strictest confidence.”
Katz responded. “Did Mr. Metz tell you that the legal ground under that assertion is pretty fucking thin when it comes to keyhole peepers like you? That it might just open up under your feet and swallow you whole? How’d you like to add contempt or obstruction charges to your resume?”
I looked at the president’s photo. He had a nice tie on, and it went well with his suit. Mike answered for me. “I don’t think the legal ground is all that shaky, Mr. Katz.”
Katz looked pale, and his thin mouth was set in a hard frown. “Fine, we can roll the dice and see how a judge feels about it,” Katz said, then he looked at me. “But you should know, March, it’s your ass he’s gambling with. Attorney-client confidentiality protects him just fine. You’re the one that’ll take the fall on this. Think about it.”
“And perhaps Mr. Metz hasn’t mentioned,” Conaway chimed in, “that a client’s name is not itself protected information under attorney work-product confidentiality. Indeed, counselor,” he turned to Metz, “it’s not covered under broader attorney-client protections, either.”
Mike looked at DiPaolo without expression. DiPaolo turned to Neary. “Speaking of gambling… how’re you doing in all this, Tom? As far as I can see, you’ve got no protection against anything. You know who this client is?”
“Nope,” Neary said.
DiPaolo looked at him more and shook her head. “How about the blackmail victims-know any of them?”
“Nope.”
“So what’d they want from you?”
“A look-see at procedures and systems-how documents get handled, how the liquidation teams work, a tour of the offices. We’ve done it before, for other Brill offices, outside investigators, even some government types-the standard busman’s-holiday tour.”
DiPaolo turned back to Mike. “What’s your interest in that stuff?”
Mike smiled again. “Our working hypothesis is that the blackmailers are using documents that Nassouli would’ve had access to. But we believe it’s possible that others may have had access to those documents. Someone on the liquidation team, for example, or someone in the investigation.”
The prosecutors were stony faced, but Pell was looking apoplectic. He was sputtering, and his face was getting maroon, and he couldn’t contain himself.
“What kind of crap…” DiPaolo gave him another icy look, and he shut up. She was quiet for a while.
“That’s one hell of a theory, pal. Really great. It could call our whole chain of evidence into question. A fucking exculpatory wet dream for defense counsel. Maybe somebody thinks up a damages suit, too, and who knows what else. It’s the kind of inflammatory, irresponsible crap that can trash an investigation. Do wonders for Brill’s reputation, too.” She looked at Tom. “That why you gave them the tour?” she asked him.
“Yep,” he said.
“Find anything?”
Tom paused. “My understanding is they’re looking for things from Nassouli’s personal files. As far as I know, we’ve never had any of that stuff,” he said. I thought a look of relief flitted over DiPaolo’s face, but it was gone before I could be sure. If she was relieved, Mike quickly rained on her parade.
“We’ve discussed the possibility that someone on the liquidation team or in the investigation might have kept those documents out of the system altogether,” he said.
“And your theory is based on… what?” she asked him.
Mike looked apologetic. “I’m sorry, but-”
Shelly cut him off. “Cut the crap, counselor. You’re screwing with my witnesses, spouting this irresponsible shit that can fuck my investigation big time, then you and Bruce Wayne here,” she gestured at me, “you hide behind attorney-client protections. Except you won’t name your fucking client! You can’t be this stupid, Metz. You must know the shit storm that’s going to come down on you.”
Mike was quiet for a while. “We have no desire to share our theories or discuss this case at all, with anyone, Ms. DiPaolo,” he said evenly. “Frankly, we wouldn’t be discussing it with you, if you hadn’t invited us in. We’re not talking to any defense counsel, we’re not making statements or giving depositions, and if anyone asked us to, we’d claim attorney-client confidentiality. As I said, we have no wish to be involved in an active investigation.”
“Then why are you messing with Trautmann?” Katz asked.
“Mr. Trautmann came to our attention as a close associate of Gerard Nassouli,” Mike answered.
“Why did you assault Trautmann?” Katz asked me. I glanced at Mike. “Don’t look at him, goddamn it, look at me. Answer my fucking question,” Katz snarled. Mike nodded.
“Trautmann assaulted me. I defended myself.”
“That’s your story. Could be he’ll want to press charges,” Katz said.
“Could be I’ll do the same-against him, and Slim there, too.” I flicked a thumb at Pell. Pell’s face clenched, and for a second he was going to come across the table, but DiPaolo put a hand on his arm. Mike gave me a warning look.
“Counselor,” Shelly DiPaolo said, “we’re reaching the end of useful conversation here. Paulie pointed out a few minutes ago that your client’s name is not protected information. And since you didn’t give him one of your slick, friendly answers, I assume you know it too. So, what’s it going to be? You going to answer questions here, or in front of a grand jury?” Mike smiled at her.
“Mr. Conaway’s point is well taken. But I’m sure you know that if you want to bring me before a grand jury, you’ll need probable cause. From where I sit, I don’t see that you have it.”
Shelly DiPaolo was perfectly still, staring at Mike. Katz and Conaway shifted uncomfortably in their seats. Only Pell looked pleased-excited, in fact. When DiPaolo spoke, her voice was menacing.
“ ‘From where you sit,’ huh? Then you must be sitting with your head up your ass, Metz. How about that your client has knowledge of criminal conduct material to this investigation? How about that you and March have knowledge of documents sought as evidence by this investigation? How about that you and March have conspired to tamper with evidence and witnesses? How about that the two of you are interfering with the conduct of a federal investigation? How’s that for probable cause? How about I subpoena every fucking piece of paper you have on this case, and you spend the next six months Xeroxing and testifying? How does that look from where you sit, asshole?” Mike and DiPaolo looked at each other, without expression, for a long moment. Then Mike sighed.
“Frankly, I’m disappointed, Ms. DiPaolo. And I think, perhaps, I should be speaking to someone else.”
The room was still and full of brittle silence. Everyone was looking at Shelly. She was pale, and her jaw was rigid. She stared at Mike, who seemed distant in the way that Pluto is distant. Then slowly and without rhythm, she began to drum her red nails on the tabletop. When she spoke, it was almost a whisper.
“I don’t know what you think you’re playing at, Metz, but it’s a dangerous fucking game,” she said.
“I’m not playing at anything,” Mike said, his voice steady, but with an edge to it now. “And if I was, I wouldn’t be playing with you. As you said, I’m not that stupid. I don’t want much here, and mostly what I want is to keep my client out of your way. His dealings with Nassouli ended nearly two decades ago, and to the best of my knowledge he’s done nothing that would warrant your attention.
“Our only interest in Nassouli-in the whole investigation-relates to Nassouli’s personal files. And I’d think you’d be curious too. If Nassouli has the files, and you have Nassouli, then I’d think you’d want to know if he had a side business going. If he doesn’t have the files, then I’d think you’d want to know if someone-maybe on your team, or on Neary’s-had them and was up to no good. I’d like to work something out with you, Ms. DiPaolo, in a way that benefits us both, and protects my client. If you don’t want to do that… well, that’s unfortunate. But if that’s the case, then maybe your colleague in San Diego, Mr. Perez, would be interested.
“So, if you think you can make probable cause out of all that smoke-fine, take your shot. But if you do, I think you’ll be missing an opportunity. I think we both will. ”
The rain was loud on the window. Conaway and Katz looked at Mike with disbelief, and maybe a little admiration. Pell looked impatient and a little confused, wondering when the blood was going to flow. Shelly looked down at her fingers, still drumming on the table. She shook her head in wonder and finally spoke, in low tones.
“I don’t believe this. You son of a bitch, you’re trying to strong-arm me. You’ve got nothing to trade with, and you’re trying to strong-arm me. If nothing else, you’ve got balls, Metz.” She laughed harshly. Then she leaned forward and pointed at Mike. “Well, enjoy them while you can, asshole, ’cause by the end of the day, they’re going to be in my pocket. And you two,” she pointed at Neary and me, “I’m going to see if I can’t have your licenses tacked up on my wall by the end of the week- just for giggles.” We didn’t say anything. No one said anything, except
