“And so, Mr. Hanaman,” she asked, “how did the Semtex make its way into the USA?”
“It was taken by truck to the mine, and then taken into Montana through the underground rail system that I had installed . . .”
McSheffrey turned to Archambault. “She just gave us the case,” he exclaimed.
“Did I hear that accurately?” asked Archambault. “Did he just say that it passed through Lestage’s mine? Did he just say that?” “Yes, I just said that,” Kumar repeated.
Danson and McGhee were likewise chattering until Dana asked the next question. “Did Mr. Lestage know that what was being transported was Semtex?”
“Objection,” yelled McSheffrey. “How can he say what was in someone else’s mind? The witness can’t answer that.”
“Overruled. Goes to weight. Carry on, Mr. Hanaman.”
“Well, I told—”
“Objection. I know where he’s going now. My learned friend is going to lead hearsay evidence.”
“Maybe she is, Mr. McSheffrey. Overruled. The witness can answer.”
“Well,” continued Mr. Hanaman, “Mr. Lestage could not possibly have known—”
“Objection. Ultimate issue. Mens rea. Question for the jury to decide.”
“Overruled.”
McSheffrey objected several more times before he realized that he, one of the sharpest prosecutors in the land, had made a critical error. The objections were all legally well-founded, but Judge Mordecai wanted to hear the evidence. Whether the rulings were appealable or not didn’t really matter at this point. What mattered was that every time he jumped up and objected, the jury paid closer attention. Something big was on the way.
“He didn’t know,” said Kumar over the tornado of objections. “The Semtex was wrapped in red cellophane and came in brick-like sizes, about the size of an ordinary shoebox. Yousseff had instructed everyone, including me, who knew the true nature of the cargo, to tell anyone handling it that it was simply an enormous shipment of heroin, just packaged in a different manner to make it more saleable and easier to transport. The only thing we had ever transported through the Lestage mine was heroin. We had never shipped anything else through there up until this point.”
McSheffrey didn’t require a briefing to cross-examine Kumar. A ten minute line of questioning had Kumar freely admitting that he used his skills to have desperate addicts, generally with stolen money, shoot up through dirty needles heroin compounds mixed with everything from rat poison to fentanyl in order to generate vast profits for himself and his cronies.
Then he admitted that in order to play the markets, he was instrumental in blowing up a major dam on the Colorado River, ultimately resulting in the deaths of 20,000 people.
“So you agree with me, sir, that you are guilty of committing 20,000 counts of murder to enrich yourself?”
“Yes,” said Kumar, so softly that all in the courtroom had to strain to hear him. “Yes, I murdered 20,000 people. I believed Yousseff when he said to me that very few would die . . .”
“So it would have been fine if you would have murdered only ten or twenty people? That’s your standard?”
Kumar did not answer, despite being prompted several times by McSheffrey, and ultimately by the court, to do so.
“That concludes my questioning, m’lord,” said McSheffrey after twentyfive minutes of cross. Kumar stood up and stepped out of the witness box.
“Oh no, Mr. Hanaman. You are not leaving here. Sheriffs, take this man into custody. He just admitted to murdering 20,000 people. This man is not going to be walking around on our streets.”
Kumar had a strangely blissful expression on his face as the sheriffs cuffed him and led him away.
As Dana began packing up her computers, the piece of paper that had been sitting on counsel table when she arrived slipped out from between several sheets of paper and fluttered to the floor. George picked it up and handed it back to her.
“Gee, Dana, you never struck me as running funds through obscure foreign bank accounts. I guess I misjudged you.”
“What are you talking about, George?”
“Well, I’ve moved money all over the world, mostly to minimize my taxes. All perfectly legit, you know. Nothing illegal. Don’t tell Mordecai.”
“So?”
“So, Dana, that’s an international SWIFT code. It says that. The letters are an identifier for the bank. I think this one is for some outfit in the Caribbean.”
“George, Blankstein deFijter barely pays me enough money for rent. Before that I was a student working my way through law school at minimum wage. I’m as far away from international banking as you possibly can get.
That’s not mine.”
“Yours, Mr. Penn-Garrett?” asked George.
“Offshore banking? Me? Hell no. My ex-wife has it all.”
“Why don’t you let Turbee and I have that? We can run it through our various databases and maybe come up with something. Someone out there is delivering a message of some kind.”
63
Back in the hotel room, George was reviewing the letters and numbers on the slip of paper. “I use these SWIFT codes all the time,” he said.
“Everyone in Silicon Valley does. You use them to move offshore money around. The first four letters identify the bank, the next two the country, and the last letters refer to the city and the specific bank in that city. The numbers would be the account number itself.”
“What does this one refer to?” asked Khasha.
It took George a few minutes of noodling on the internet to identify it. “It’s the International Bank of Barbuda, their main branch is in St. John, Antigua. On First Street.”
“Can you get into that bank, Turbee?” Richard asked.
George looked at Richard disdainfully. “He got into American Express in order to hide that fuel bill from Jakarta when you guys were on the Allegro Star. This is like breaking into your mother’s piggy bank.”
“Okay. Let’s assume he can. Do we?”
“Richard, come on,” said George. “We’ve broken into a dozen places every day since this started. We’re fugitives trying to clear ourselves. Let’s not get all righteous now.”
“Okay, George. But there’s
