side, liked each other’s style, liked each other. But nothing lasts forever. Chafetz was promoted to section chief, and Jack moved on to private practice. They tried to stay in touch, but it just wasn’t the same after Jack started working the opposite side of the courtroom.
Chafetz led Jack to a conference room near his office. Two men were inside, waiting. From the hallway, Jack could see them through the window on the door.
“I’ll take Drayton, you can have the little guy.”
Chafetz smiled, then turned serious. “I wish I could prepare you better, but you and I don’t need anyone accusing us of exchanging favors on the side. Just remember, whatever happens in there, it isn’t my show. It’s Drayton’s.”
“I know what you’re saying. It’s no secret how Drayton operates.”
“You know him?”
“Only by reputation. A conceited tight-ass who thinks anyone who lives outside the 202 area code just fell off the turnip truck.”
“Dead on, my friend. Just do me a favor. Don’t mention turnips in the meeting, all right?”
“Come on, you know me better than that.”
“I’m serious. This wasn’t easy to pull off.”
Jack wasn’t sure how Chafetz had convinced Drayton to lay his cards on the table sooner than he otherwise might have. But things like this didn’t happen just because you said “pretty please.” He looked him in the eye and said, “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.”
He opened the door, Jack and he entered, and the introductions followed. First was the portly guy with tortoise-shell glasses, a crew cut, and virtually no personality. The letters “IRS” might just as well have been tattooed across his forehead. At his side was Sam Drayton. Instantly, he struck Jack as a walking fraud. It was well known that his wife was a millionaire, but he still wore the cheap, off-the-rack suits of a government lawyer because that was the image he wanted to cultivate. The wristwatch was a forty-dollar Timex, and the pungent cologne smelled like some homemade concoction of Aqua Velva and a three-dollar jug of berry-scented massage oil that could have masked the odor of a moose in a spinning class. Jack would have bet his liberty that Drayton had never paid more than six dollars on a haircut.
All of that is fine, if that’s who you are. But there’s nothing more pretentious than a wealthy lawyer who has to work at being a regular Joe.
Jack took a seat at one end of the table, opposite Drayton and his IRS agent. Chafetz excused himself and reached for the door.
“Hey, Chafetz,” said Jack as he flipped him a quarter.
He caught it in midair, puzzled.
Jack said, “My turnip truck is parked out front. Feed the meter, would you?”
They exchanged glances, the way they used to communicate silently as cocounsel in a courtroom. “Sure thing,” said Chafetz as he left the room, suppressing his smile.
The others looked at one another, clueless as to the inside joke. Drayton turned to the business at hand. “Thanks for coming, Mr. Swyteck.”
“I wish I could say it was good to be back.”
“We know it’s an inconvenience. Especially in light of what happened to you this morning.”
“You mean those thieves who took my computers?”
“No. I mean that bruise on your jaw.”
“Seems that someone is really ticked off that I might blame the viatical investors for Jessie Merrill’s death.”
“We know. We’ve read the police report you filled out in the emergency room.”
“Seeing how you’re part of the strike force, am I correct in assuming that my little incident may have had something to do with an element of organized crime?”
“To be honest, we want you to help us pinpoint the exact criminal element involved.”
“I wish I could, but I can’t. Never got a look at who jumped me last night. And I’ve already told the state attorney everything I know about the threats against Jessie. Unfortunately, she didn’t get very specific.”
Drayton said, “We hear from a reliable confidential informant that the beating you took last night came on a direct order from a known underworld operative.”
“How does your CI know that?”
Drayton didn’t answer, didn’t even seem to acknowledge the question. He simply rose and went to the whiteboard, rolling a felt-tipped marker through his fingers as he spoke. “For about eight months now, we’ve had our eye on Viatical Solutions, Inc., or VS, as we call it.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“From the outside, VS appears to be nothing more than a viatical broker. The deals are structured like a legitimate viatical settlement, with one major difference.” Drayton marked a red dollar-sign on the whiteboard, then drew an X through it. “The money from the investors is always dirty.”
“VS is laundering money?”
“As if you didn’t know.” The prosecutor leaned into the table and said, “How did your name end up on an offshore bank account with Jessie Merrill?”
“She obviously put it there. How or why, I can only guess.”
“How did the investors pay her the one-point-five million?”
“I don’t know. That happened before she hired me.”
“Was it in cash or a wire transfer from another offshore bank?”
“I said I don’t know.”
“Perhaps it was a combination,” said Drayton, suggesting an answer. “Was it paid in a lump sum, or in installments from various sources?”
“I can’t answer that.”
“That’s unfortunate. Because if you can’t help us, we can’t help you.”
“Help me what?”
“It’s no secret that the state attorney suspects foul play in the death of Jessie Merrill. The way the evidence is playing out, you’re pretty high on the list of suspects.”
“Plenty of innocent people have found themselves on a prosecutor’s list of suspects.”
“No question. And if just half the glowing things your old boss says about you are true, then you probably will be exonerated. Eventually. But wouldn’t it be nice to speed up that process?”
“I’m listening.”
“The quickest way to get off the list of suspects is for you to convince the state attorney that someone else did it. We might be able to help you with that.”
“Are you sitting on evidence that Jessie Merrill was murdered?”
“This is a money-laundering investigation. All we can tell you is that the people we’re investigating-the people who we believe are in control of Viatical Solutions, Inc.-are certainly capable of murder. Your cooperation with us on the money-laundering investigation may well provide the jump-start you need to prove your innocence on the murder charge.”
“What do I have to do?”
“Just answer all our questions about the source of the funds, the structure of the transaction. Who did you meet with? How was the money transferred? From what accounts?”
“I told you, I wasn’t there.”
“And I keep coming back to the same question. Why is your name on that joint account? Just what secrets were you trying to cloak in the shroud of the attorney-client privilege?”
“I can only say it again: I don’t know anything about that.”
“Obviously, we don’t accept that. You have a pretty stainless reputation, but an argument could still be made that you and your client knowingly entered into a transaction that allowed these investors to launder one and a half million dollars in dirty money.”
“There’s no reason for anyone to believe that.”
“Yes, there is. I don’t care how clean you are. A married guy makes a mistake, there’s no telling what he might
