Corrupt Practices (36 page)

“There are reasons why I did it and why I stopped,” she says. “But I won’t waste your time explaining unless you want me to.”

“Don’t bother.”

She shuts her eyes for a moment, little more than a blink, but enough to reveal a tear. She starts to say something, but then raises her hand to her mouth and bites down on her knuckles hard, so hard that I fear she’ll draw blood. I want to pull her hand away, to shout at her to stop, but I’m not brave enough.

She finally lowers her hand and looks at it curiously. No blood, but purplish indentations where her incisors bit into the skin. “I’m leaving,” she says. “But the trial. You need my help. And I’m . . . I’m still going to need you to sponsor me on the Daniels case.”

“I guess I don’t have much choice on either of those things, do I? I wish I did.”

When she passes by me, her shoulder brushes against my chest. Her touch is still electric, and the air stirs slightly in her wake, leaving a trace of that citrus-ginger scent that I’ll always associate with her. I wait outside on the balcony until I hear her walk out the front door.

The moment I saw the cover of that DVD, I knew that the Assembly had left it on my doorstep. That’s how they operate—by doling out intimidation in stages, each escalation more painful than the one before it. If a physical beating doesn’t work, they move on to more sophisticated methods. They want to destroy me, and at this moment they’ve succeeded.

I walk into The Barrista at precisely six o’clock the next morning. Deanna repeats her offer to give the opening statement today, but I decline. She suggests that I ask the judge for a trial continuance for medical reasons, but I won’t do that either. Then I tell her about Lovely.

“Let it go,” she says.

“I can’t do that.”

“That girl is special. And more importantly, she’s good for you. Nothing else should matter. That video happened a long time ago. She was—”

“Don’t tell me she was just a kid. She wasn’t a kid. And it doesn’t matter anyway. Some stains can’t be washed off. I can’t help what I feel, and what I feel is disgust. Right here.” I tap my stomach with my fist. “I couldn’t touch her if I tried. I wish I weren’t forced to work with her.”

She tilts her head and studies me for a while, like a bemused art patron staring at a bizarre oil on canvas.

“What’re you doing?” I say.

“It’s just that I wish I knew why you’re such a sanctimonious man.”

“
Sanctimonious
,” I say, bristling. “Such a ten-dollar word from a simple barista.”

“Oh, don’t get me wrong. It’s never bothered me. It’s what drives you, I’m sure. But this thing with Lovely—”

“Drop it, Deanna.”

She shakes her head slowly. “Secrets can be so destructive.”

“Hers sure is.”

“I’m not talking about hers.” She sighs. “It’s getting crowded. I’ve got to get back to work. Good luck in court today. And call me if you need me.” She starts to leave, but comes back and kisses me on the cheek.

At seven forty-five, I pack up, dose up on Valium and Xanax, and head downtown. I find myself fantasizing about a traffic jam so massive that I’ll miss the entire session. How will I be able to sit in the courtroom next to Lovely Diamond for the eight hours? But the traffic is unusually clear.

When I get to court, I find my three students already setting up for the day.

“Hey, Professor Stern, how are you?” Lovely says in a syrupy voice. Is she mocking me? Covering up? Conveying that she’s not ready to give up on us? Whatever. Those sleazy images on that DVD won’t go away. I say a curt good morning to all of them and find an isolated place to work.

When Raymond arrives, he greets the law students warmly and takes his seat at the defense table. Kathleen and Jonathan exchange looks. They haven’t asked what’s wrong with me, haven’t asked why Raymond will barely acknowledge me. They’ve just gone about the business of preparing for the trial sessions. I’m grateful.

Lovely sits down next to Raymond and whispers something that makes him smile for the first time since the trial started. At one point, she covers his hand with hers. I wait as long as I can before sitting beside them. As soon as I do, he turns away from me, not facing forward until the judge takes the bench and the jury files in.

“Call your first witness, Mr. Frantz,” Schadlow says.

“The plaintiff calls Special Agent Stephanie Holcomb.”

Holcomb is the FBI’s forensic accountant who worked on the Baxter investigation. She got her bachelor’s degree from Brown University and has an MBA from the UCLA Anderson School of Business. In her late thirties, she’s an attractive brunette who looks professional and self-assured. Through her, Frantz will convey to the jury that the United States of America is his ally. She’s a perfect opening witness.

After reciting her stellar credentials, Holcomb testifies that in the autumn of 2011, the IRS got an anonymous tip claiming that Richard Baxter had made some suspicious bank transfers from Assembly accounts. She says she contacted Christopher McCarthy, the Assembly’s designated representative for all legal matters involving the church, who gave the FBI permission to track movements in and out of those accounts. She testifies that a subsequent FBI investigation revealed that earlier in the year, six million dollars of Assembly money had been diverted from the Assembly’s accounts and deposited into an offshore account in the name of a shell company called The Emery Group. She says that, while she doesn’t know where that money went, the FBI believes that Rich received it because he controlled the other Assembly accounts through which the money was laundered and because he engaged in other questionable banking activity shortly before his arrest.

“Agent Holcomb, how did the FBI reach the conclusion that Richard Baxter stole the Assembly’s money?” Frantz asks. He nods at his young associate, and almost instantaneously a flashy PowerPoint presentation appears on the five flat-screen monitors scattered throughout the courtroom.

With the judge’s permission, Holcomb leaves the witness stand and goes to the screen facing the jury. She points to the first entry in a timeline and says, “In October 2011, the FBI observed some unusual activity in Assembly accounts that Richard Baxter controlled. Suspicious deposits and subsequent withdrawals, though none as large as the six million dollar Emery Group transfer earlier in the year.”

She spends the next hour and a half methodically taking the jury through the many bank transactions that the Feds monitored. It’s laborious testimony, but compelling because she’s showing the jury that the Feds more than did their job. As tedious as the testimony is, the jurors all seem to be paying attention. She comes across as an engaging college professor. She often—but not so often as to be annoying—looks at the jurors when answering Frantz’s questions. They clearly like her.

After she finishes her presentation, she goes back to the witness stand. Frantz waits a few moments and asks, “Agent Holcomb, can you summarize again why the FBI concluded that it had probable cause to arrest Richard Baxter?”

“Because he was the Assembly’s lawyer, in a position of trust and confidence that gave him complete access to the Assembly’s bank accounts. Because he and only one other person, Mr. McCarthy, controlled these accounts, and Mr. McCarthy was fully cooperating with us. Based on that evidence, we obtained a warrant and arrested Mr. Baxter.”

“And when he was arrested, did you find anything unusual in his apartment?”

“We certainly did. The arresting agents found a false passport, a large amount of cash, and a stash of methamphetamine—crystal meth—hidden in a gutted computer frame.”

“In your professional opinion, what do you conclude from finding those items?”

“Objection,” I say. “Calls for a legal conclusion without foundation. Speculation.”

Judge Schadlow takes a long time to consider my objection. She’s clearly a novice. She should sustain the objection, but she says, “Overruled. You may answer, Agent Holcomb.”

Holcomb turns and speaks directly to the jury. “The presence of a false passport and a large amount of cash is compelling evidence that Baxter intended to flee. And intent to flee is strong evidence of guilt.”

“And after conducting your forensic accounting analysis, what is the total amount of money that the FBI believes that Richard Baxter embezzled?”

“A minimum of seventeen million dollars. It may be substantially more.”

I could object to the part about the amount being more than seventeen million as rank speculation, but I’d only underscore the vast amount of money that was stolen. So I keep quiet.

“Thank you, Special Agent Holcomb,” Frantz says. “I have no further questions.”

“Do you have any questions, Mr. Stern?” the judge asks in a solicitous tone. She’s actually worried that I’ll pass on the chance to cross-examine a key witness. I suspect that Raymond and my students and probably everyone else in the courtroom share the judge’s concern. But I really
can
ask questions—unless the stage fright decides to encroach on that ability, too.

Just as I get up from my chair, the courtroom doors open behind me. I glance back to see Manny Mason walk in and take a seat in the last row. I’m glad he’s here, but I wish he’d arrived earlier so he could have heard Holcomb’s testimony on direct. With his expertise in business law, maybe he would have noticed a weakness in her testimony that I missed.

An effective cross-examination requires that the interrogating lawyer make declarative statements in the guise of asking leading questions—questions that call only for
yes
or
no
answers. So I’ll keep my questions short, no more than fifteen words if possible. I’ll make them sound like a statement by lowering the inflection in my voice instead of raising it the way you do with a real question. And I’ll start with a topic that the jury won’t forget.

“Agent Holcomb, didn’t you testify that Richard Baxter wasn’t the only signatory on the bank accounts in question?” My voice quavers, but it’s loud enough to be heard.

“Yes.”

“Christopher McCarthy of the TCO was also a signatory on those accounts?”

“That’s correct.”

“And Christopher McCarthy had the power and ability to make the fraudulent transfers that you attribute to Rich Baxter, did he not?” There’s a rumbling behind me from the Assembly side of the gallery. I’m sure there must be at least ten devotees ready to jump over the railing to attack me.

“It was Baxter who—”

I raise both hands. It’s an effective way to get a witness to stop talking, but now also a kind of victory sign, because my hands are steady, my palms dry. “Didn’t you understand my question, Agent Holcomb?”

“I understood it.”

“Then please answer it. Christopher McCarthy had the power and ability to make the fraudulent transfers that you attribute to Rich Baxter. Yes or no?”

“Objection, Your Honor,” Frantz says. “Speculative. Argumentative.”

“Overruled,” Schadlow says.

“Yes, but McCarthy was cooperating fully with us,” Holcomb says. “Embezzlers don’t usually cooperate with the FBI in the investigation of their own crimes.”

“Let’s explore your answer. The Church of the Sanctified Assembly isn’t your ordinary victim, is it?

“I’m not sure what you mean.”

“They have a militaristic structure.”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“Totalitarian, wouldn’t you say? Fascistic?”

“Objection!” Frantz says.

“Isn’t it a fact that the way the Assembly’s structured, Christopher McCarthy could’ve embezzled the money by ordering his underlings to make the bank transfers? They wouldn’t have questioned him for a second. He could even have ordered them to frame Rich Baxter and they would’ve obeyed, correct?”

Frantz springs out of his chair and shouts, “Objection! Argumentative! Speculative! Compound! Completely outside the bounds of appropriate courtroom decorum!”

“I’ll withdraw the question,” I say, because the jurors have gotten the point.

“Calm down, Mr. Frantz,” the judge says. “The objection is sustained. The jury is instructed to disregard Mr. Stern’s argument, because that’s what it was, not evidence. Time to move on to another topic, counsel. And do not repeat this behavior.” Despite her admonition, there’s a hint of amusement in her eyes, maybe because it’s the first time since the case started that I’ve shown some life.

“Very well, Your Honor,” I say. “Agent Holcomb, in your investigation, did the name
Grace Trimble
come up as a possible suspect?”

She thinks for a moment. “That name never came up.”

“So, you’re not aware that Grace Trimble once worked for a used car dealer named Alan Markowitz?”

“No.”

“Or that Ms. Trimble stole Markowitz’s identity and created the false passport found in Mr. Baxter’s possession?”

I’m sure everyone in the courtroom expects Frantz to object, but he doesn’t, because he knows that what I’ve proposed is true. I doubt he expected me to offer Grace up as a suspect, though.

“I have no information about a Grace Trimble,” Holcomb says.

“Have you ever heard that Grace Trimble used the alias
Sandra Casey
?”