The Substitution Order, page 37
“Correct. Well done.” He glances at Nelson. “Of course, it doesn’t really matter, because you’re bulletproof in terms of the swiped millions. Both Esther and I were at a loss to understand how the hell someone as accomplished as you would send forged court orders directly to a jail. Even high as a kite, you’d never make that mistake. I attributed it to the empty liquor bottles in your trash and, sorry to admit it, the fact that I believed you were a doper. You basically spotlighted your substance abuse for us by planting vodka bottles, and it became perfect misdirection. Everybody was more than willing to believe you were liquor-stupid enough to run, especially since you added the packed suitcase, cash withdrawals and Belarus search as window dressing—a nice touch.”
“You stuck with me as long as any friend or reasonable lawyer ever would. Maybe longer. I’m grateful. From your perspective, I was a fuckup.”
Ward finishes the Snickers bar. “So even if the state or Feds could prove you stole the 4.8 million, you’re sitting on agreements that give you complete criminal immunity. I checked the files: You can’t be prosecuted for crimes connected to any and all forged court orders received in Martinsville or Patrick County during the time period from September twenty-fifth until the date of your sentencing. ‘Any and all’ being the super-duper lawyer language. You and Esther even included immunity from state and federal theft charges in the plea agreements—”
“We were very thorough,” I say. “Nothing unusual about that, not with multiple jurisdictions involved and so many potential charges to address. Esther built in a little cushion for me in the plea wording, and the prosecutors were satisfied so long as my immunity was limited to forged court orders that were received in the two specific jurisdictions during a narrow date range.”
“True. It’s a beautiful piece of work. The prosecutors—and Esther—thought they were dealing with the bogus electronic-monitoring orders, but you were far more interested in the routine substitution order buried in your civil file. You intended to get busted; that’s why you served up the forged release orders on a silver platter. For six months extra in jail and three more felonies—and after one, what does it matter?—you hoodwinked everyone into accidentally letting you off the hook for the substitution order and the 4.8-million-dollar theft it made possible. You paid for three fake orders, but received four in the ‘any and all’ bargain. You can never be tried for stealing the money.”
“I didn’t forge any orders.” I recite the lie with a straight face.
“You were going to jail no matter what, so why not risk a few months more and become a millionaire in the process? Why not gain a whole lot of something from a nothing situation?”
I swat at a gnat. “Theoretically, I’d be a multimillionaire, not just a millionaire.”
“Can you imagine the conversation when Jenkins phoned Margo a week ago to finalize the seven-figure payday, and she thinks he’s pulling her leg or clowning around and says, ‘Hey, seriously, I received an e-mail from the adjuster telling me Culp had been paid and to close the file.’ ”
A cloud drifts off the sun, and I shade my eyes. “Margo’s a good lady.”
“It’ll be wild cards and a free-for-all now. I wonder what Culp and Flanagan will do? I doubt Jenkins will simply fold his tent and forgive the insurance company for sending his money to the wrong person.”
I stand again and turn so the sun isn’t blinding me. “This might help determine matters for Caleb and Melanie and Flanagan. Once the police do a little research, I’m predicting they’ll discover the 4.8 million landed in—and was withdrawn from—a fairly new Bahamian dummy account called S. Smith Holdings Carib. It’ll take them a while, there’ll be some international pushing and shoving, and a for-show squabble, but in the end, the bank will release the S. Smith name on the account.”
“Not sure I recall why that matters,” Ward says.
“Shadrich and the dove sister paid S. Smith Holdings the West Virginia money,” I remind him. “And remember, S. Smith has the verifiable Florida deal with FirstRate on the books. I’m also predicting the two S. Smith companies, the original S. Smith Holdings and the new S. Smith Holdings Carib, will have the exact same registered office in the Caymans. To close the circle, Flanagan’s money was sent from there, from the Caymans, and he was e-mailing MAB. So maybe I didn’t steal the money. Maybe Caleb and his FirstRate are the thieves—they have a connection with the suspicious offshore S. Smith name, not me. They could eliminate Jenkins’s hefty lawyer’s fee by diverting the cash to themselves. Or maybe Caleb double-crossed my dear Melanie Culp, snagged the whole check and cut her out. Certainly something to consider.”
“Son of a gun,” Ward says, but it’s restrained this time. “Damn, Kevin, that’s lethal. You created this second S. Smith company so you could use it to briefly land the money in Nassau and link everything and everyone together—a double bonus. This is some impressive, head-snapping, three-ring mojo. Wow. Melanie Culp will be on the receiving end of several pointed police questions, and she can’t simply vanish without looking like a fraud.” Ward stuffs the candy wrapper in his trouser pocket. “Think Lawyers Comp will come after you civilly?”
“They can come as big as they like—I don’t have a penny to my name. My bank account’s empty. Talk about a wasted effort. Why would they? And there’s nothing to tie me to the money—not a thing—so how could they ever win in court?”
“My assumption is they’ll keep this debacle close to the vest. If word gets out that they were fleeced, it won’t be good for business. Either way, you’re home free.”
“I didn’t ask for this,” I say solemnly. “I would much rather be practicing law and living in Roanoke.”
“Sure,” Ward says. “I’m sure you would. As much as I bitch about my job, I’d miss the dickens out of it. It’s a shame this happened to you. So there really was a Caleb Opportunity?”
“Yes, absolutely. More important, I didn’t make any mistake with Melanie Culp. It was a straight friggin’ scam. At my very worst, I was a competent attorney. I’m proud of that.”
“You understand why I was skeptical?”
“I can’t blame you.” I take a peek at Elvin. Nelson is sitting on his haunches, alert for whatever comes next. I have his ball in my pocket. “The law’s a dreadnought, Ward. To keep rolling, it has to be fueled by biases and assumptions, and it’s often set loose on bent, slanted tracks. Once it catches momentum, there’s no stopping it. And ninety-eight percent of the time, the court system delivers accurately. For good reason, nobody believes the criminal over the probation officer, and, innocence presumption or not, we inform our jurors that felons—even those with records a decade old—have marginal credibility. Why would’ve you believed me, especially after I stepped on my own dick with the Klean Stream search? I wouldn’t have believed you either, my friend.”
“If nothing else, I’m relieved to know you’ve put the drugs and booze behind you and that you’re still as smart as ever. You zigged every time they zagged.”
“The great Dave Worthy, the best attorney there ever was, used to say that exceptional lawyers never have to change course. They were headed in the right direction from the start.”
“Anything I can do for you?” Ward asks. “Crossword books? Extra stamps?”
“No. I appreciate your stopping by, though.”
“Thought I’d congratulate the master in person.” His tone brightens. “This shit will become lawyer legend. Epic.”
“Well, ‘the master’ is sitting in jail minus his wife and unfairly barred from practicing law. Hardly a storybook ending.”
“Here’s a little test,” he says cheerfully. “For sport. How much are you making per day? To wash cars and play with your dog and read good books and sweep the floors?”
I know the answer by heart: “$12,876.71 per day if I pull a full year. Minus the cost of Nelson’s food, of course. That also assumes—assumes, mind you—a twenty-five-thousand transaction fee in the Bahamas to withdraw the money, break the paper trail and redeposit it. Believe it or not, there’re unsavory lawyers who do that. Not long ago, one of my drug clients in federal court was using a Nassau fellow to help him with those kinds of arrangements. So I’ve heard it can happen.”
Ward laughs and slaps his knee. “Does that math include a seventy-five-thousand-dollar deduction for Cayman money that eventually found a home with Eddie Flanagan?”
“Yes,” I answer. “And remember how you poked fun at me when I told you the scam was only for five million? I could just imagine you doing that Mike Myers riff with your pinkie. Here’s another number for you: It comes out to $470,000 per year for the next ten years. That’s net. No taxes, and it assumes no interest at all. A man could slide by on that, especially in Mexico or Jamaica or Belize.”
“Remarkable that you’d have those figures at your fingertips.”
“Same as you, I’m a quick thinker,” I repeat. “I also have an excellent memory.”
“Give me a call if you need anything,” Ward says. “All and all, it could be worse.”
“Sorry I ran you around in circles. Tell your sweet wife, the former Carrie Agnew, that I sent my regards from the Patrick County Jail.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
THAT NIGHT, the lights are turned off at ten, and I’m locked in my nine-by-five cell. My bed is a thin vinyl pad that rests on a metal frame. The frame is permanently bolted to the concrete floor. I’ve been issued a single blanket and sheet but no pillow. Because of my stroke and my past job as an attorney, I’m twice over a “vulnerable inmate,” so I’m isolated, alone, by myself except for Nelson, and thanks to the legal system that failed me and robbed me, I’ll be suffering this punishment for months to come. There are three bars in my door’s small window, each maybe six inches apart, and the opening lets in occasional sounds, a phone ringing, a cough, the guards discussing their Thanksgiving plans. Stuck in the dark, I try not to dwell on my losses, and sometimes I recount advising clients how fortunate they were to receive only three months in jail and not several years, or a compromise settlement that cost them ten grand instead of the fifty they’d been sued for—legal wins, make no mistake about it.
My wife is gone, and she’s never coming back.
There’ll be no flash-forward to me relaxing on the white-sand beach, fat and sassy in a chaise longue, the waiter serving me and Lilly Heath our umbrella drinks and her laughing about how she wore a hat and sunglasses to collect the millions we lifted from the Goliath insurance company. The odds with her were long at best. She’s a classy lady with much better prospects than a minimum-wage pokeyman, and though I had some gossamer hopes before my arrest, I realize, if I’m being honest with myself, that I’ll never see her again. Even dumbass Junior has a couple of women to visit him on Sundays at the Martinsville jail, but I’ll be doing my time without any chance of a girlfriend.
I’m wealthy, nearly five times a millionaire, but I’d rather be a ham-and-egg lawyer. I’ll find a beach bungalow, grow a wanderer’s beard and maybe take a crack at the bonefish, but I’d prefer to be in my hometown, trying misdemeanors in general district court and catching stocked hatchery trout from the Roanoke River. I understand how Eugene Harris feels, sitting rich but still grieving over his lost land.
My stroke was unfair and inexplicable. I’ve learned to cope with my new brain and tender heart, and my carotid artery is almost healed. The clot was so sneaky that I’ll fret over every sneeze or yawn or sore neck for the rest of my days—that’s the worst of it, the eggshells. And despite what Greek poets and college theology professors would have us believe, brushing against ruin didn’t make me wiser, deeper, stronger or more appreciative. So far as I can discover, almost dying didn’t improve me.
I’m mad at myself, and like every idiotic fucking defendant who’s ever spoken to the judge before sentencing, every few hours, I think: If I could just travel back in time and not try cocaine at the Greenbrier…
Still, I’m not to blame for many of my troubles: The justice system can be treacherous on this side of the fence if you’re different and innocent, too blind and too set in its ways.
“But we came out as best we could, didn’t we, Nelson? Especially you.” He guns his tail when he hears his name but stays put, curled around my feet with his head and shoulders wedged between my shin and the painted cinder-block wall, living great for a dog, indoors with the humans. I kept my word to him.
I close my eyes. I picture Blaine—my only visitor until Ward arrived today—returning to work at SUBstitution, hauling the stepladder in from the shed, climbing the rungs and checking the glue-trap spot. I promised him I was okay, not to worry, and assured him that our plan had dominoed right down the line, flawless. Operation J’onzz had several layers and bucketloads of feints, and maybe I didn’t allow him—or Ava or Minivan—the whole truth about what I was up to. But listen, for certain, immediately, he’d better take those infernal traps off the shelf and throw them in the dumpster.
Lying on my unforgiving bed, I imagine his face, his expression, when he looked behind a box of traps and found the fat yellow envelope with BLAINE RICHARDSON COLLEGE FUND printed on the front, opened it and counted the $40,074.23 in cash, honest cash, along with my withdrawal slips should anyone—someday, somehow—ever come asking. My note inside read: Holy financial aid, Batman. Take this, keep your mouth shut and don’t deposit it or spend it all at once. Your friend—Kevin.
And I rejoice in this, in jumping him up to the front of the line, past the bean counters, shiftless paper-pushers and Luther Foley. My joy’s partly selfish, of course—I’m satisfied because I can still hold my own, can still deliver the impossible verdict when it’s really needed, no matter the rain of fluke strokes and con man’s snares, and what the hell, I might be a diminished, disbarred felon, but I do have millions waiting on me in a few months, enough for years of the high life until my renaissance, and just tonight, Elvin informed me that he’s bringing an extra car to wash tomorrow afternoon, and the forecast is crackerjack, so I’ll be in the sun and fresh air twice as long, for hours, as lucky as a convict can possibly get.
Acknowledgments
Thanks to: Charles F. Wright, Smilin’ Ed, Julia Bard, Frank Beverly, Skip Burpeau, Rob McFarland, Jack, Hollywood, Mrs. Ann Belcher, Edd Martin, Eddie and Nancy Turner, Chris and Karen Corbett, The Baron Aaron, Derek Bridgman, Genevieve Nierman, Nelson Stanley, Junior Taylor, Wood Brothers Racing and my remarkable Heath family.
I’m indebted to Sara Eagle and my pal Gabrielle Brooks, a minor deity and an alchemist of the first order.
As always, I’m grateful to my editor, Gary Fisketjon. We’ve worked together for twenty years now, and he’s made every book and every single page better.
A big tip of the hat to my agent, the smart, patient and steadfast Sloan Harris.
My sweet Deana Clark has been the best possible wife and remains “the hottest girl in the joint,” no matter where our travels take us. This is her book.
Clay Gravely was the Martinsville, Virginia, commonwealth’s attorney until his death on December 21, 2017, at age forty. He was my friend, and we spent a lot of time discussing fly rods, brown trout and what it feels like to be bad-off sick. Clay battled cancer and never bitched or moaned or complained about his miserable luck. I told him he was in the book by name, even read him a riff or two that had him speaking. He was a darn good commonwealth’s attorney. In the best possible way, he was also a fierce smartass with a sharp tongue and the finest eye roll in the business. After his death, I worried that a larger audience might misconstrue my affection for him, so I cut several of the courtroom zingers and acerbic one-liners, changed the name, and made the character much more of a composite. That said, there’s a lot of Clay Gravely—especially his sense of fairness and his generous view of the world—in the Randy Clay character, and I hope his family will still recognize flashes of the genuine article and think I did right by him.
A NOTE ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Martin Clark is a retired Virginia circuit court judge, who served twenty-seven years on the bench. His novels have appeared on several best-seller lists and have been chosen as a New York Times Notable Book, a Washington Post Book World Best Book of the Year, a Bookmarks Magazine Best Book of the Year, a Boston Globe Best Book of the Year, a Book of the Month Club selection, a finalist for the Stephen Crane First Fiction Award and the winner of the Library of Virginia’s People’s Choice Award in 2009 and 2016. He received the Patrick County Outstanding Community Service Award in 2016 and the Virginia State Bar’s Harry L. Carrico Professionalism Award in 2018. Martin’s wife, Deana, is a photographer, and they live on a farm with dogs, cats, chickens, guinea fowl and three donkeys.
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Martin Clark, The Substitution Order
