The Brethren (16 page)

The thought of going home had not crossed his mind. He headed for the shopping district, where packs of heavy American tourists choked the sidewalks. He needed shorts and a straw hat and a bottle of sunscreen.

Trevor eventually made it to the beach, where he found a room in a nice hotel, $200 a night but what did he care? He lathered himself in oil and stretched out by the pool, close enough to the bar. A waitress in a thong fetched him drinks.

He woke up after dark, sufficiently cooked but not burned. A security guard escorted him to his room, where he fell on the bed and returned to his coma. The sun was up again before he moved.

After such a long period of rest, he awoke surprisingly clearheaded, and very hungry. He ate some fruit and went looking for sailboats, not exactly shopping for one, but paying close attention to the details. A thirty-footer would be sufficient, just large enough to live on yet manageable by a crew of one. There would be no passengers; just the lonely skipper hopping from
island to island. The cheapest one he found was $90,000 and it needed some work.

Noon found him back at the pool with a cell phone trying to placate a client or two, but his heart wasn’t in it. The same waitress brought another drink. Off the phone, he hid behind dark sunshades and tried to crunch the numbers. But things were wonderfully dull between his ears.

In the past month he’d earned about $80,000 in tax-free graft. Could the pace continue? If so, he’d have his million bucks in a year, and he could abandon his office and what was left of his career, and he could buy his little boat and hit the sea.

For the first time ever, the dream almost seemed real. He could see himself at the wheel, shirtless, shoeless, cold beer at the ready, gliding across the water from St. Barts to St. Kitts, from Nevis to St. Lucia, from one island to a thousand others, wind popping his mainsail, not a damned thing in the world to worry about. He closed his eyes and longed even harder for an escape.

His snoring woke him. The thong was nearby. He ordered some rum and checked his watch.

Two days later Trevor finally made it back to Trumble. He arrived with mixed feelings. First, he was quite anxious to pick up the mail and facilitate the scam, anxious to keep the extortion going and the money rolling in. On the other hand, he was tardy and Judge Spicer would not be happy.

“Where the hell you been?” Spicer growled at him as soon as the guard left the attorney-conference
room. It seemed to be the standard question these days. “I’ve missed three games because of you, and I picked nothing but winners.”

“The Bahamas. We got a hundred thousand from Curtis in Dallas.”

Spicer’s mood changed dramatically. “It took three days to check on a wire in the Bahamas?” he asked.

“I needed a little rest. Didn’t know I was supposed to visit this place every day.”

Spicer was mellowing by the second. He’d just picked up another $22,000. It was safely tucked away with his other loot, in a place no one could find, and as he handed the lawyer yet another stack of pretty envelopes he was thinking of ways to spend the money.

“Aren’t we busy,” Trevor said, taking the letters.

“Any complaints? You’re making more than we are.”

“I have more to lose than you do.”

Spicer handed over a sheet of paper. “I’ve picked ten games here. Five hundred bucks on each.”

Great, thought Trevor. Another long weekend at Pete’s, watching one game after another. Oh well, there could be worse things. They played blackjack at a dollar a hand until the guard broke up the meeting.

Trevor’s increased visits had been discussed by the warden and the higher-ups at the Bureau of Prisons in Washington. Paperwork had been created on the subject. Restrictions had been contemplated, but then abandoned. The visits were useless, and besides, the warden didn’t want to alienate the Brethren. Why pick a fight?

The lawyer was harmless. After a few phone calls
around Jacksonville they decided that Trevor was basically unknown and probably had nothing better to do than hang out in the attorney-conference room of a prison.

The money gave new life to Beech and Yarber. Spending it would necessarily entail getting to it, and that would require they one day walk away as free men, free to do whatever they wanted with their growing fortunes.

With $50,000 or so now in the bank, Yarber was busy plotting an investment portfolio. No sense letting it sit there at 5 percent per annum, even if it was tax-free. One day very soon he’d roll it over into aggressive growth funds, with emphasis on the Far East. Asia would boom again, and his little pile of dirty money would be there to share in the wealth. He had five years to go, and if he earned between 12 and 15 percent on his money until then the $50,000 would grow to roughly $100,000 by the time he left Trumble. Not a bad start for a man who would be sixty-five, and hopefully still in good health.

But if he (and Percy and Ricky) could keep adding to the principal, he might indeed be rich when they turned him loose. Five lousy years—months and weeks he’d been dreading. Now he was suddenly wondering if he had enough time to extort all he needed. As Percy, he was writing letters to over twenty pen pals across North America. No two were in the same town. It was Spicer’s job to keep the victims separated. Maps were being used in the law library to make certain neither Percy nor Ricky was
corresponding with men who appeared to live near one another.

When he wasn’t writing letters, Yarber caught himself thinking about the money. Thankfully, the divorce papers from his wife had come and gone. He’d be officially single in a few months, and by the time he was paroled she’d have long since forgotten about him. Nothing would be shared. He’d be free to walk away without a single string attached.

Five years, and he had so much work to do. He’d cut out the sugar and walk an extra mile each day.

In the darkness of his top bunk, during sleepless nights, Hatlee Beech had done the same math as his colleagues. Fifty thousand dollars in hand, a healthy rate of return somewhere, add to the principal by squeezing from as many victims as they could catch, and one day there’d be a fortune. Beech had nine years, a marathon that once seemed endless. Now there was a flicker of hope. The death sentence they’d handed him was slowly becoming a time of harvest. Conservatively, if the scam netted him only $100,000 a year for the next nine years, plus a healthy rate of return, then he’d be a multimillionaire when he danced through the gates, also at the age of sixty-five.

Two, three, four million was not out of the question.

He knew exactly what he’d do. Since he loved Texas, he’d go to Galveston and buy one of those ancient Victorians near the sea, and he’d invite old friends to stop by and see how rich he was. Forget the law, he’d put in twelve-hour days working the money,
nothing but work, nothing but money, so that by the time he was seventy he’d have more than his ex-wife.

For the first time in years, Hatlee Beech thought he might live to see sixty-five, maybe seventy.

He, too, gave up sugar, and butter, and he cut his cigarettes in half with the goal of going cold turkey real soon. He vowed to stay away from the infirmary and stop taking pills. He began walking a mile every day, in the sun, like his colleague from California. And he wrote his letters, he and Ricky.

And Justice Spicer, already equipped with sufficient motivation, was finding it difficult to sleep. He wasn’t plagued by guilt or loneliness or humiliation, nor was he depressed by the indignity of prison. He was simply counting money, and juggling rates of return, and analyzing point spreads. With twenty-one months to go, he could see the end.

His lovely wife Rita had passed through the week before, and they’d spent four hours together over two days. She’d cut her hair, stopped drinking, and lost eighteen pounds, and she promised to be even skinnier when she picked him up at the front gate in less than two years. After four hours with her, Joe Roy was convinced the $90,000 was still buried behind the toolshed.

They’d move to Vegas, buy a new condo, and say to hell with the rest of the world.

With the Percy-and-Ricky scam working so well, Spicer had found a new worry. He’d leave Trumble first, happily, gladly, without looking back. But what about the money to be made after he was gone? If the scam was still printing money, what would happen to
his share of the future earnings, money he was clearly entitled to? It had been, after all, his idea, one he’d borrowed from the prison in Louisiana. Beech and Yarber had been reluctant conspirators at first.

He had time to devise an exit strategy, just as he had time to contrive a way to get rid of the lawyer. But it would cost him some sleep.

The letter from Quince Garbe in Iowa was read by Beech: “ ‘Dear Ricky (or whoever the hell you are): I don’t have any more money. The first $100,000 was borrowed from a bank using a bogus financial statement. I’m not sure how I’ll pay it back. My father owns our bank and all its money. Why don’t you write him some letters, you thug! I can possibly scrape together $10,000 if we can agree that the extortion will stop there. I’m on the verge of suicide, so don’t push. You’re scum, you know that. I hope you get caught. Sincerely, Quince Garbe.’ ”

“Sounds pretty desperate,” Yarber said, looking up from his own pile of mail.

Spicer said, toothpick hanging from his bottom lip, “Tell him we’ll take twenty-five thousand.”

“I’ll write him and tell him to wire it,” Beech said, opening another envelope addressed to Ricky.

FIFTEEN

D
uring lunch, when experience had shown that traffic picked up somewhat at Mailbox America, an agent nonchalantly entered the place behind two other customers, and for the second time that day placed a key in Box 455. Lying on top of three pieces of junk mail—one from a pizza carryout, one from a car wash, one from the U.S. Postal Service—he noticed something new. It was an envelope, light orange in color, five by eight. With a pair of tweezers he kept on his key ring, he clamped the end of the envelope, slid it quickly from the box, and dropped it in a small leather briefcase. The junk mail was left undisturbed.

At Langley, it was carefully opened by experts. Two handwritten pages were removed, and copied.

An hour later, Deville entered Teddy’s bunker, holding a file. Deville was in charge of what was commonly referred to, deep inside Langley, as the “Lake mess.” He gave copies of the letter to Teddy and York, then scanned it to a large screen, where Teddy and York at first just stared at it. The printing was bold, in
block form, easily readable, as if the author had labored over each word. It read:

Dear Al:

Where you been? Did you get my last letter? I wrote three weeks ago and I haven’t heard a word. I guess you’re busy, but please don’t forget about me. I get very lonely here, and your letters have always inspired me to keep going. They give me strength and hope because I know somebody out there cares. Please don’t give up on me, Al.

My counselor says that I might be released in two months. There’s a halfway house in Baltimore, actually a few miles from where I grew up, and the people here are trying to get me a spot there. It would be for ninety days, enough time for me to find a job, some friends, etc., you know, get used to society again. It’s a lockdown place at night, but I’d be free during the day.

There aren’t many good memories, Al. Every person who ever loved me is now dead, and my uncle, the guy who’s paying for this rehab, is very rich but very cruel.

I need friends so desperately, Al.

By the way, I’ve lost another five pounds, and my waist is now a thirty-two. The photo I sent you is getting outdated. I’ve never liked the way my face looks in it—too much flesh on the cheeks.

I’m much leaner now, and tanned. They let us tan for up to two hours a day here, weather permitting. It’s Florida, but some days are too cool. I’ll send you another photo, maybe one from the
chest up. I’m lifting weights like crazy. I think you’ll like the next photo.

You said you would send me one of you. I’m still waiting. Please don’t forget me, Al. I need one of your letters.

Love, Ricky

Since York had had the responsibility of investigating every aspect of Lake’s life, he felt compelled to try and speak first. But he could think of nothing to say. They read the letter in silence again, and again.

Finally, Deville broke the ice by saying, “Here’s the envelope.” He flashed it on the wall. It was addressed to Mr. Al Konyers, at Mailbox America. The return address was: Ricky, Aladdin North, P.O. Box 44683, Neptune Beach, FL 32233.

“It’s a front,” Deville said. “There’s no such place as Aladdin North. There’s a telephone number, and you get an answering service. We’ve called ten times with questions, but the operators know nothing. We’ve called every rehab and treatment clinic in North Florida, and no one’s heard of this place.”

Teddy was silent, still staring at the wall.

“Where’s Neptune Beach?” York grunted.

“Jacksonville.”

Deville was excused, but told to stand by. Teddy began making notes on a green legal pad. “There are other letters, and at least one photo,” he said, as if the problem were just part of the routine. Panic was a state unknown to Teddy Maynard.

“We have to find them,” he said.

“We’ve done two thorough searches of his home,” York said.

“Then do a third. I doubt if he would keep such stuff at his office.”

“How soon—”

“Do it now. Lake is in California looking for votes. We have no time on this, York. There may be other secret boxes, other men writing letters and bragging about their tans and waistlines.”

“Do you confront him?”

“Not yet.”

Since they had no sample of Mr. Konyers’ handwriting, Deville made a suggestion that Teddy eventually liked. They would use the ruse of a new laptop, one with a built-in printer. The first draft was composed by Deville and York, and after an hour or so the fourth draft read as follows: