Shell Game (Stand Alone 2) (17 page)

THURSDAY

JULY 21, 2011

First thing Thursday morning, Paul Sanders telephoned his contact, Gail Moskowitz, at the D.C. offices of the Federal Deposit Insurance Corporation to enlist her support with his client’s problems with Broad Street National Bank. She sympathized with Paul, agreeing that the bank’s treatment of his client was unfair, but she told him what the bank was doing wasn’t illegal. It sounded to her as though the bank was merely trying to live up to the letter of the guidance the FDIC was giving all banks: Reduce your exposure to commercial real estate loans.

“Come on, Gail. If every bank in the country reacted to the agency’s guidance in this way, the economy wouldn’t just be in recession; it would be in free fall.”

“I’m sorry, Paul, but there’s nothing I can do.”

“Can you at least call the FDIC supervisor in Philadelphia and ask him or her to look into this? Maybe the supervisor can suggest the bank ameliorate its position.”

Gail didn’t respond right off. But, after a few seconds hesitation, she said, “All right, Paul. That’s a fair request. I’ll call the area supervisor.”

Paul gave Moskowitz his cell phone number and asked her to call him as soon as she heard something. After hanging up, he drove to Katherine’s house to meet Sylvia Young, Wendy Folsom’s criminal attorney, there at 10 a.m.

Paul was last to arrive. Katherine served him a cup of coffee as he sat down with the others at the dining room table.

Sylvia handed Paul a folder. “The documents I prepared are in there,” she said. “The restraining order, a divorce petition, and a criminal complaint against Gerald Folsom for assault and battery and attempted murder. I called Anthony Castiglia, the head of Violent Crimes at the Philadelphia P.D. He’s an old friend of mine and he’s expecting us downtown at 3 this afternoon. Once he sees the photographs in the file, I am confident he’ll get the D.A. to issue an arrest warrant for Folsom.

“Unfortunately, I have to tell you I’ve handled a lot of cases like this. A man that abuses his wife as badly as Folsom has abused Wendy cannot be trusted. I would bet all my savings he’ll blow like Vesuvius when the charges are filed against him. Wendy needs to be somewhere safe until we’re sure her husband is locked up.”

“She can stay with me,” Katherine said immediately.

Sylvia smiled at Katherine. “That’s very kind of you, but that might jeopardize your safety as well as Wendy’s. No, we need to find a better place.”

“How about the convent at St. Francis College?” Katherine asked. “We’ve made large contributions to the school over the last few years. I’m sure they’d be willing to grant me a favor.”

“Sounds perfect,” Sylvia said, looking at Wendy. “But you’ve got to promise you will not leave the convent except for court appearances and the like. I’ll have a guard pick you up and take you back as necessary.”

“Aren’t you being overly protective?” Wendy asked. “I mean, I know Gerald is a monster, but he wouldn’t dare come after me once charges are filed. The police would suspect him first if anything happened to me.”

“Suspecting him is not the same as proving he harmed you. I’m not being overly protective; I’m being overly cautious.”

When she saw Wendy had nothing else to add, Sylvia suggested, “Paul, let’s go over the documents. I know criminal law isn’t your expertise, but I always like to have a second set of eyes look over anything I file with the court or the police.”

“I’ll call the college while you work on the documents,” Katherine said and walked toward the kitchen.

Sylvia passed a set of documents to Wendy. “You should review these with Paul and me,” Sylvia said.

Two hours passed before they finished. Sylvia edited the documents as necessary on her laptop and emailed the revised documents to her office. “We’ll pick up the final documents on the way downtown,” she advised. “I suggest we go out and get some lunch, then work our way downtown via my office.”

“Any luck with the college?” Paul asked Katherine.

“The Mother Superior is going to call me back this afternoon. But I think I’ll drive out there and talk to her. It’s always harder to turn someone down when you have to look them in the eye.”

“You’re not going downtown with me?” Wendy asked, a tremble sounding in her voice.

Katherine walked behind Wendy seated at the dining table. She rested her hands on her shoulders and said, “This is the time for lawyers. I would just be in the way. But I’ll see you tonight.”

Wendy placed a hand on one of Katherine’s hands.

Paul, Sylvia, and Wendy walked outside to Paul’s Cadillac. Paul’s cell phone rang as he opened the driver’s door. The women got into the car.

“Hello?” Paul said.

“Paul, it’s Gail Moskowitz. I’ve got bad news.”

“I didn’t expect the area supervisor to cooperate, but thanks for the effort.”

“No, you don’t understand. The area supervisor’s name was Donald Matson. He was murdered last night, almost right in front of his home. Two shots to the head at close range. At first the police thought it might be a robbery because his wallet was missing. They found it in a nearby trash can. But what’s strange is that Matson still had on a very expensive watch and ring. At this point the police aren’t certain about motive.”

“Holy . . . . What the hell!”

“Everyone’s kind of shell-shocked around here.”

“I can imagine,” Paul said. “I’m sorry. Thanks for calling.”

“Good luck, Paul. I hope things work out for your client.”

Paul got into his car. He needed to call Edward and tell him what had happened as soon as possible, so that he wouldn’t harbor unrealistic hopes for a solution from that quarter. But he didn’t want to have that conversation while Wendy was in the car. Hearing about a murder, even if it had nothing to do with her, might unnerve her. He waited until they arrived at the police headquarters. It was 2:45 p.m.

“I need to place a call,” Paul told Sylvia. “I’ll be right up.”

Paul dialed Edward’s office number and the receptionist transferred the call to Edward’s cell. “Can you talk?” Paul asked.

“I’m at the
Journal
. I’ve got an appointment with the business editor in five minutes. Why?”

“I got a call from my contact at the FDIC; I asked her to check with the Philadelphia area supervisor about interceding at Broad Street National Bank about your loan. But she never had the chance to talk to him. He was shot and killed last night in front of his home. Fellow named Donald Matson.”

“My God! Do they know who did it?”

“No, not yet. They thought it might be a robbery gone wrong, but now they’re not so sure.”

“Strange.”

“It’s a big city, Eddie. Murders happen every day. Sorry to bring you bad news. I really hoped the local FDIC supervisor would get involved.”

“About par for the course lately.”

Edward sat down with Kelly Loughridge at
The Philadelphia Journal
newspaper offices. Loughridge, a heavy-set woman with long, thick auburn hair and glasses, wore khaki slacks, a peasant blouse, and Birkenstocks. Her only accessories were a turquoise and silver etched Zuni bracelet and a pencil stuck behind an ear. It was obvious from the woman’s body language and skeptical expression she wasn’t happy about spending time with Edward. He thought she probably agreed to see him only because of the business Winter Enterprises had done with the paper.

“Thanks for your time, Ms. Loughridge,” he said. “I’ll make this quick.”

Edward handed her a summary of what was happening to his company at the hands of Broad Street National Bank and what bankers had told him about the demands of the regulators.

“If you’ll read this over, you should wonder what the heck is going on. Think about what they’re doing to us and imagine the impact of this sort of behavior on the overall community.”

Loughridge tapped her computer keyboard and then swiveled the screen so Edward could see it. “You know we’ve done a series of articles on the regulators taking over area banks?”

“Yes, I’ve read them. But all those articles approached the situation from the bankers’ viewpoint. You interviewed the former owners of banks taken over by the government and the new owners the regulators brought in. But you’ve never done any stories from the perspective of bank customers, business owners.”

She considered Edward’s comment. “Interesting. That might have some appeal to our readers.”

She fiddled with her keyboard again and pulled up a story headlined: FEDS TAKE OVER BROAD STREET NATIONAL.

Edward remembered the article from last Sunday’s edition. “Not a happy day for me.”

“Any suggestions of who we should talk with?” Loughridge asked.

“I included a list of names on the last page of the write-up I gave you.”

“Thanks. We’ll consider doing something.”

Edward stood and shook her hand. He started turning to leave when he glanced at Loughridge’s computer screen. Something caught his attention. He leaned in closer. In the first paragraph of the story, the writer had quoted Donald Matson.

“I just heard that Matson, the FDIC guy, was shot and killed last night.”

Loughridge looked at the screen. “I heard someone got shot out off Ridge Pike yesterday, but I didn’t make the connection. Interesting.”

“Anyway, let me know if I can be of assistance,” Edward said and walked out.

Kelly Loughridge had been a newspaper woman for twenty years. Naturally curious and suspicious, she didn’t believe in innocent coincidences. She plugged Donald Matson’s name into the newspaper’s database, skimming the string of references his name popped up on her screen. After discarding the citations that were obviously not the FDIC’s Matson, she collected the balance of fifteen and sent them to the printer. An instinct told her there might be something to Winter’s story, but there might be more to the Matson story. She’d wasted a lot of time over her career chasing wild geese, but a few of those geese had yielded great stories. She stacked the printed articles and shoved them into her briefcase. “A loaf of bread, a glass of wine and thou,” she muttered, although “thou” was more often home work rather than human companionship.

Detective Anthony Castiglia had gone through Wendy Folsom’s file without saying a word or showing any emotion, not changing his expression when he picked up the photographs of Wendy. When he finished reading the documents, he closed the file, looked at Wendy, finally reacting. “I gave a heads up to the D.A. that I might need one of his people. I think there’s plenty of cause here to have them send an assistant D.A. to meet with us.”

Sylvia Young exhaled in relief. “That’s what I hoped you’d say.”

Castiglia chuckled and said, “You’ve never brought me a bum case, Sylvia.” Then Castiglia turned to Wendy. “I’ll recommend to the D.A. that he issue an arrest warrant for your husband; I’ll serve that warrant as soon as I get it. After looking at these photographs, I’m going to enjoy throwing Mr. Folsom into jail. But I don’t want to waste our time here.

“With Folsom’s wealth, after I arrest him, I doubt he’ll be held more than overnight. He’ll probably be lawyered up in ten minutes. I suspect the last thing Folsom wants is the negative publicity that would follow his arrest. His lawyers will offer you a settlement to drop the charges and to make a public statement that you and your husband had a misunderstanding. And if that doesn’t work, he’ll bring charges against you that’ll make you look like Jack the Ripper and Mata Hari, all wrapped into one.

“I need to know, Mrs. Folsom, if you’re committed to the long haul on this case. If you want to work out a settlement with your husband, and are using the police department as a negotiating tool, then we’re done here.”

Wendy said, “I suspect Gerald abused his previous wives, and that he would keep on abusing women. I can’t let that happen. And one other thing: I’m tired of being a victim.”

“Do you have a prenuptial agreement with your husband?” Castiglia asked.

Wendy blushed and nodded. “I get $5 million, no questions asked, if we get divorced.”

Castiglia whistled. “And what’s your husband worth?” he said.

“I don’t know for sure, but a newspaper story about his business a couple years ago estimated his net worth at several hundred million dollars.”

“Why don’t you take the $5 million and run? Avoid the aggravation.”

Wendy narrowed her eyes and glared at Castiglia. “You’re beginning to piss me off.”

Castiglia blurted a laugh. “That’s what I wanted to hear. So you’re in this until the end?”

“Absolutely.”

Castiglia stood and thanked them. “I’ll get on this right away.”

After Paul, Sylvia, and Wendy left, Castiglia picked up his phone and dialed D.A. Lincoln Marx’s number. “Lincoln, it’s time to send over that Assistant D.A.”

Marx asked, “Is the case good?”

“Oh yeah, Lincoln. It’s got power, money, sex, violence, intrigue. Best seller material. In fact, you might want to try this one yourself. The media’s going to be all over it.”