Bad Bitch (2 page)

“Vin, tell me about this guy.” Vinnie was my most trusted associate. He didn’t have the blue blood or the Ivy League pedigree, but he was a hell of an investigator and an excellent litigator.

Tall with dark hair and even darker eyes, he was a looker. But he was married. So, for me, he was off-limits. I didn’t hold much sacred, but that bond was one I never tangled with. It was too real, too murky, to meddle with people who were once in love, or maybe even still in love.

Any idiots who would tie themselves to a stake together and light a bonfire of monogamy and resentment under their own feet had plenty of trouble without me butting in. Besides, I had fertile hunting grounds elsewhere.

“He’s a bit of a mystery.” Vinnie plopped down at the conference table. “I’ve checked him out through all my channels. No one has dealt with him. His SEC report is clean. No other cases or complaints against him.”

I leaned back in my chair and steepled my fingers. “So he’s clean. That’s a first around here. Sounds like good news to me.”

“Not exactly. He’s about to be indicted for a massive Ponzi involving several elderly clients at New Orleans nursing homes.” Vinnie tapped his wedding-ring finger on the edge of the table. The tick-tick-ticking of the metal on glass was like mini-gunshots, riddling my brain.

“Knock it off.”

“Sorry, boss.” Vinnie ran the offending hand through his close-cropped hair. “Like I said, he looks clean, but he’s been doing plenty of dirt to wind up here. And just because he doesn’t have any underworld connections here or in Chi-town doesn’t mean there aren’t any. I know most of the families still in business, but not all of them.”

Vinnie had connections. He’d been born into a Brooklyn family with a skill set that, at first glance, would seem anathema to his law degree. But once he’d gotten his JD, he’d been a godsend to his family and friends. He was well seasoned at getting them out of jail and also getting not-guilty verdicts. He’d tried more jury cases than some attorneys twice his age. He was a scrapper, and I loved scrappers.

“Okay, I’ll want you on this one with me. How much money are we talking?”

“Fifty million, easy.”

“What?” I had never heard of a Ponzi scheme that size involving run-of-the-mill droolers in nursing homes. It didn’t seem possible.

“That’s what the U.S. Attorney’s Office is saying.”

“Holy shit, Vin. Who did he fucking scheme, the grandparents of the top one percent or what?”

“I haven’t been able to get any more information ahead of the grand jury, so we don’t know all the names.” Vinnie started straightening his tie. It was almost time for the client to show.

I stood and, using the window as a mirror, arranged my auburn locks to fall around my face. It made my blue eyes stand out. I smoothed my blouse and undid an extra button at my chest, letting the white lace chemise show a bit more. My signature black pencil skirt was straight, so all was in order. I didn’t wear a jacket in the office. Too stuffy. I wanted my clients to feel at ease when they spilled their guts to me.

The elevator dinged, signaling an arrival, likely the Ponzi prince we’d been discussing.

“In here or your office?” Vinnie asked.

“Let’s do it in here. Get Drew, too. I think I’ll need at least two of you on this.” Vinnie sighed. He and Drew’s rivalry predated even their time in my office. Law school—you make a few distant friends and a ton of close enemies.

He buzzed her office.

The client arrived at the reception area. I could see him through the glass of the neighboring conference room. He was in a well-tailored gray suit. The gray was a poor choice. It was a little too “spring” for New York.
Definitely not from here.

His hair was a shiny black with a few white strands slithering through here and there. He was tall and fit, clearly taking more care of his body than he did of his clients’ portfolios. He wasn’t even forty years old and he’d already wiped out the savings of no telling how many nanas and pop-pops. Impressive.

Courtney, the receptionist, showed him into our conference room. I greeted him with a confident smile and my outstretched palm.

“Ms. Pallida, I presume?” He took my hand but didn’t let me shake. Instead he put my knuckles to his lips. Cute, but he wasn’t going to charm his way out of my retainer.

His accent was a hybrid. It had a slight southern lilt, but only on a few words. The accent beneath it was more midwestern, even and smooth. The mix was almost jarring. We’d have to work on that before he got in front of a jury. Straight southern was the way to go.

“Please call me Evan.” I stopped myself from continuing when I realized Vinnie had left out one important detail—the client’s name.

Vinnie jumped in. “This is Conrad Castille.”

“Of course it is, Vinnie. Mr. Castille, can Vinnie get you something to drink? We have coffee, tea, anything you want.” I smiled.

“Please, call me Connie. All my friends do. And I’ll take coffee, black, if that’s all right.”

Vinnie turned to the serving tray as Drew walked in and took her seat, yellow notepad in hand. She was plump and wore clunky glasses, a perfect foil for me.

“Connie, these are my associates Vincent Lapolla and Drew Epstein. They’ll be working with me on your case. If you’d like to have a seat, we’ll get started.”

Castille settled himself into the chair opposite me, just as I wanted him to. A consultant I’d hired a year or so ago said the sun at my back, flowing through my hair, was my best posture in this room. I leaned back into the tufted black leather office chair and crossed my legs at the knee. Castille followed the movement through the glass tabletop.
Good boy.

Vinnie slid the requested coffee across the table. Then he sat and readied to take notes.

Castille watched it all. His dark eyes seemed to miss no detail.

“What sort of trouble brings you to us?” I asked.

He joined his hands in front of him on the table, an earnest look settling into his face. It was practiced and would ring true to the average person. Not to me, of course. He was a natural-born deceiver. I could already see it.
Takes one to know one.

“Well, you see, Evan, there’s been some misinformation that’s made its way to the US Attorney’s Office about me. I don’t know how or why this happened. And I don’t know why I’m being dragged up here to New York to answer some grand jury. As you know, I’m from New Orleans. A financial adviser. In my practice, I’ve helped countless elderly people invest their money—”

I held up a perfectly manicured hand. “Let me just stop you there. Now, I’m your attorney. From the moment you called me, everything you’ve said to me has been strictly privileged and confidential. Keeping that in mind”—I leaned forward and kept his attention—“you need to tell me the absolute truth. I can’t help you if you don’t.”

Now that I was really looking at him, I realized his eyes were beady. Like a rat. We’d definitely need him to wear contacts for the trial.

He frowned, the creases around his mouth making unattractive angles on his otherwise decent-looking face. He broke the friendly grip his hands had on each other and took a sip of coffee.

This was the boring part. The part where I convinced my clients to pull out their dirty laundry piece by piece. The fun part was when they finally fessed up and pointed out every rip, tear, bloodstain, cum stain, you name it. None of them ever wanted to do it. Their reticence was understandable. My clients were worse than skid marks on a crusty pair of drawers. They’d spent the better part of their waking hours trying to hide all the dirt from their loved ones, their clients, regulatory agencies, and law enforcement. But their defense depended on my ability to separate the truth from the lies. Or, as my father would have said, “the wheat from the chaff.”
Amen.

I tended to spend half the consultation just massaging the information out of them, like squeezing a sausage out of a greasy casing. It was tiresome but necessary.

I just watched Castille, letting my stare sink into his black pupils. The silence and the direct look were tools of my trade. It created a pressure out of thin air, crushing the truth out of each client.

The image consultant also told me—while I had his cock in my throat and my eyes locked with his—that my gaze was almost an interrogation technique unto itself.

The dead-eyed stare worked. The fear Castille had been trying to hide started to waft off him like the stink of a days-old body left in the sun. He was rotten. All he had to do now was tell me how deep the decay went.

“Well, I. Okay. Look. I am. Well, I . . . I . . . I am in a bit of trouble.”

Ding ding ding. I sat back in my chair and let Drew and Vin do the scribing, writing his dirty deeds on the neat lines of their legal pads. Castille talked for over two hours, the sound of his voice only broken when either I or my associates had a question.

He had, indeed, been very naughty. Dozens, maybe hundreds, of elderly nitwits giving him their life savings, cashing out their annuities, even liquidating their burial policies to give him the surrender value. And the scheme wasn’t so much Ponzi as it was straight-up theft. He was sitting on millions. A good thing, because my fee would be astronomical for this doozy of a case.

The grand jury was about to come back with his sins listed out in detailed counts. The feds would have their way with him, then would come the civil case, and then, at the ass end of it all, the state might get a chance at him. And I would be there every step of the way, collecting my fees and depleting his ill-gotten gains and making them
my
ill-gotten gains.
God bless capitalism.

There were holes in his story. There always were. Missing names, dates, documents, amounts. None of my clients were ever truly honest. If they had been, they wouldn’t be in my office. They’d be in front of the judge, pleading guilty and begging for mercy. Instead, they came to me, wanting to keep their evil gains and escape a prison sentence.

Abracadabra, motherfuckers. Your wish is my command.
For a price
.

“Does it ever bother you, Evan?” Jonesy asked.

“I don’t know, does persecuting innocent citizens ever bother you?” I asked.

Jonesy looped his index finger around the top of his beer bottle and took a swig. Satisfied with his mouthful of beer, he said, “I’ve never persecuted anyone, so I wouldn’t know.”

I snorted so hard the whiskey almost went down the wrong pipe. After-work drinks at the Docket Call, a dive right at the edge of Chinatown and the court district, were obligatory. It was a combination of old Irish pub and industrial chic, likely pieced together from failed bars in other parts of the city. The name made it the obvious haunt of attorneys who either didn’t want to go home to their boring families or had no families to go home to.

For me, the bar scene was just to decompress from the day and commiserate with others in the profession. I had no need to network, not anymore, but scoping out the competition had always been fun. Other attorneys were like a whetstone that kept me sharp.

The state court trial dogs kept to the back of the bar, rowdy and rough. Well, as rough as New York City lawyers can be in Armani suits.

Toward the front, the federal court attorneys congregated. The assistant U.S. attorneys, or AUSAs, were a clique until themselves. They were in the business of prosecuting my clients, seeing their brand of federal justice done on white-collar wrongdoers. I didn’t run with them. I was the enemy. Still, I managed to keep them entertained over drinks with sparring banter. They tolerated me. And, sometimes, I gleaned a little information to help my clients.

Jonesy had been a drinking companion of mine for almost five years, since the day he’d shown up as a baby lawyer. Now he was a halfway decent assistant U.S. attorney. And he wasn’t a bad lay, as those go. But we hadn’t been between the sheets for years. After our first one-night stand, we’d fallen into a comfortable friendship and only went at each other in front of a judge or jury these days.

He took another big swig from his IPA. His sandy-colored hair needed a cut. It covered his ears and made him look even younger than he was. “I just figured you would, at some point in your career, grow some sort of a—” He set the bottle down and used his index fingers to draw a heart in the air.

I leaned back and laughed. I could feel his eyes roaming me. It was a nice sensation. Jonesy was handsome, young, and hung. All things I appreciated.

I could use the attention. The day had been long and unfulfilling. We’d arranged the delivery of all Connie Castille’s documents. Boxes and boxes of lies, dirt, and sad old people’s misery. That would be a shitty slog for my associates. Poor bastards.

I didn’t want to think about the wrinkled chumps Castille had cheated. Being here with the younger, prettier contingent—even though some of them would have loved to wring my neck—made me feel better.

“No, Jonesy, this one wouldn’t even know what to do with an accessory like that.” Woodhall, one of the longest-serving U.S. attorneys on record, took the open barstool next to Jonesy. He was grayed at the temples and round in the belly. But he was a damn good prosecutor. Though he was fair, I didn’t look forward to cases I had with him. Total hardass. Even though he was at the top of the food chain with no need to try cases, he still did. Once a scrapper, always a scrapper. I just hoped he didn’t get Castille’s doozy.

“Any word on the next grand jury papers?” I asked. I shifted my heeled foot over to Jonesy’s barstool and let my bare calf rest casually against him. He didn’t move away.

“Got some real pieces of shit about to be true-billed. I’m sure they’re some of your best clients.” Woodhall didn’t exactly have a voice; it was more a rumble with a hefty sprinkle of disdain on top.

“Good to know. More indictments mean more business for me.” I downed my whiskey.

Woodhall waved to the bartender. “Give the lady another.”

“Thanks, Wood.” I stood. “Ladies’ room. I’ll be back.”

I turned toward the dark rear of the bar and saw a man moving to sit next to Wood. He wasn’t looking right at me, but I could sense he was giving me the once-over with his peripherals. Interesting.