Shell Game (Stand Alone 2) (18 page)

Gerald Folsom was so frustrated he couldn’t focus. It was 6 p.m. and he’d been drinking for an hour, fuming. He couldn’t find Wendy, and as long as she was walking around she was a threat. Jefferson had come through with the hit on Matson, eliminating that potential liability. Folsom chuckled. It cost him ten grand to have Matson hit, and he had Matson’s two million plus dollars sitting in his vault. Not a bad investment. Folsom knew with Matson out of the picture he might not get future special treatment from the Feds. But he’d made a fortune off his relationship with them and he’d performed well. He wasn’t worried about competing for future deals; he’d get his share.

But he was worried about Wendy. His previous wives both jumped ship when he began roughing them up. Folsom had to admit, however, that neither of them had been treated as badly as Wendy. She had been turned on by rough sex in the beginning, which stimulated even more violence. When he beat her, he’d always show remorse afterward, and she always forgave him. Another sucker, Folsom thought, just like Frank Winter and Winter’s kid. But he’d never beaten any woman like he’d beaten Wendy last weekend.

He knew he’d screwed up. He should have locked her up in one of the rooms in the attic until her injuries had healed. Then he remembered that the night Donald Matson had called about the damn safety deposit box, Folsom had intended to work Wendy over again. He suspected that if he had not been called away, he would have killed her. The thought gave him a sick thrill.

He poured himself another scotch. If he couldn’t focus, at least he could get drunk. Maybe the booze would help him sleep through the night. Downing the drink in one gulp, he reached for the bottle again. But the gate bell rang, interrupting him. Lurching to his feet and swaying slightly, Folsom walked to the intercom speaker in the bar and, pushing a button, shouted, “We don’t want any. Go the fuck away.”

“Gerald Folsom?” a man demanded.

“Who wants to know?”

“The Philadelphia Police Department wants to know. Open the gate; we need to talk.”

“What’s this about?” Folsom asked, momentarily worried that the cops had somehow tied him to Matson’s murder. He told himself that was impossible. Even if Toothpick Jefferson tried to implicate him, there was no proof of his involvement.

“Open the gate, Mr. Folsom. Now!”

“Hold on.”

Folsom pressed a button that opened the front gate. He realized he was still holding the scotch bottle and returned it to the liquor cabinet before opening the front door and waiting for the police in the entryway. He tried to come up with a reason why the cops were here. A sudden thought hit him. Maybe Toothpick had found Wendy on his own and the cops were here to inform him of his wife’s death. He started laughing, but quickly composed himself, remembering that the cop’s tone hadn’t sounded too sympathetic. And he noticed there were two cars coming up the driveway—one patrol vehicle and an unmarked.

Two uniformed officers got out of the first car, one white, the other black. They both looked like weight lifters, with muscles stretching their tailored uniform shirts. Two men in suits got out of the second one. One of them was a short, slightly overweight black man of about fifty years of age. The other was twenty years younger, tall, rail-thin, and white. The older detective presented his identification and said, “My name is Detective Simon Carruthers. My partner here is Detective Bobby Duncan. Step down into the driveway, Mr. Folsom.”

Folsom was getting worried now. He walked down the three steps to the driveway. “What’s going on?” he asked, truly confused.

The two officers circled behind Folsom as the detective announced, “Gerald Folsom, you’re under arrest for the assault and battery and attempted murder of Wendy Folsom.”

Folsom felt the cops grab his arms and pull them behind him and cuffs snapped on his wrists. Detective Carruthers read Folsom his rights.

“I want to call my lawyer,” Folsom cried.

“You’ll have the chance to do that once you’re downtown.” Then he told Folsom, “We have a search warrant which we’re going to execute now. “Bobby,” Detective Carruthers said to the other detective, “why don’t you start the search on the top floor? I’ll start on the ground level. We’re looking for anything with blood on it.”

Edward had had a difficult and disappointing day. Two newspaper editors, two television station producers, and a radio station producer had treated him respectfully, but he’d felt patronized all the same. He decided he needed to be around people he loved, and who loved him. At 6 p.m., he called his wife and mother as he drove back from his last media appointment, and suggested they go out for a good meal. He told them he’d pick them up around seven o’clock.

He didn’t want to think or talk about banks or regulators or even Winter Enterprises at dinner; all he wanted was to enjoy his wife and mother’s company.

On the drive to his house, against his will, Edward’s mind wandered back to the company. Paul Sanders had told him that legal maneuvering could delay any action the bank might take. But, to Edward, that was just postponing the inevitable. He was quickly becoming fatalistic about his company. No, he wasn’t going to stop fighting, but he sure as hell wasn’t going to be unrealistic.

Shaking his head, he told himself over and over again, “No business talk tonight. No business talk tonight. No business talk tonight.”

After picking up Betsy, he drove to his mother’s home and from there they drove to a local Italian restaurant. “Gee, I thought we’d eat at one of our Hot N’ Chili restaurants,” Katherine said after they’d been seated. “You said you’d take us out for a good meal.”

Betsy laughed. “Yeah, little Eddie needs to get used to eating spicy food.”

Edward gave his wife a strange look. “‘Little Eddie’? Since when do you call me Little Eddie?”

“I wasn’t referring to you, dummy. I was talking about our son.”

“Son? Since when?”

“Since this afternoon when I had the ultrasound.”

“Oh my God, Betsy. I’m so sorry, I forgot all about it.”

Betsy reached out and patted his hand. “You’ve got a lot on your mind.”

“Dammit! That’s no excuse, I—”

Katherine interrupted, saying, “This is wonderful news. I am so happy we can celebrate together.” She shot a mischievous smile at Betsy and added, “I can’t wait to see how you make my son pay for missing the doctor’s appointment today.”

“Hey now,” Edward protested jokingly, “You’re my mother. You’re supposed to support me.”

Katherine jabbed a finger at her son. “Listen, Buster, once Betsy gives me my first grandchild, you’ll be lucky to get a hello from me.”

Edward smiled at his mother and took his wife’s hand. “I’m going to order a bottle of champagne to help us celebrate.”

“Boy, you’re on a winning streak,” Betsy said. “You know I can’t drink while I’m pregnant.”

Edward playfully slapped his cheek before raising his hand and signaling their waiter. When the man came over, Edward said, “Three orange juices, please.”

While waiting for their drinks, Katherine said, “I have more good news. Carrie’s coming home on leave next week. I’ve known about this for a few days and never seem to have the chance to tell you.”

“I’ve been so preoccupied,” Edward said, feeling guilty.

“Oh, come on, son. We understand. You need to keep on doing what you’re doing. Something good will come out of all of this. Remember that good things come in threes. We learned tonight you’re having a son, Carrie’s coming home, and . . . .” She spread her arms. “I’m confident the third good thing is just around the corner.”

Kelly Loughridge tucked her feet underneath her and stared at the wine glass in her hand. It was already 8:15 p.m. and she was fighting an internal struggle: Finish the wine and go to bed, or finish the wine and read the articles she’d copied and brought home. It wasn’t much of a struggle. Work always came first with her.

She retrieved her briefcase, took out the copies she’d made before leaving the office along with a pen and notepad, and returned to the couch. She methodically went through the fifteen articles that mentioned Donald Matson. The first two articles dealt with speeches he had given at conferences over the past fifteen years ago. The third article quoted Matson at a press conference in 1996 where he’d announced the federal government’s successful sale of $200 million of secured notes from banks the Feds had closed. He’d declined to release the sale price in response to a reporter’s question.

Loughridge flipped to the next article: Another loan sale two years later.

An article from 2000 covered the sale of a bank in Long Beach Island, New Jersey, the FDIC had taken over: $1 billion in assets. This time the buyer was announced: Folsom Financial Corporation. Loughridge knew that name well. Her paper had printed several articles about the Feds turning over Broad Street National Bank to Folsom Financial Corporation. The reporter on the story had tried to interview Gerald Folsom, but had been stonewalled.

The sixth article, from 2005, mentioned that Matson had been promoted to the head of the FDIC’s regional office in Philadelphia.

The next two articles were fluff pieces about local charities; Matson sat on the boards of directors. Loughridge tossed those on the floor.

Then another four articles between 2006 and 2008 about loan pool sales with face values of $300 million, $1 billion, $1.2 billion, and $800 million, respectively. Again, no mention of the sale price of the pools or who bought them.

Finally, the last three articles dealt with banks the federal government had taken over and sold to investors. In 2009, the first bank, a community bank in Edina, Minnesota, was sold to a bank located in Anoka, Minnesota. The other two articles were about a bank takeover in Atlanta, Georgia, in 2009 and the Broad Street National takeover in Philadelphia this year. The buyer of the last two banks was Folsom Financial Corporation.

Loughridge went back through the articles and made notes. She drew a diagram with Matson’s name at the top of a legal pad and Folsom Financial written at the bottom. In between, she wrote in the names of the banks Folsom Financial had purchased from the federal government and the dates of each of those events. She circled each one. Three sales to Folsom between 2000 and 2011 in New Jersey, Georgia, and Pennsylvania. She turned to the next page in her notebook and wrote a series of questions and things she needed to do:

Were there other banks sold to Folsom Financial? Check database for Folsom references.

Find contact at FDIC. Ask about its relationship with Folsom.

Did Matson & Folsom have a personal relationship? Assign staff reporter to check.

Talk to crime beat reporter covering Matson murder.

She nearly closed her notebook when another two thoughts hit her. She added:

Who were the investors on the loan pool sales mentioned in the articles? Ask FDIC contact.

Call Edward Winter.

FRIDAY

JULY 22, 2011

Attorney Jeffrey Rose didn’t normally chauffeur his clients around, except for the occasional really big fish. Gerald Folsom was one of those really big fish. Plus, the charges against Folsom had already fomented a media storm that Rose knew he would benefit from. Rose shifted excitedly, dressed in his trademark blue suit, blue and gold striped tie, and black Santoni tasseled loafers. His brilliantly white teeth set off his perpetual tan.

Rose drove to police headquarters and parked in an official police space. He didn’t care about parking tickets; he’d just get them fixed. Besides, no cop would ticket a $400,000 Maybach sedan.

By the time Rose bailed Folsom out of jail at 10 a.m., his client was fuming and barely coherent.

“Those bastards kept me locked up all night with a bunch of perverts,” Folsom complained.

Rose pulled him aside, away from others’ hearing. “Listen carefully, Gerald. There are a dozen reporters out on the front steps. Fucking sharks smelling blood in the water. They want to turn this into a feeding frenzy, with you being the food. You need to let me handle the media; don’t say a word out there. No whining about the police, no comments about your wife, no nothin’. I know how to deal with those guys. You understand?”

“I’m going to sue the fuckin’—”

Rose stopped Folsom with a raised hand. “We’ll do the suing later. Right now, you need to calm down.”

Folsom’s face went beet-red, but he finally nodded and said, “I got it. Let’s get this over with.”

Rose preceded Folsom outside. The reporters started lobbing questions at them, sounding like a class full of five-year-olds.

Rose raised a hand for silence. When the noise subsided, he said, “I’ve got a statement to make. Neither my client nor I will answer any questions, so take good notes.” He smiled his best bullshit smile and made eye contact with the reporters.

“I have represented thousands of clients over the past thirty years. Both the innocent and the guilty.” He smiled widely again and then continued. “But never in my long career have I ever seen a greater abuse of the U.S. justice system than the charges brought against Mr. Folsom. My client is innocent, a kind and loving husband who has been generous to a fault to his wife. My client brought a penniless young woman into his life and treated her like a queen. But I guess the $20,000 a month he gives her isn’t enough. So she brings scurrilous charges against him in a desperate attempt to extort money out of a successful man, and I am surprised the District Attorney would be a party to such a travesty. I will have more to say on a later date. Thank you.”