“This afternoon. Most of it’s boilerplate. I just need to plug in a statement of facts.”
“And those would be?”
“Granger laid out the overall stock fraud strategy and Burch executed it using the dummy offshore companies.”
“Sounds fair. I’ll get Matson in here to sign it.”
“And we want the money. All of it.” Hackett visualized Peterson pounding his forefinger on his desk. “If we catch him lying about where it is, there’s no deal and the money laundering comes back in.”
Hackett had already given Matson that lecture.
“When do you want him in court?”
“Day after tomorrow. The sooner I can get him in front of the grand jury, the sooner I’ll get the indictment. United States of America v. Burch, et al. All the Burches of the world do is help fraudsters like Matson and Granger, and they make an obscene amount of money doing it. When the rest of them watch Burch doing the perp walk past the TV cameras with his tail between his legs, being hauled off to the joint, they’ll all be closing up shop. Every one of them.”
“You mean if Burch survives long enough to get convicted.”
“No. He just has to live long enough for me to get him indicted.”
Hackett set the phone back on its cradle, then looked through his window past San Francisco’s western avenues toward the Pacific Ocean. He never quite understood the arrogance of jingoistic prosecutors like Peterson, amateurs who didn’t have a clue about international business. How, exactly, could U.S. corporations operate in dozens of different tax jurisdictions, dozens of national sovereignties, accommodating dozens of competing masters around the world, without lawyers like Burch?
His gaze settled on the Transamerica Building. What about Transamerica International registered in Bermuda? Or Bank of America Securities in London, Santiago, Singapore, and Taipei? Did these arms of U.S. companies spring out of foreign soil through spontaneous generation?
Why were the tough-guy prosecutors like Peterson always so damn naive? Hackett already knew the answer: It was because they lived in a simple, unambiguous world, structured by simple rules. They believed who they wanted and what they wanted and did so absolutely.
Hackett comforted himself with the thought that he saved Matson’s ass because that’s what he got paid to do, and had gotten paid almost half a million dollars to do it. Anyway, he didn’t know the truth. He hadn’t been there, in Burch’s office. He didn’t know what Burch said, what Matson said. It was all he said, she said. That was the law of conspiracy. Nothing more. Nothing less.
Did Burch cross the line once in a while? Maybe. Maybe not. Who knows? But Peterson taking the word of Matson? Did he really believe that stunted, pastel-packaged liar was reborn a saint when he slithered into the Church of the U.S. Attorney, the Chapel of Cooperation? It was worse than merely naive; it was damn stupid.
Hackett leaned back in his chair, wondering what would be the cost to Burch of that naivete, that stupidity- but not for long. Hours spent thinking about abstract matters weren’t billable, and the clock was ticking. He reached for the intercom, then hesitated and dropped his hand to the desk.
Decades of criminal defense work painted a picture in his mind; it showed him how it would end. Even if it was just a failure of due diligence: Burch too preoccupied with his wife’s illness to pay attention. Peterson would make not knowing look like not wanting to know; and make not wanting to know into greed. Using the hammer of his office and the anvil of a jury composed of peons looking for someone to blame for their own liabilities and others’ enormous assets, Peterson would metamorphize Burch’s negligence into willful conspiracy. That would be the price Burch would pay.
Burch is already judicial roadkill, Hackett thought. Even his pal Graham Gage won’t be able to yank him out of the way of this steamroller.
Gage. Shit. He’d forgotten about Gage. Every insider in the legal community knew how close they were. And he was out there, somewhere-
But there’s nothing Gage can do for Burch. Conspiracies are about words, and the words Peterson is listening to are Matson’s.
Hackett breathed again and a blurry future snapped into focus: One way or another, guilty or innocent, Burch would have to take a plea. Despite Peterson’s grandstanding about giving Burch life, he’d offer twenty years, maybe twenty-five, and Burch would take it. Only idiots go down in flames.
And while Burch might be a crook, he wasn’t an idiot.
CHAPTER 12
G age and Spike were working the Take Back the Streets rally in Pacific Heights. Neither had spoken the words, but both knew they needed a witness to do what Burch might not live to do: identify the shooter.
Four hundred joggers and cyclists blocked the sloping intersection of Webster and Pacific. Uniformed officers ceded the street at Spike’s order and redirected traffic to the surrounding neighborhood. Television reporters with trailing camera crews worked the crowd, searching for anyone who knew Burch or Courtney, reaching for fragments of fact and grasping at rumors.
“Whoever shot him was looking for a fight,” a taut, middle-aged man wearing a black ASICS running suit told Gage and Spike.
“How do you figure?” Gage asked.
“I jog here every day. A lot of us run in the street to avoid the dog walkers and the strollers. Some of these asshole drivers go out of their way to force us off the road. I heard some people saying that the shooter had flipped off the runner.” The man scanned the throng, then pointed at a young couple in matching gray sweat suits standing next to a stroller. “There they are. I’ve got to get to the office. If you need anything else, you’ve got my number.”
As Gage and Spike started toward them, a local television reporter blocked their path. She jammed a microphone in Spike’s face, then looked at the camera.
“I’m with Lieutenant Spike Pacheco of the San Francisco Police Department…Lieutenant Pacheco”-she cocked her coiffured blond head toward the crowd behind her-“can you confirm the rumor that Jack Burch was shot because of a love triangle?”
Spike grabbed the top of the microphone and twisted it out of her hand, then glared at the cameraman. “Turn that fucking thing off.” Then toward the reporter, his brown face reddening with rage. “It’s not good enough for you that the guy’s lying in a coma? You’ve got to try to destroy his reputation, too? For what, Jane? For what?”
He looked over at Gage, who shook his head. Let it go. Don’t let her create a story where there isn’t one.
Spike tossed the microphone to the cameraman, then jabbed his forefinger at her face. “You do this kind of shit one more time and nobody at SFPD is ever gonna talk to you. You might as well go back to doing the farm report in Boise.”
Gage grabbed Spike’s arm and led him away. “Take it easy. Get the press officer out here to run interference for you. I don’t want your face showing up on television again, and mine ever. We can’t let the guy see us coming until it’s too late for him to get away.”
Spike glared back over his shoulder. “Asshole. Who the fuck does she think she is?”
His fury faded as they walked along the edge of the crowd toward the young couple. He displayed his badge as they approached.
“Thanks for coming out, Lieutenant,” the woman said. “We were hoping to speak with you.”
Gage pointed back from where they came. “A guy told us he overheard you two say something about the shooter flipping off Jack.”
“That’s not what I said.” The woman’s voice hardened, as if being misquoted was a personal assault. “I said that I saw a driver’s left hand, framed in his window. For all I know, he was scratching his nose. It was dark outside and his car was dark inside. The car was heading east, like us, but Jack was running the other direction. It was only a few minutes ago, when we overheard someone describing the car and its route, that it crossed our minds that the driver might’ve circled the block and went after him.”
