Death, Taxes, and Hot Pink Leg Warmers (26 page)

The witness had no choice but to agree with Ross. Immediately preceding each deposit into Braden’s college fund was a withdrawal from the GSM account in the exact same amount. It didn’t take Sherlock Holmes to know the funds were one and the same. I was proud my work was being used to nail this jerk.

Ross turned to the matter of bookkeeping. “Despite the fact that you took multiple accounting classes in college, you classified the transfers to your son’s college account and the amount paid for your wife’s cosmetic surgery as tax-deductible charitable contributions. Isn’t that right?”

“I may have made some errors,” the witness said, “but they were honest mistakes.”

In the jury box, the knitter rolled her eyes while the oil tech crossed his arms over his chest as if to shield himself from the crap Featherstone was tossing out.

After a short lunch break, the other defense attorneys spent the early afternoon poking more holes in the loan officer’s testimony, reducing him to a blubbering mess.

“I’m innocent!” he cried, tears in his eyes as he turned to the jury. “You’ve got to believe me!”

Knitter issued another eye roll. Clip-On harrumphed. Quickie Slickie openly snickered, while the curvy Indian woman shook her head. The hipster showed his or her first sign of life. A subtle, nearly imperceptible lip twitch.

Featherstone put his hands to his face and began to sob as he walked back to his wife and son in the gallery.

Next to me, Eddie muttered, “Don’t do the crime if you can’t do the time, dude.”

I glanced over at Darren Williams and Julian Vanderhagen. Things had not gone well for the other three defendants. I wondered if they regretted not following up with Ackerman on the plea deal.

chapter thirty-one

Tara Takes the Stand

Darren Williams asserted his Fifth Amendment privilege, electing not to take the stand. No problem. Ross had an appraiser lined up to testify about the ridiculously inflated property values Williams had put in his appraisal reports.

The woman detailed the standard procedures for appraising a property, showed how Williams had failed time and time again to follow well-established protocols, and offered her own estimates of the properties’ values, all of which were far less than that Williams had come up with. Her testimony was clear, easy to follow, and perhaps the most damning evidence that had yet been offered.

Trumbull dismissed court at four. The mortgage fraud and racketeering evidence now completed, the rest of the show would belong to me and Eddie.

“You’re up first thing tomorrow,” Ross told me as we made our way out of the building.

“I’m ready.” Hell, I was way past ready. I wanted the Tennis Racketeers convicted and behind bars yesterday.

*   *   *

I had time for only a quick workout before heading off to Guys & Dolls. Valley Produce made its usual Thursday delivery, a delivery that likely included crystal meth. But we weren’t quite ready to make a move just yet. We had to get all of our ducks in a row first.

The evening passed much like the other nights, though I was able to enjoy another frisking from Nick and garnered some striptease tips from a couple of the dancers while I was on break. One of them even showed me how to moonwalk, which wasn’t sexy but was nonetheless kind of fun.

I went to bed giddy with anticipation. I couldn’t wait to take the stand in the morning and show the jury that the defendants were a bunch of lowdown, dirty tax cheats.

*   *   *

As Eddie and I approached the courthouse Friday morning, we found Trish standing on the courthouse steps with Ross, a cameraman shooting footage of them.

“Today marks the third day in the trial of the Tennis Racketeers,” Trish said in her trademark breathy voice. “What do you expect to happen in court today?” She shoved her microphone in Ross’s face.

Ross looked confidently into the camera. “Today we will be moving on to the tax-evasion charges. I will be questioning two special agents from IRS Criminal Investigations who were instrumental in performing the financial analysis in this case.”

“Thank you, Mr. O’Donnell,” Trish said, dismissing Ross and turning back to the camera. “Tune in at noon, six, and ten for updates on this important trial.”

Eddie and I caught up with Ross and the three of us went inside the courthouse together.

At the security checkpoint, the female deputy raised an eyebrow when she opened my briefcase for inspection and spotted the leg warmers. “Planning on performing some
Flashdance
moves?”

“They were a gift.”

“Sure they were.”

The courtroom was frigid again today. I wasted no time slipping the leg warmers on under my pants.
Aaah. Nice and cozy.

The jurors filed in and took their seats, followed by the defense attorneys, defendants, and judge.

Once Trumbull settled in, she looked down at Ross. “Call your first witness.”

Ross called me to the witness stand.

Eddie leaned over to whisper in my ear. “Take these assholes to the mat.”

Gladly.

The bailiff swore me in, stepped away, and fanned herself with the Bible even though the temperature in the courtroom hovered at what felt like thirty-two.

Knitter and Clip-On cuddled under an oversized blanket she must’ve been working on over the last few evenings. The rest of the jurors wore matching knit caps and mittens to stay warm. Looked like everyone would be going home with a souvenir from the trial.

Once I’d taken a seat on the witness stand, Ross had me identify myself for the jury and list my credentials.

“I’m IRS Special Agent Tara Holloway,” I told them, noting the fact that I’d graduated from the University of Texas accounting program with honors, spent four years at a large regional CPA firm, and had been with the IRS for several months. Still a relative rookie, but one who’d quickly learned the ropes. My short tenure had been a bit like trial by fire, including one occasion actually involving a fire. I left that part out, of course.

At Ross’s expert direction, I led the jury on a short and direct path through the mountain of paperwork, showing them where I’d mined the relevant financial data relating to the mortgage-fraud scheme and tax evasion.

“The loan documents and closing statements show the various sales prices for the houses,” I said, referring them to the exhibits. “From those figures, I was able to compute the gains on the real estate sales. As for the unreported personal expenses paid by GSM on the defendants’ behalf, I extracted that data from bank statements and GSM’s own bookkeeping records.”

When Ross finished his questions he gave me a smile, letting me know I’d done a good job, before passing me to the defense attorneys.

I looked over at them.
Bring it on.

The lawyers tore into me like a pack of dogs into fresh meat.

Plimpton questioned me first. “Miss Holloway, isn’t it true that you have been investigated by IRS Internal Affairs on multiple occasions in the short time you’ve been with the IRS?”

“Yes.” Ross had instructed me to keep my answers short and simple.

She arched a snotty brow. “And each of those inquiries took place due to the fact that you’d shot at someone?”

“Anytime an agent discharges a weapon there’s a mandatory review.” I glanced over at the jurors.
Got that, folks? Mandatory.

“And isn’t it true that you have several nicknames among your coworkers at the agency, including being known as the Annie Oakley of the IRS?”

Who the hell had told her that?
“Yes.”

“You’re also known as the Sperminator.”

“That’s correct.”
Seriously, who had spilled these beans?

She cocked her head coyly. “How, exactly, did you earn that name?”

“I relieved a target of his left testicle.”

Every man in the courtroom involuntarily flinched, including the men in the jury box. I wished I’d been watching the hipster to see whether he or she had reacted.

The attorney crossed her skinny arms over her chest. “Most special agents never fire their guns even a single time in their careers, isn’t that true?” She raised two accusing brows now. Since she couldn’t discredit my testimony or the evidence, she’d chosen to discredit me personally, instead.

I felt the heat of anger building in me. The defense attorney was attempting to paint me as a loose cannon, an agent with poor judgment who used her weapon indiscriminately. I gave her a smile. “I’m not most agents.”

Quickie Slickie snickered, Plimpton objected to my answer as nonresponsive, and Judge Trumbull ordered me to give a direct answer. I did. It was “yes.”

“So most agents never use their weapons throughout their entire careers, yet you have fired your gun multiple times in a matter of months. You’ve got quite the itchy trigger finger, don’t you?”

I admit I had an itch. But it wasn’t on my trigger finger and only Nick could scratch it. “I did what I felt was necessary under the circumstances.”

She turned her back to me, facing the jury now, her body language implying they should metaphorically turn their backs on me, too. “It’s interesting that the other agents haven’t felt the need to shoot the taxpayers they’ve investigated.”

I looked over at Eddie. He had a death glare locked on the woman, his angry eyes like heat-seeking missiles.

I returned my attention to the attorney. “Every case is unique and requires different skills,” I replied. “I’m an expert marksman, the best shooter among the agents in the Dallas office. My boss assigns me to cases where my particular skills might be needed.”
Take that, bitch.

Plimpton passed me to Julian Vanderhagen, who made further attempts to discredit me.Vanderhagen strode quickly back and forth in front of the witness stand, like a duck in a carnival shooting game. “Miss Holloway, you recently spent several days in the hospital after being hit in the head with a baseball bat by someone you were investigating, is that correct?”

“Yes.”

He stopped, lifted his arms, and emitted a sarcastic chuckle.“So there’s been at least one investigation where you haven’t shot someone.”

“There have been many,” I spat. “For instance, I haven’t shot anyone in this investigation.” Though I was sorely tempted at the moment.

Another chuckle. “Well, let’s hope that trigger finger doesn’t get itchy again.”

I fought the urge to show him the finger next to my trigger finger.

“Special agents are trained in both weapons and self-defense,” he said. “Correct?”

“Correct.”

“And are you also taught how to identify whether someone is a threat?”

“Yes.” During our training, we were taught to look for various signs that a target was becoming agitated and potentially violent. A change in respiration. A rise in voice volume or pitch. Shifting movements. Still, people could become agitated without necessarily becoming dangerous. “But we are also taught to use our judgment.”

“Judgment?” He cocked his head and raised a finger. “Good point. Let’s talk about your judgment for a moment.” He turned theatrically away from me and faced the jury. “You allowed a person who was under investigation to knock you unconscious with a baseball bat. Not exactly the poster child for good judgment, are you?”

There were so many things I wanted to say. That hindsight is twenty-twenty. That pulling a gun can sometimes cause a situation to escalate. That I’d been wrong, but that didn’t necessarily mean I’d been stupid. People were wrong about things all the time. Hell, even Albert Einstein, who was regarded as one of humankind’s greatest minds, had been wrong about the Static Universe theory. Not that I had a clue what the theory was. I’d just overheard that fact the other day when Alicia was watching the Discovery Channel.

I spoke slowly, trying to sound calm, when all I really wanted to do was jump over the witness stand and throttle the man. “We all make errors in judgment on occasion. We’re human.”

“Thank you, Miss Holloway. We appreciate that you are willing to admit your mistakes.”

What?

Brunwald and Needham went a little easier on me. I supposed they didn’t feel the need to come at me full force given that the other attorneys had already skewered me with their twisted logic and misleading implications. Either way, their cross-examinations were completed in only a few minutes’ time.

Ross did his best to rehabilitate me. “Each time you shot your gun, your actions were deemed justified by the internal affairs officers?”

“Yes,” I said. “Each and every time. I wouldn’t still have my job otherwise.”

Through carefully worded questioning, Ross led me to point out that the case at hand relied almost entirely on paperwork, that the voluminous documents entered into evidence spoke for themselves. In other words, my work history didn’t really matter for purposes of this trial.

Trish’s eyes were on me as I left the stand. Given that I’d once pulled a gun on her, she probably agreed with the defense attorneys that I was too impulsive, too quick to use my gun.

I held my head up as I returned to the counsel table, but I felt furious, humiliated, tainted.

Loose cannon.

Itchy trigger finger.

Poor judgment.

I didn’t want to believe it, but there might be a tiny kernel of truth in their overblown accusations. After all, Lu admonished me every time I left the office to “try not to shoot anybody.” And even though I’d been exonerated each time I’d shot my gun, the multiple shootings made me subject to being discredited. Testifying in tax-evasion trials was one of a special agent’s most important duties. If I was not seen as a credible witness, one with good judgment, what value would I have to the agency?

chapter thirty-two

Closing Arguments

Eddie gave me an empathetic shoulder squeeze as he stood to take the stand.

Ross ran through some preliminary questions and Eddie noted that he, too, had begun his tax career with a CPA firm. He stated that he’d been with the IRS for nearly nine years now and held the title of senior special agent.