“I know. But I’ve been looking for a reason for the stock manipulation and haven’t found any. There has to be a connection between the stock thing and Lasko buying this nothing little company. The timing is too perfect. Besides, Lehman didn’t die because of the stock manipulation. Something else killed him.”
“You’re just guessing. And we’re authorized to look for stock manipulation, not comb through Lasko’s affairs.” His voice turned dry. “Don’t you think we should keep our heads down a little? Besides, we’re running out of time on this one. Better to stick to what we know.”
I felt a little desperate. “Have you ever met Lasko?” I asked. He shook his head. “I have. He’s pretty close to the evolutionary tree. He may kill someone else if we don’t wrap this up.”
His face assumed a youthful gravity, the look of the boy genius faced with a tough exam. “We’re not the police.” He paused. “When did you want to leave?”
“As soon as possible.”
He shook his head. “I can’t see it. But I’ll ponder it and give you a final decision. One more thing.” He jabbed his finger at his desk for emphasis. “Calling Lasko a murderer is dangerous. We’ve no proof. If we ever do, I’ll take it to the proper authorities. That’s not your job. Understand?”
I nodded.
“OK,” he continued, “you’ve got Sam Green this morning. Go do it.”
I decided to leave on a higher note. “Thanks for your time.”
He gave a shrunken version of the lopsided grin. “Just keep out of trouble.” I left.
On the way out I ran into Mary. She was looking good, slim in tan cotton slacks.
“Good morning,” she said, as if she hadn’t seen me in a very long time.
“Hi.”
Her eyes seemed to appraise my mood. “Have time for coffee?”
“A minute or two.”
“Come on in.” I followed her in and sat.
The receptionist brought us two cups. Mary reached in her desk for creamer and sweetener. “How was your weekend?” she asked, looking at me for the answer.
“Terrific. I brooded over my sins.”
She handed me my cup. “Cream and sugar, isn’t it?” She had learned that Friday morning. A small spark of warmth lit her eyes. “I’m sorry about Friday afternoon.”
“So am I.” It occurred to me that we spent half our time apologizing. I told her so.
Her brows knit. “You know, I looked for you Friday after you left.”
“I had drinks with a friend. We concluded that women are difficult.”
She smiled. “Who is this misogynist?”
“Fellow named Lane Greenfeld.”
She sipped her coffee. “Doesn’t he work for the Post?”
“The very same. You know,” I added, “this place doesn’t help. It seems that our peachy professional relationship keeps interfering with the other, or vice-versa.”
She gave a small, helpless shrug. “I can’t help my job.”
“Nor I mine.” I looked at my watch and stood up. “I’ve got Sam Green in ten minutes. Let’s try communicating again in a couple of days. We might surprise ourselves.”
She smiled her good smile. “All right. I’ll look forward to it.”
I went to my office and asked Debbie to make St. Maarten reservations, for luck. Then I met Robinson back at the conference room.
I sat down and told him about Woods while we waited for Green. The shorthand reporter arrived to set up her machine. She was my favorite-face as bland as a baby’s and her eyes as glassy as marbles. I had seen lawyers screaming and swearing all around her, while she tapped on her machine, a dizzy half-smile directed at some inner space, getting it all down. Right on schedule, five days later, the transcript would arrive, all its threats and “screw you’s” neatly typed, recorded for posterity. In my fantasies, she left her machine at five and went home to a scruffy apartment where she sold smack and was known as the Potomac Connection. It was a nice theory.
Green and his lawyer showed up just when she had finished. I looked Green over. He was a walking definition of the word “seedy.” It wasn’t his clothes; Green was just one of those people who looked second-rate. He had a ferret face and the kind of furtive eyes that seemed to dart away. His thinning hair was styled in the wet look and his skin was fish-belly pale. Robinson and I shook his hand reluctantly and turned to his lawyer.
It was the lawyer who was a surprise. Green usually came equipped with a low-rent item named Johnson, with a scar on one cheek and a dull, nasty look that made you wonder where he had gone to law school. But this time Green had stepped up in class. All the way to Edmund O’Hair.
O’Hair shook my hand, and sat next to Green. He had white hair and a red Irish face, gone Establishment around the edges. I knew a bit about him. He was a boy from Hell’s Kitchen turned Wall Street hired gun, and he’d never looked back. Now he was chief trial lawyer for a hundred-man law firm, with a tough, atavistic pride in his work, and clients like General Motors. Green wasn’t in his usual line. That suggested possibilities I didn’t much like.
Robinson and I sat at the opposite end of the conference table. I asked O’Hair if his client was ready. He nodded. The reporter’s fingers poised over the machine. I began my litany: right to counsel, Fifth Amendment, and the penalty for perjury. I came down hard on the last.
Then my questions started. Yes, Green had purchased 20,000 shares of Lasko Devices on July 14 and 15, through three different brokers. Yes, he still had the shares. I moved in, feeling O’Hair’s watchful eyes.
“For what reason did you place those orders?”
Green’s eyes slid off toward a corner. “I thought it was a good investment.”
“Did anyone specific suggest it?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Do you know a man named William Lasko?”
He stared at the curtains. “I can’t recall.”
“Have you ever spoken to a William Lasko?”
“I don’t remember having done that.” He had a thin, reedy voice. Lying didn’t improve it.
“Speak up, Mr. Green. Did you discuss your purchase of Lasko stock with William Lasko at any time prior to July 15?”
“I’m not sure.” His whine took on a phony, insulted quality.
“It’s a simple question,” I snapped. “Yes or no?”
He shook his head stubbornly. “I can’t. I don’t know.”
“How did you finance your purchases?”
“I’m trying to think.” He spoke to the ceiling in feigned recollection. “I believe I borrowed the funds from the First Seminole Bank of Miami.”
“How much?”
“Four hundred thousand.”
“When did you borrow the money?”
“About the first week of July.”
“With whom did you make the arrangements?”
“A Mr. Billings. He’s a vice-president.” The sentence had an incomplete sound.
“Did you discuss the First Seminole Bank with someone else at any time prior to the loan?”
“I can’t recall doing so.”
“What about discussions with Mr. Lasko?”
“I can’t remember.”
I shifted abruptly. “Who’s paying for Mr. O’Hair’s services here today?”
O’Hair broke in. “I’m directing my client not to answer that. It’s privileged.”
“The hell it is.”
“Then take us to court and try to compel an answer.”
I stopped, frustrated. O’Hair stared back impassively. He would stick to it. Green was either more afraid of someone else, or O’Hair figured I could be fixed somehow, or maybe stopped before I ever got that far. And he knew that I didn’t have proof. I asked several similar questions and got similar answers. I noted for the record that
