The Brethren (2 page)

“That’s a lie,” said Whiz.

“Quiet,” said Justice Spicer. “You’ll get your chance.”

“He’s lying,” Whiz said, as if there was a rule against it.

If Whiz had money, you’d never know it, at least not on the inside. His eight-by-twelve cell was bare except for stacks of financial publications. No stereo, fan, books, cigarettes, none of the usual assets acquired by almost everyone else. This only added to the legend. He was considered a miser, a weird little man who saved every penny and was no doubt stashing everything offshore.

“Anyway,” Rook continued, “we decided to gamble by taking a big position in ValueNow. Our strategy was to liquidate our holdings and consolidate.”

“Consolidate?” asked Justice Beech. Rook sounded like a portfolio manager who handled billions.

“Right, consolidate. We borrowed all we could from friends and family, and had close to a thousand bucks.”

“A thousand bucks,” repeated Justice Spicer. Not bad for an inside job. “Then what happened?”

“I told Whiz over there that we were ready to
move. Could he get us the stock? This was on a Tuesday. The offering was on a Friday. Whiz said no problem. Said he had a buddy at Goldman Sux or some such place that could take care of us.”

“That’s a lie,” Whiz shot from across the room.

“Anyway, on Wednesday I saw Whiz in the east yard, and I asked him about the stock. He said no problem.”

“That’s a lie.”

“I got a witness.”

“Who?” asked Justice Spicer.

“Picasso.”

Picasso was sitting behind Rook, as were the other six members of the investment club. Picasso reluctantly waved his hand.

“Is that true?” Spicer asked.

“Yep,” Picasso answered. “Rook asked about the stock. Whiz said he would get it. No problem.”

Picasso testified in a lot of cases, and had been caught lying more than most inmates.

“Continue,” Spicer said.

“Anyway, Thursday I couldn’t find Whiz anywhere. He was hiding from me.”

“I was not.”

“Friday, the stock goes public. It was offered at twenty a share, the price we could’ve bought it for if Mr. Wall Street over there had done what he promised. It opened at sixty, spent most of the day at eighty, then closed at seventy. Our plans were to sell it as soon as possible. We could’ve bought fifty shares at twenty, sold them at eighty, and walked away from the deal with three thousand dollars in profits.”

Violence was very rare at Trumble. Three thousand dollars would not get you killed, but some bones might be broken. Whiz had been lucky so far. There’d been no ambush.

“And you think the Whiz owes you these lost profits?” asked ex-Chief Justice Finn Yarber, now plucking his eyebrows.

“Damned right we do. Look, what makes the deal stink even worse is that Whiz bought ValueNow for himself.”

“That’s a damned lie,” Whiz said.

“Language, please,” Justice Beech said. If you wanted to lose a case before the Brethren, just offend Beech with your language.

The rumors that Whiz had bought the stock for himself had been started by Rook and his gang. There was no proof of it, but the story had proved irresistible and had been repeated by most inmates so often that it was now established as fact. It fit so nicely.

“Is that all?” Spicer asked Rook.

Rook had other points he wanted to elaborate on, but the Brethren had no patience with windy litigants. Especially ex-lawyers still reliving their glory days. There were at least five of them at Trumble, and they seemed to be on the docket all the time.

“I guess so,” Rook said.

“What do you have to say?” Spicer asked the Whiz.

Whiz stood and took a few steps toward their table. He glared at his accusers, Rook and his gang of losers. Then he addressed the court. “What’s the burden of proof here?”

Justice Spicer immediately lowered his eyes and
waited for help. As a Justice of the Peace, he’d had no legal training. He’d never finished high school, then worked for twenty years in his father’s country store. That’s where the votes came from. Spicer relied on common sense, which was often at odds with the law. Any questions dealing with legal theory would be handled by his two colleagues.

“It’s whatever we say it is,” Justice Beech said, relishing a debate with a stockbroker on the court’s rules of procedure.

“Clear and convincing proof?” asked the Whiz.

“Could be, but not in this case.”

“Beyond a reasonable doubt?”

“Probably not.”

“Preponderance of the evidence?”

“Now you’re getting close.”

“Then, they have no proof,” the Whiz said, waving his hands like a bad actor in a bad TV drama.

“Why don’t you just tell us your side of the story?” said Beech.

“I’d love to. ValueNow was a typical online offering, lots of hype, lots of red ink on the books. Sure Rook came to me, but by the time I could make my calls, the offering was closed. I called a friend who told me you couldn’t get near the stock. Even the big boys were shut out.”

“Now, how does that happen?” asked Justice Yarber.

The room was quiet. The Whiz was talking money, and everyone was listening.

“Happens all the time in IPOs. That’s initial public offerings.”

“We know what an IPO is,” Beech said.

Spicer certainly did not. Didn’t have many of those back in rural Mississippi.

The Whiz relaxed, just a little. He could dazzle them for a moment, win this nuisance of a case, then go back to his cave and ignore them.

“The ValueNow IPO was handled by the investment banking firm of Bakin-Kline, a small outfit in San Francisco. Five million shares were offered. Bakin-Kline basically presold the stock to its preferred customers and friends, so that most big investment firms never had a shot at the stock. Happens all the time.”

The judges and the inmates, even the court jester, hung on every word.

He continued. “It’s silly to think that some disbarred yahoo sitting in prison, reading an old copy of
Forbes
, can somehow buy a thousand dollars’ worth of ValueNow.”

And at that very moment it did indeed seem very silly. Rook fumed while his club members began quietly blaming him.

“Did you buy any of it?” asked Beech.

“Of course not. I couldn’t get near it. And besides, most of the high-tech and online companies are built with funny money. I stay away from them.”

“What do you prefer?” Beech asked quickly, his curiosity getting the better of him.

“Value. The long haul. I’m in no hurry. Look, this is a bogus case brought by some boys looking for an easy buck.” He waved toward Rook, who was sinking in his chair. The Whiz sounded perfectly believable and legitimate.

Rook’s case was built on hearsay, speculation, and the corroboration of Picasso, a notorious liar.

“You got any witnesses?” Spicer asked.

“I don’t need any,” the Whiz said, and took his seat.

Each of the three justices scribbled something on a slip of paper. Deliberations were quick, verdicts instantaneous. Yarber and Beech slid theirs to Spicer, who announced, “By a vote of two to one, we find for the defendant. Case dismissed. Who’s next?”

The vote was actually unanimous, but every verdict was officially two to one. That allowed each of the three a little wiggle room if later confronted.

But the Brethren were well regarded around Trumble. Their decisions were quick and as fair as they could make them. In fact, they were remarkably accurate in light of the shaky testimony they often heard. Spicer had presided over small cases for years, in the back of his family’s country store. He could spot a liar at fifty feet. Beech and Yarber had spent their careers in courtrooms, and had no tolerance for lengthy arguments and delays, the usual tactics.

“That’s all today,” T. Karl reported. “End of docket.”

“Very well. Court is adjourned until next week.”

T. Karl jumped to his feet, his curls again vibrating across his shoulders, and declared, “Court’s adjourned. All rise.”

No one stood, no one moved as the Brethren left the room. Rook and his gang were huddled, no doubt planning their next lawsuit. The Whiz left quickly.

The assistant warden and the guard eased away without being seen. The weekly docket was one of the better shows at Trumble.

TWO

T
hough he’d served in Congress for fourteen years, Aaron Lake still drove his own car around Washington. He didn’t need or want a chauffeur, or an aide, or a bodyguard. Sometimes an intern would ride with him and take notes, but for the most part Lake enjoyed the tranquillity of sitting in D.C. traffic while listening to classical guitar on the stereo. Many of his friends, especially those who’d achieved the status of a Mr. Chairman or a Mr. Vice Chairman, had larger cars with drivers. Some even had limos.

Not Lake. It was a waste of time and money and privacy. If he ever sought higher office, he certainly didn’t want the baggage of a chauffeur wrapped around his neck. Besides, he enjoyed being alone. His office was a madhouse. He had fifteen people bouncing off the walls, answering phones, opening files, serving the folks back in Arizona who’d sent him to Washington. Two more did nothing but raise money. Three interns managed to further clog his narrow corridors and take up more time than they deserved.

He was single, a widower, with a quaint little
townhouse in Georgetown that he was very fond of. He lived quietly, occasionally stepping into the social scene that had attracted him and his late wife in the early years.

He followed the Beltway, the traffic slow and cautious because of a light snow. He was quickly cleared through CIA security at Langley, and was very pleased to see a preferred parking space waiting for him, along with two plainclothes security personnel.

“Mr. Maynard is waiting,” one of them said gravely, opening his car door while the other took his briefcase. Power did have its perks.

Lake had never met with the CIA director at Langley. They’d conferred twice on the Hill, years earlier, back when the poor guy could get around. Teddy Maynard was in a wheelchair and in constant pain, and even senators got themselves driven out to Langley anytime he needed them. He’d called Lake a half-dozen times in fourteen years, but Maynard was a busy man. His light-lifting was usually handled by associates.

Security barriers collapsed all around the congressman as he and his escorts worked their way into the depths of the CIA headquarters. By the time Lake arrived at Mr. Maynard’s suite, he was walking a bit taller, with just a trace of a swagger. He couldn’t help it. Power was intoxicating.

Teddy Maynard had sent for him.

Inside the room, a large, square, windowless place known unofficially as the bunker, the Director was sitting alone, looking blankly at a large screen
upon which the face of Congressman Aaron Lake was frozen. It was a recent photo, one taken at a black-tie fund-raiser three months earlier where Lake had half a glass of wine, ate baked chicken, no dessert, drove himself home, alone, and went to bed before eleven. The photo was appealing because Lake was so attractive—light red hair with almost no gray, hair that was not colored or tinted, a full hairline, dark blue eyes, square chin, really nice teeth. He was fifty-three years old and aging superbly. He did thirty minutes a day on a rowing machine and his cholesterol was 160. They hadn’t found a single bad habit. He enjoyed the company of women, especially when it was important to be seen with one. His steady squeeze was a sixty-year-old widow in Bethesda whose late husband had made a fortune as a lobbyist.

Both his parents were dead. His only child was a schoolteacher in Santa Fe. His wife of twenty-nine years had died in 1996 of ovarian cancer. A year later, his thirteen-year-old spaniel died too, and Congressman Aaron Lake of Arizona truly lived alone. He was Catholic, not that that mattered anymore, and he attended Mass at least once a week. Teddy pushed the button and the face disappeared.

Lake was unknown outside the Beltway, primarily because he’d kept his ego in check. If he had aspirations to higher office, they were closely guarded. His name had been mentioned once as a potential candidate for governor of Arizona, but he enjoyed Washington too much. He loved Georgetown—the crowds, the anonymity, the city life—good restaurants and cramped bookstores and espresso bars. He liked theatre
and music, and he and his late wife had never missed an event at the Kennedy Center.

On the Hill, Lake was known as a bright and hardworking congressman who was articulate, fiercely honest, and loyal, conscientious to a fault. Because his district was the home of four large defense contractors, he had become an expert on military hardware and readiness. He was Chairman of the House Committee on Armed Services, and it was in that capacity that he had come to know Teddy Maynard.

Teddy pushed the button again, and there was Lake’s face. For a fifty-year veteran of intelligence wars, Teddy seldom had a knot in his stomach. He’d dodged bullets, hidden under bridges, frozen in mountains, poisoned two Czech spies, shot a traitor in Bonn, learned seven languages, fought the cold war, tried to prevent the next one, had more adventures than any ten agents combined, yet looking at the innocent face of Congressman Aaron Lake he felt a knot.

He—the CIA—was about to do something the agency had never done before.

They’d started with a hundred senators, fifty governors, four hundred and thirty-five congressmen, all the likely suspects, and now there was only one. Representative Aaron Lake of Arizona.

Teddy flicked a button and the wall went blank. His legs were covered with a quilt. He wore the same thing every day—a V-necked navy sweater, white shirt, subdued bow tie. He rolled his wheelchair to a spot near the door, and prepared to meet his candidate.

During the eight minutes Lake was kept waiting, he was served coffee and offered a pastry, which he declined. He was six feet tall, weighed one-seventy, was fastidious about his appearance, and had he taken the pastry Teddy would’ve been surprised. As far as they could tell, Lake never ate sugar. Never.

His coffee was strong, though, and as he sipped it he reviewed a little research of his own. The purpose of the meeting was to discuss the alarming flow of black market artillery into the Balkans. Lake had two memos, eighty pages of double-spaced data he’d crunched until two in the morning. He wasn’t sure why Mr. Maynard wanted him to appear at Langley to discuss such a matter, but he was determined to be prepared.