When The Devil Whistles (3 page)

Addison had left open a link to the S-4 server on his computer, so Samuel just pulled it up, typed in Addison’s password, and he was in. The server held a single folder with the innocuous title “Project Docs.” Inside that were two subfolders titled “Financial” and “Operational.” The “Operational” subfolder sounded the most interesting, so he opened that one first. It held dozens of PDFs of various sizes. He glanced around to make sure nobody was watching. Then he took a deep breath and opened the first PDF.
Now we’re getting somewhere.

Or maybe not. The PDF was some sort of form in an Asian language Samuel didn’t recognize. So was the second PDF, and the third.

He clicked through half a dozen more files before coming across something in English. It was a checklist titled “6/16-8/16 Winch and ROV Spare Parts,” and it cataloged various machine parts that meant nothing to Samuel. He tried a few more, but nothing juicy—no Navy memos labeled “Top Secret,” no charts marking debris fields from lost Spanish galleons, and no fake executive tax returns. He couldn’t even find a memo that would at least give him some inkling of what this project was about.

The “Financial” subfolder held nothing but a bunch of PDF invoices and a couple of Excel spreadsheets. They were all in English, but it didn’t matter. The invoices were all one-line bills that said “For services rendered” followed by a number. And the spreadsheets were just lists of invoices with totals at the bottoms.

He stopped and rubbed the soul patch beard on his lower lip. The totals were each in the tens of millions of dollars, and some topped $100 million. He’d been in the company long enough to know that all marine engineering and salvage projects were expensive, but that was
a lot
of money.

He did a quick scan of the rest of the files, but found nothing useful. Whatever the company was getting all that money for, it wasn’t at all clear from what was on the S-4 server.

Now thoroughly frustrated, Samuel got ready to minimize the server connection again and get out of Addison’s computer. Before he did, though, he embedded “Something wicked this way came” as an anonymous tag on one of the PDFs. He also added an image to the PDF: a picture of Franklin Roh’s face Photoshopped onto the body of an obese woman in a bikini.

He finished and looked at the clock in the corner of his monitor. His little adventure had only killed an hour—still two and a half hours to go until he could head out. He stretched, checked his e-mail again, and started reading a twenty-three-page policy memo Franklin had just circulated on appropriate Internet usage while at work. After two pages, Samuel realized that reading the whole thing would just be too painful, so he skimmed it for rules prohibiting use of the ’Net to find pictures of fat chicks who would look good with a supervisor’s head.

Five o’clock came at last. He slung his backpack over his shoulder and headed out. By the time he reached the elevator, he had already mentally left work and his mood brightened. He needed to find a new job—maybe one of his friends was putting together another start-up or something. He made a mental note to polish up his resumé over the next couple of weeks.

He was crossing the ground floor lobby and had almost reached the street when a familiar nasal voice called his name in a sharp, schoolteacher-on-the-playground tone. He turned to see Franklin Roh pushing toward him through the stream of departing workers. “Samuel!” he repeated as he got closer, his normally inscrutable face flushed and contorted. “Samuel, we need to talk!”

Looks like I’ll need to get that resumé ready faster than I thought.
“Sure thing. I’ll stop by your office tomorrow morning.”

Samuel turned to go, but Franklin stepped in front of him and grabbed his arm. “No, now!”

Samuel stared at his boss. He had expected Franklin to be mad if he found his artwork, but the guy was way beyond mad. His face looked strange and wild, the bland Microsoft mask completely gone. He panted and his hand shook on Samuel’s bicep.

A cold ripple rolled over Samuel. He was tempted to yank his arm free and force his way past Franklin and out of the building. He was bigger and younger and there weren’t any security guards around, so he knew he could do it. But he didn’t. He was probably going to get fired anyway, and he really didn’t need “assaulting a supervisor” tacked onto his list of offenses. So he allowed Franklin to lead him away.

That was his second mistake.

1

C
ONNOR
N
ORMAN LOVED A GOOD FIREWORKS SHOW
. H
E ESPECIALLY
liked the ones that took place once or twice a year in the conference rooms at the California Department of Justice. Some executive or general counsel whose company was under investigation would come in for a witness interview, would lie, and would get caught. Then Deputy Attorney General Max Volusca would go off and the show would start. DAG Volusca did not suffer liars gladly. Fools he would tolerate, often longer than Connor. But if Max felt he was being misled, he soon lived up to his nickname, “Max Volume.”

Connor didn’t mind it when Max got loud. In fact, he liked the DAG’s outbursts because they usually rattled whoever was sitting across the table from him. And that usually meant more money for Connor and his
qui tam
clients. A
qui tam
plaintiff is a whistleblower who sues on behalf of the government and gets a cut (generally 15-20 percent) of whatever the government recovers. Better yet, if the Department of Justice likes a case, it takes on the lion’s share of the work. Envious defense counsel sometimes complained to Connor that he wasn’t really litigating these cases, just riding a gravy train driven by DOJ. Though Connor never told opposing lawyers, the real fun wasn’t the train ride so much as tying corporate criminals to the tracks in front of the engine.

Today, Connor’s client was Devil to Pay, Inc., a shell company he had created to bring
qui tam
lawsuits while protecting the identity of its owner. Most contractors assumed that Connor was the force behind Devil to Pay and that he recruited new whistleblowers for every lawsuit. In fact, all those suits were the work of a single woman: a professional whistleblower named Allie Whitman.

The corners of Connor’s mouth twitched. Allie was probably the most widely hated and feared woman in California’s government contracting industry, even though no one knew she existed.

The person who probably hated Allie most at this particular moment was Hiram Hamilton, the CEO of Hamilton Construction. He was sitting at a cheap wood table in conference room 11436 at the San Francisco office of the California Department of Justice, where he was being grilled by Max Volusca.

Connor sat next to Volusca and let him do all the talking. While the DAG asked questions, Connor watched Hamilton and the brace of lawyers who flanked him. One of the lawyers was Joe Johnston, Hamilton Construction’s general counsel. The other was Carlos Alvarez, a high-priced defense lawyer with a reputation for playing hardball with the government.

Hiram Hamilton was a gregarious, open-faced man of about fifty-five who smiled a lot when he spoke. But Connor suspected those traits were the result of practice rather than character, and that raised warning flags. In his experience, men who tried to appear candid rarely were.

“So, how many cost-plus state contracts has your company bid on over the past ten years, Mr. Hamilton?” Max asked.

“I don’t remember—at least two dozen.”

“And you do know what cost-plus means, right?”

“Sure,” Hamilton said with a nod and a genial smile. “It means the contract price is my cost plus an agreed percentage of profit.”

“Has your company ever inflated its costs in order to get a higher profit percentage than your contract allows?”

“No, of course not,” the witness replied without letting his smile waver.

Max stared at him in silence for several seconds. “Do you or do you not realize that you’re under oath, Mr. Hamilton?”

Alvarez grimaced and stirred. “Look, Max, we’re trying to be cooperative and give you the information you want. There’s no reason to badger my client.”

Max kept his eyes on Hamilton. “Are you trying to be cooperative, Mr. Hamilton?”

“I… uh, sure.”

“And provide the information requested in the state’s subpoena?”

“Absolutely. We gave you everything you asked for.”

Here we go.
Connor glanced at Max. The DAG’s face had darkened and his bull neck swelled against the collar of his white dress shirt.

“Then WHY didn’t you give me these?” Max demanded, his voice rising several decibels as he thrust a stack of photocopied documents at the witness.

Hamilton’s grin vanished and his eyes widened. “I, I… I’m not sure what these are.”

“Really? Take a good look at them.” Max leaned forward and pointed at the stack with an accusatory finger.

Hamilton flipped through the documents in silence for half a minute as Alvarez engaged in a staring contest with Max. Hamilton looked up again. “These look like the invoices backing up our costs for the work on the DMV building in Oakland,” he said with strained nonchalance. “We gave you all of these already.”

“No, you gave me FAKE invoices for that project! Invoices that had been doctored to make the numbers in them match the numbers you reported to the state,” Max shot back. “These are the REAL invoices.”

Alvarez put a hand on his client’s arm to signal him not to respond. “I object to this harassment, and I’m not going to let it go on any longer. We came here in good faith to answer questions, not listen to you shout at Mr. Hamilton. If you can’t behave civilly, we’re leaving.”

“Before you do, make sure to write down Mr. Hamilton’s shirt and pants size.”

“What? Why?”

“So we can have an orange jumpsuit waiting for him the next time we meet.”

“This is outrageous!” Alvarez stood up and his client and the company’s general counsel followed suit. Max also hefted his sizable bulk upright, his face now beet red. Connor stayed seated, letting his body language say that he was staying out of the fight. At some point, he might need to play “good cop,” and it didn’t hurt to start telegraphing his reasonableness now.

“It’s outrageous alright!” Max rejoined, his voice now at near-bullhorn level. “This is a civil investigation right now, but if you and your client aren’t real careful, there’s going to be a criminal referral. Giving false evidence during an investigation by the Attorney General is a felony under Penal Code section 132.”

Connor fought back the urge to smile as his ears rang. Max Volusca only hauled out section 132 when he was
really
mad. It was the legal equivalent of the old belt Connor’s father had kept in the back of the hall closet to threaten particularly incorrigible sons. He almost never used it, but its mere appearance worked wonders of attitude adjustment.

Alvarez jammed papers into his briefcase. “I’m not going to dignify that with a response!”

Max put his fists on the table and leaned forward. “Yeah, well I’m going to dignify it with an indictment!”

Hamilton and his lawyers packed in frosty silence for half a minute. Then Alvarez grabbed the stack of photocopied invoices.

“What do you think you’re doing?” demanded the DAG.

“These are company property,” said Alvarez as he shoved the invoices into his briefcase. “And I am reclaiming them.”

“No they aren’t, and no you’re not!”

Alvarez ignored Max and walked toward the door, trailed by Hamilton and Johnston. Max pushed a button on the speakerphone on the conference room table. “Ruby, there are three men leaving conference room 11436. Ask security to arrest them and search them for stolen state property.”

“Yes, Mr. Volusca,” said the receptionist in a bored voice.

Hamilton and his lawyers stopped in the conference room doorway. “You can’t be serious,” said Alvarez.