’t been in touch with Bill all day. Nobody seems to know where he is. He doesn’t answer his cell and doesn’t respond to texts or emails.”

“Holy shit, Nicole. First Alan Dershowitz and now Bill O’Reilly, both missing on the same day, and both after that terrific show last night. What the hell is going on?”

“I wish I knew, Laura, I wish I knew. But hey, I’ve got to prep you for a show. We start taping in an hour.”

“Am I going to be spewing the heavily edited bullshit that seems to be the rule these days?”

“In a word, yes. You won’t be talking about anything controversial, just heavily edited news items.”

“You know, Nicole, not to kiss my own ass, but you’re talking to Laura Ingraham. You don’t want
me
to be controversial? Why don’t I just do a traffic report?”

“Laura, you know as well as I do, that all kinds of weird stuff has been happening in the world of journalism. Hey, we’ve been friends for a long time, and I’m not going to lie to you. For reasons that I’m not sure I can explain, I just think that now isn’t the time for you to play Spartacus.”

“What’s wrong with being Spartacus?”

“He was crucified.”

Chapter 72

I walked into the Blake & Randolph building at 8:15 a.m. for a nine o’clock meeting that my father had called. He had filled me in on the subject of the meeting, so I asked if Diana could join me. Of course, he said. My father looks at Dee not just as a daughter-in-law, but as a partner just like I do. He’s constantly begging her to go to law school so she could play a bigger role in the firm, but Dee loves her teaching and writing.

When I walked in everybody stood and applauded. My extended family.

“Matt,” said Scotty Jenkins, one of our star associates, “I speak for everybody in this room when I ask you when you’re going to make another run for the White House.” The room broke out in cheers. I had to choke back a tear.

“Scotty, I thank you and everybody in this room for your support. But I think my dad and Bill Randolph called this meeting for another reason.”

We met in the large conference room, but it was hardly big enough to handle all those present. Except for a few people answering the phones, the entire firm was there. Dad stood at the head of the room. He looked like he was about to make an opening statement at a trial.

“Good morning everybody,” said my father. “I appreciate the applause you just gave my son. After this meeting, we’re all going to wish that he was our president. Matt told me that I look like I’m about to try a case. Well, that’s exactly what I feel like. I have some startling and strange things to talk to you about. A few days back I was in the courthouse on the
Young vs. Moretti
case. Defense counsel Murray Blanken and I had just settled the case for $10 million, and we were both fine with the number. Well, we
thought
we had the case settled. We walked into Judge Dworkin’s chambers for what we assumed would be a simple stipulation of settlement for the record. That’s when the judge dropped a bomb on us, not only us, but on any lawyer who represents a client in a personal injury case.”

Gail, my father’s secretary, walked around the room handing out a briefing sheet concerning dad’s talk.

“The Committee on Justice is something none of us ever heard about until a few days ago. It’s yet another committee formed by, you guessed it,
executive order
. The details are on that piece of paper that Gail circulated, but let me break it down to its essentials.  No settlement can occur unless it’s been approved by the Committee on Justice, and they get 90 days to review the case before approving it—or disapproving it. Every lawyer involved in the settlement has to fill out a 50-page document, answering such questions as the plaintiff’s race, ethnicity, and get this—political affiliation. Failure to fill out the form will result in a felony. You heard me right, a felony. And if a judge decides to act like a judge and ignore the order, he’s guilty of a felony as well. So much for judicial immunity. Now I know what you’re all thinking. You’ve concluded that this is unconstitutional, and of course you’d be right. But it isn’t truly unconstitutional until a court decides it, and a lower court judge has to commit a felony to get the case up on appeal.”

Everyone in the conference room was shaking their heads and mumbling profanities.

Gloria Maxwell, one of our associates, raised her hand.

“Jim, it seems obvious that this nonsense will require some kind of concerted effort to undo it.”

“You’re right, Gloria, and the perfect man stepped up to the plate. Mike Benitez from Houston, the President of the Association of Trial Lawyers of America, prepared a memo that he emailed to every member of the association. In his memo, which many of you have seen, he wants to mount a huge lawsuit against the government. At the bottom of the letter he took out the confidentiality stuff, and stated that any recipient could feel free to distribute the memo to whomever he pleased. In other words, Mike doesn’t want this to be just a Trial Lawyers Association show, he wants to sign up the entire American legal community. Mike is one smart guy, and has a ton of energy to boot. That’s why we elected him.”

Scotty Jenkins raised his hand.

“Jim, I’ve met this guy Mike Benitez. He’s sharp as hell and like you said, is made up of pure energy. I think we’re lucky to have a leader like this to fall in behind.”

“I agree, Scotty,” my father said, “except for one problem, a big problem. Mike Benitez disappeared the day after he sent out this memo. Nobody’s heard from him and nobody knows where he is. I called his law partner, Hugo Jones, an old friend of mine. Hugo confirmed it. Mike seems to have vanished off the face of the earth.”

Dee and I looked at each other. She whispered to me, “Dershowitz, and now Benitez. People are disappearing fast, Matt. Oh, yeah, I spoke to Laura Ingraham on the phone this morning. She told me that O’Reilly’s missing.”

“Phil Marketta,” dad continued, “the executive vice president of the Association of Trial Lawyers of America, has let it be known that he’d take up where Max left off. He may not be the dynamo that Mike is—or was—but he’s a good man. As you know, I’m on the board of ATLA, and last night we approved funding for two full-time body guards for Phil Marketta.”

Associate Daryl Florrie raised his hand. “Jim, this seems to be getting out of hand. Shouldn’t we arrange for somebody from the government speak to us?”

“The government?” my father said. “The federal government?”

The entire room broke out in laughter, although it wasn’t funny. Poor Darryl’s face turned red, but as I looked at him I saw that he got it. The government is
not
the number to call.

“I’m going to call on Bill Randolph to fill us in a few practical details about how the life of Blake & Randolph has suddenly changed,” my father said.

“Folks,” said Bill Randolph, “I’m not going to gild the lily for you. As you all know, our firm makes money, a lot of money. But besides money, there’s a thing called cash flow. Because I run the business aspect of this firm, I can tell you that everything has been dumped upside down, and that goes for any personal injury firm in the country. I used to be able to look at our pending files and go over the settlement estimate forms that you folks provide me with, and I can project out our income and expenses pretty well. That’s all up in the air now. Not only have 90 days been tacked onto the end of a settlement, but we don’t know if the Committee on Justice will even approve the numbers. We’ve just entered a world of wild uncertainty. We value everyone in this room, and we don’t want to lose anybody. But we’re going to see how this thing plays out into the future. As of right now, we just don’t know. It’s like somebody just shut off the water. A sudden three-month cash flow delay can wreak havoc, even with a big firm like ours.”

I looked at Dee. With our liquid assets under government lock and key, my three-month shift in cash flow from the firm, and Dee’s articles not getting published, I suddenly had a concern about something I never gave a thought to—money.

Chapter 73

At 10 a.m. there was a loud knock on our door. Our expensive condominium came with a few amenities, as you would expect. One of them was a group of doormen who guarded the privacy of unit owners like a bunch of pit bulls. They would never even think about letting someone onto a floor without authorization from an owner. But that had changed recently we noticed.
A knock on the door.

A short guy in a rumpled suit showed us a badge and introduced himself as Mort Sommers, an agent from the Asset Protection Agency, whatever the fuck that was. He explained that because our apartment had a government lien on it, we were required to give him a key to our unit. He wore a gun, and casually flipped his jacket aside showing it to us. I asked if he had written authorization, and he showed me a piece of paper signed by the Director of the Asset Protection Agency. The document advised that not only were we required to surrender a copy of our key, but we could not change the locks without notifying the Agency—a felony offense if we did.

A lien on our condo, a fucking government lien!

So what the hell did I do to get our assets frozen? I wish I could come up with a good answer. The lien was placed by executive order of the new president himself, an order based on a new piece of legislation entitled, “Actions for The Betterment of the Country.” It authorized the chief executive to take actions based on his personal decision, with no congressional overview, and even without judicial review. Hell, even if he needed legislative action he could get it with two veto-proof majorities in both houses of Congress. But all that is needed is the President’s signature.

Of course I do have an idea why our assets are under lock and key, although it’s not based on any legal analysis that I’d been trained for. It seems that Dee and I had gotten a reputation as a couple of troublemakers, a couple of people who weren’t willing to sit by and watch what was happening with our mouths shut. Rick Bellamy confirmed that when he told us we had targets on our backs. We weren’t looked as people who were dedicated to the “Betterment of the Country.” My run for president nailed us as potential targets, targets for God knows what. Any wonder why I was scared shitless?

Not only was our condominium overlooking Lake Michigan placed under a lien, but our summer home in Kenilworth, also on the lake, had a lien slapped on it too.

I saw my share of combat when I was a Marine captain in Iraq, almost getting killed on a couple of occasions. Combat is horrible, make no mistake about it. But at least in combat, when you’re fired upon you can return the fire, and you know who to shoot. But how the fuck do you shoot at an executive order from the White House, an order that’s not reviewable by a legislature or court?

Money suddenly became an issue in our lives—a major issue. On the advice of our financial advisor, we had taken out large mortgages on both our apartment and on our vacation home in Kenilworth. We owed just under a million dollars on each, with monthly payments of principle and interest of just shy of $12,000. And our income has just been drastically reduced. My personal injury cases now have a three-month waiting period before—and if—they get paid. Dee’s lucrative writing career in major magazines and newspapers has essentially been shut down. So, although we’re blessed to be multi-millionaires, we may be an unemployed couple with no income beyond Dee’s teaching salary.

Dee and I huddled to discuss our sudden financial challenge.

I contacted a number of agents who represent politicians for paid speaking engagements. Jay Boynton, a guy who’d been soliciting me as a client, returned my call. He explained that, as a former presidential nominee, with emphasis on the word ‘former,’ he would be able to land me a few speaking gigs. He told me that I could expect between five and nine thousand per speech. Not bad, and almost enough to keep the wolves away from our mortgages. He did emphasize that my speeches would have to be non-controversial, and strictly non-political.

Dee had a bigger problem. Because Martin’s acquisition of Witherspoon Publishing Company had cut off her main sources of writing assignments, not to mention her loss of her long-time agent, Dee almost had to start over again as a freelance writer, although she did have a fabulous portfolio of work. From her book royalties alone, Dee normally saw about $10,000 per month in passive income. The Witherspoon acquisition stopped that, because her royalties were part of the lien against our liquid assets.  She approached a few magazines and newspapers that were not part of Martin’s Witherspoon empire, and within a week had landed five paid writing assignments for feature articles.

Our financial crisis appeared manageable, but for how long remained to be seen. We opened new checking accounts—at a credit union—and made sure that the accounts didn’t grow too large because we weren’t sure if a lien would soon be placed against them. Each week, one of us would withdraw cash and put it in a safety deposit box. To avoid complications we would pay our mortgages and other fixed payments with postal money orders.

We felt like fugitives. Because of my presidential run against Martin, that’s exactly what we were.

***

“Hey, hon, let’s watch TV,” I said. I had just noticed something under the TV stand that caught my eye.

“I don’t want to watch TV. I want to talk.”

I walked over to the TV stand and looked down on the object I saw. It was a bug, a listening device. I grabbed the remote and turned on the television, putting the sound on loud. I walked back to Dee and put my arms around her again, my face pressed next to her ear.

“Our apartment is bugged, honey,” I whispered. “There’s a listening and viewing device just under the TV stand.”

“My God,” she whispered. “How the hell could that have happened? We only gave that guy our key a half hour ago.”

“My guess is that one of the doormen let somebody in.”

My days as a provisional FBI agent came back to me. I whispered to Dee that I’d be right back, and walked into our home office. I reached into my desk and took out a device that was given to me while I was on FBI duty—a bug detector. I casually walked around the apartment with the scanner turned on high. The thing even came with a setting that enabled me to disable a bug by pressing a button. I found four bugs in the apartment and zapped each of them. I’m sure somebody from the Asset Protection Agency would eventually notice, but for the time being we had privacy. I told Dee that it was okay to talk.

“That should work,” Dee said. “until the next knock on the door.”

The last election was only a year or so ago, and 10 months since the new president took office in January. I would have had an easier time believing that I was a time traveler, because we so suddenly found ourselves in a different world from the one we knew.