Death, Taxes, and Hot Pink Leg Warmers (30 page)

Crowding the gallery were the media and a large group of homeowners who’d been ripped off by the defendants. Among them sat the Nguyens and Marisol Ortiz, her disabled daughter by her side. I hoped they’d see some justice today. They’d never get their houses back—their homes had since been resold to third parties uninvolved in the scam—but perhaps they’d recoup a portion of their equity and be able to invest it in a new home.

We rose at the bailiff’s direction as Judge Trumbull entered the courtroom.

She plunked herself down in her chair and wasted no time getting started. “We lost a day due to yesterday’s shenanigans. Dallas PD has promised me the results of their fingerprint analysis today.”

She ran her gaze over each of the defendants as if trying to discern whether one or all of them might have had something to do with the anthrax hoax. Hard to tell. They weren’t model citizens by any stretch of the imagination, but it was impossible to know how far a criminal would take things. Some drew the line at stealing people’s money. Others were willing to shatter a kneecap or two but stopped short of taking someone’s life. A few had no qualms about killing, either to eliminate those who stood in their way or to seek revenge on those who’d brought their shady dealings to light.

If I had to hazard a guess, though, I’d say these guys didn’t have the stomach for violence. They were privileged and pampered men who lived on gated streets, not mean ones. Besides, they’d met playing tennis, not rugby. Tennis was a nonviolent, no-contact sport. That had to say something about their personalities, didn’t it?

Then again, I’d been wrong before.

“Let’s get back to work,” Judge Trumbull said, sitting back in her chair. “Anybody have anything to address before we send the jury off to deliberate?”

The attorneys approached the bench and argued briefly over one word in the jury charge. The judge found in favor of the defense attorneys, the charge was rephrased, and the judge gave the charge and instructions to the jury. They were dismissed to begin their deliberations in a private conference room nearby.

While we waited for a verdict to be returned, Judge Trumbull held a series of quick hearings. She revoked bail for a man accused of extortion after he’d contacted the victim and threatened to turn him into chum and feed him to sharks in the Gulf of Mexico. She accepted a guilty plea from a man accused of making counterfeit postage stamps, sentencing him to six months in federal prison. She denied a third request for continuance in a trial scheduled to begin later in the week. “Get your act together,” she admonished the attorney, banging her gavel for emphasis.

The judge’s secretary poked her head in the door and, seeing that the judge was momentarily between matters, stepped up to the bench. The judge listened intently, nodding a couple of times.

When her secretary left, the judge looked down at the counsel tables. “The only fingerprints on the envelope containing the powder belonged to the mail carrier and the courthouse mailroom staff.”

In other words, there was no definitive proof that one of the Tennis Racketeers had sent the powder. Whoever had sent the envelope had likely worn gloves. The defense attorneys did their best not to show their relief. Plimpton went so far as to speculate that the powder could have been sent by one of the disgruntled homeowners in an attempt to place false blame on the defendants.

Yeah, right.

The homeowners were insulted by this accusation and angry sounds burbled from the gallery behind us.

While we waited for the jury to return their verdict, I reviewed bank statements relating to one of my smaller cases involving a man who owned a roofing outfit. He’d fudged his income, omitting a significant amount of cash paid to him under the table. At least he was being relatively cooperative, thanks to his attorney who knew his client was up shit creek and better do what he could to appease the IRS.

While I used a red pencil to circle the cash deposits listed on the bank statements, Eddie reviewed the journal entries entered into the accounting software program for a used-car business called You’ve Got Wheels that appeared to have engaged in some creative accounting.

While Ackerman logged on to his laptop to read his e-mail, Ross stepped into the hall with his cell phone to check in with his office. The defense attorneys also worked on odds and ends of other cases via their laptops and mobile phones. No doubt it would be a prosperous morning for them with all that double billing.

A mere ninety minutes after the jury had been sent to deliberate, the bailiff returned from checking the jury’s progress to announce the panel had reached a verdict. The courtroom instantly broke out in speculative chatter. There seemed to be no doubt the defendants would be found guilty, but the size of the potential fine and the length of the prison term Judge Trumbull would impose were up for debate.

The jurors walked back into the courtroom and took their seats. Once everyone was in place, the judge asked the foreman to stand. Hipster rose from his or her seat. Really? The others had elected Hipster to be the foreman? At least now I’d hear Hipster’s voice and be able to determine the juror’s sex.

Judge Trumbull scooted to the edge of her seat and leaned forward over her bench. The rest of us sat up, too, eager to hear.

Trumbull kicked things off. “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, in the case of the
United States
versus
Jeffrey Pachuco, Louis Featherstone, Curtis Carter, and Darren Williams,
the first charge is mortgage fraud. How do you find?”

“Guilty,” Hipster said.

Hmm. Hard to tell Hipster’s sex from only the one word, especially when it was drowned out by cheering from the homeowners and a simultaneous cry erupting from each of the defendant’s wives. The freshly convicted defendants muttered curses under their breath, while their defense attorneys mustered up the proper expressions of outrage. As for our table, we were all smiles.
Neener-neener.

Trumbull made a note in her file. “As to the second charge, violation of the Racketeer Influenced and Corrupt Organizations Act. How does the jury find?”

“Guilty,” Hipster said again.

Still inconclusive. Hipster was either a woman with a deep, sultry voice or a man with a slightly high-pitched one.

Amid more cries, curses, and scowls, Trumbull jotted another note. “And for the final charge of tax evasion, how does the jury find?”

“Guilty.”

Game.

Set.

Match.

Plimpton leaped to her feet and demanded that Trumbull issue a judgment notwithstanding the verdict. “The jury’s decision is pure nonsense. The evidence was woefully insufficient to convict my client on any of the charges.”

Trumbull barked out a laugh. “Honey, you must’ve been sitting in a different courtroom. There was enough evidence admitted to convict these guys three times over.” She banged her gavel. “Motion denied.”

Everyone in the room held their breath as Trumbull announced the sentence. “Twelve years in prison and a one-million-dollar fine each.”

“Ouch.” I glanced over at the defense table and faked a cringe. Snarky, I know. But I had a hard time feeling at all sorry for these guys or their attorneys. Besides, I was a little cranky from lack of sleep. Moonlighting was killing me. And there was that itchy trigger finger issue …

Pachuco and Featherstone buried their faces in their hands, their shoulders jerking as they emitted racking sobs. Carter rested his elbows on his knees, closed his eyes, and turned his face to the floor. Williams went stone still, his face expressionless. He stared off into space for a moment before slowly turning his head in the direction of the prosecution table.

Ackerman, Ross, and Eddie were exchanging discreet low fives and didn’t notice Williams looking our way. When Williams’s eyes met mine, I refused to turn away, returning his icy stare. This was a classic battle of good versus evil. I represented good, and I wasn’t about to back down or wimp out.

Williams slowly raised his right hand to his neck as if to adjust his tie, but instead he extended his index finger and made a slow cutting motion across his throat. He turned his hand so that his index finger pointed at me for a brief moment, then lowered it.

Holy shit, had this guy just threatened me?

I looked around the courtroom to see if anyone else had noticed, but everyone seemed to be wrapped up in their own celebration or pity party. The jurors chatted happily among themselves, excited to finally be going home. The judge was busy scribbling in her file. The other defendants and their attorneys were speaking among themselves.

When I looked again at Williams, he, too, was speaking with his attorney.

Had I seen what I thought I saw? Or had he simply been straightening his necktie? I didn’t want to discount my first impression, but I didn’t want to look like an idiot by accusing him of something he could so easily deny, either. And maybe I’d been wrong. Really, who would make a gesture like that in open court with so many potential witnesses?

I must have been mistaken.

Right?

The judge finished notating in her file and looked up. “I’ll tell you what. Thanksgiving is next week. I’m going to let the defendants spend this last holiday with their families.”

I supposed I couldn’t begrudge the defendants enjoying some final turkey and pumpkin pie with their families after the big old heaping platter of justice that had been served to them today.

“Get your affairs in order,” Judge Trumbull told the men. “Report into custody by nine
A.M.
on Friday of next week.”

Plimpton muttered to her client, “That’ll give me time to file my appeal.”

“I’m freezing your remaining assets,” Trumbull told the defendants, “and appointing a receiver to manage them. Each family will be given a reasonable living allowance until the wives have had ample opportunity to find work.”

The Realtor’s wife looked up in shock. “We always have Thanksgiving dinner at the club. How am I going to pay for that?”

Trumbull blinked at the woman in disbelief. “I suggest you get your hands on a Betty Crocker cookbook and learn how to make dinner yourself.”

The appraiser’s wife was similarly disturbed. “I haven’t held a job in twenty years. Who’s going to hire me?”

“Check the classifieds,” Trumbull suggested, “or try Monster.com. If nothing pans out, people always need housekeepers and babysitters.” With that she banged her gavel one final time.
Bam!
“Court is dismissed.”

chapter thirty-seven

One Down, One to Go

As we left the courthouse, we found Trish on the steps out front, her cameraman taking footage of her announcing the jury’s verdict.

“It looks like the Tennis Racketeers will be strung up,” she said. “The jury found the defendants guilty on all three counts. The men have each been assessed a one-million-dollar fine and will spend a dozen years in prison.”

Noticing Ross passing by, she grabbed him and shoved the microphone under his chin. “How does it feel to win this case?”

“It’s always rewarding to see that justice is done,” Ross said, though we all knew courthouse justice was never complete. The Tennis Racketeers would go to jail and pay a fine, but they’d already spent a good deal of their illegally gotten gains on lavish meals, cars, and jewelry for their wives, not to mention the exorbitant heating and cooling bills for their luxury homes. Of course they’d incurred significant legal fees, too. Not enough money and liquefiable assets remained to make full restitution to their victims, though by our best estimate those who’d been swindled would recoup around forty cents on the dollar. Not great, but we’d seen far worse situations, too. Many victims never saw a dime of their money back.

Trish held the microphone to her own, pink-frosted lips now. “Louis Featherstone’s attorney has threatened to appeal on multiple grounds, one of which is juror misconduct. Is it true that a member of the jury visited a local strip club when he was supposed to be sequestered? Do you fear that the verdict will be overturned by the appellate court?”

“One of the jurors was dismissed for violating the sequestration order,” Ross replied, “but his misconduct had no effect on the remaining jurors. We had solid evidence and solid testimony from both the FBI and IRS, more than enough to prove that widespread fraud had taken place.”

With that, Trish thanked Ross and looked into the camera. “This has been Trish LeGrande reporting live from the Dallas federal courthouse.”

As I stepped away, Trish called out, “Sorry about you and Brett, Tara. I hear he’s head over heels for a chef in Atlanta now.”

Trish wasn’t sorry for me. The only thing she was sorry about was that she hadn’t been able to get her claws into Brett herself. Frankly, if what Trish said was true, I was glad things were working out for Brett and Fiona. After all, things between me and Nick were going well, or they would be if not for the damn strip-club case and the no-nooky clause getting in the way.

I shrugged and forced a smile. “It was fun while it lasted. I’m glad Brett’s happy.” Though I wasn’t happy he was still in touch with this butterscotch-haired bitch.

*   *   *

Eddie and I invited Lu, Viola, and Nick out to lunch to celebrate the victory in the Tennis Racketeers case.

When the waiter brought our drinks, Lu raised her iced tea and proposed a toast. “To Eddie and Tara. Congratulations on taking four more tax cheats off the streets, and especially for doing it without getting shot or whacked in the head.”

Eddie glanced my way, knowing Lu’s words would sting a little, especially after the beating I’d taken in court last Friday. He offered me a supportive smile. While it didn’t make me feel much better, it was a nice gesture on his part.

We all lifted our glasses, clinked them together, and cried out, “Here, here!”

While the rest of us indulged in fancy seafood with creamy sauces, Lu settled for a low-calorie shrimp cocktail. She’d dropped ten pounds so far thanks to our rigorous workouts and didn’t want to risk taking a step backward by indulging. She did sneak one bite of the chocolate decadence cake I ordered for dessert, though, pledging to spend an extra five minutes on the exercise bike to make up for it.