Final Target (17 page)

T
he middle-aged foreperson seated at a semicircular raised judge’s bench looked over her reading glasses at a phalanx of occupied student-style Formica desks filling the grand jury room. A clerk sat to her left and the court reporter sat one level below her. The witness box to her right was empty. The foreperson first directed the secretary to take the roll, then invited Assistant United States Attorney William Peterson to address the grand jurors.

Peterson rose from his seat at the prosecutor’s table front and center in the grand jury room, picked up his SatTek notes, and then stepped to the podium.

“Today, the government will begin presenting testimonial evidence that it expects to show conspiracy to commit wire fraud, conspiracy to commit securities fraud, and money laundering by SatTek Incorporated of San Jose and by its officers, agents, lawyers, and consultants.”

Peterson looked down the far left row of jurors and counted to six. From others in the office he knew that Grand Juror Number Six, a wild-haired, middle-aged
former middle manager, was a runaway. Number Six thought he had a mind of his own. Even worse, he thought the grand jury was supposed to possess a collective mind of its own. He was big trouble.

Number Six didn’t take an interest in every case, just a few, and he telegraphed his move by taking notes right from day one. No one in the office knew how he chose a case to go rabid on. He just did and wasted an enormous amount of time asking questions ad nauseam in a nasally whine that made everyone in the room cringe and their palms sweat. One prosecutor had told Peterson that after one of these episodes, the foreperson had whispered to him in the hallway that because of Number Six, the eighteen-month grand jury term felt like a life sentence.

Everyone in the U.S. Attorney’s Office figured that someday they’d spot Number Six on a park bench or in the public library with the other loonies scribbling stream-of-consciousness notes in a weathered spiral notebook. But the scuttlebutt was that you could beat him down if you worked at it and he’d vote with the rest of the sheep when the time came—it was just that nobody in the office liked playing sheepdog.

“You’ll recall that a month ago the grand jury approved the issuance of subpoenas for stock and bank records relating to SatTek. At that time I outlined our suspicions and also described the roles of the SatTek officers, advisers such as Edward Granger, attorneys such as Jack Burch, and offshore agents such as Morely Alden Fitzhugh. Beginning today you will see the fruits of the subpoenas and learn the details of our investigative labors.”

Peterson checked off the first item on his outline.

“I should point out at this juncture that Mr. Fitzhugh, who I mentioned to you a few weeks ago, is no longer a target, as he’s deceased.” Peterson quickly pushed on, not wanting to answer questions about the circumstances of Fitzhugh’s murder. “My summary witness will be FBI Special Agent Lyle Zink. Beginning tomorrow he’ll outline the structure of the conspiracy, the coconspirators, the bank accounts, and the offshore companies.”

Peterson checked off two more items.

“Stuart Matson has become a cooperating defendant and we expect there will be others. He signed a plea agreement that requires him to disgorge his profits but makes no promises regarding sentencing. Assuming that Mr. Matson is entirely truthful, pursuant to 5K of the Federal Sentencing Guidelines, the U.S. Attorney’s Office will move the district court to grant a downward departure from the mandatory minimum in this matter which is approximately twenty years. He could receive a sentence as low as probation, depending on his performance.

“There will be additional witnesses, including employees of SatTek, bank officers, representatives of the SEC, and others. I expect that presenting all of this testimony will require that we meet about twice a week for the next few weeks.”

Peterson set aside his outline, rested his hands on the top edges of the podium, then paused. He let his eyes scan the grand jurors just a moment longer than any of them found comfortable.

“In accordance with rule six of the Federal Rules of Criminal Procedure, I must remind each and every one of the grand jurors that the proceedings of the grand jury are secret. Secrecy protects you from intimida
tion, it prevents the escape of grand jury targets, and it prevents the tampering with or the intimidation of witnesses. Please bear this in mind.”

Peterson reached for a binder labeled “SatTek Syllabus” lying on a table next to him.

“Now, let me outline the elements of the crimes of conspiracy, wire fraud, securities fraud, and money laundering.”

Peterson looked up at Grand Juror Number Six. He was already taking notes.
Damn
.

E
dward Granger arrived at the driving range of his country club at sunrise. He purchased two baskets of balls, then selected the driving station farthest from the other golfers. The grass never smelled sweeter, the fall air never felt more crisp and expansive. He paused to watch the caged cart sweeping up spent balls, wondering whether prisons had grass anymore, or whether anything at all grew in them except men growing older. He also wondered how many rounds he would have time to play before he joined the other inmates wasting their days, replacing golf with chess or checkers or bridge or just unrelenting boredom.

Granger teed up a ball, addressed it with his titanium driver, then swung. The ball cracked off the club like a gunshot. He caught sight of it just as it reached its apex. He watched it until it hit the netting three hundred yards away, dropped to the grass, and came to rest. He looked over at the few other golfers at the range. Some hit the ball, then reached into their baskets for another before it stopped rolling, sometimes while it was still in flight. Not Granger. He thought of nothing while the
ball was in motion, just the beauty of it. In Granger’s mind, that was the point, the whole point.

Granger paused, thinking back on his conversation with Graham Gage in the clubhouse the previous day. Gage had walked in, handed him a business card, looked him in the eye, and said, “We need to talk about Jack Burch.”

No raised voice. No explanation. Just the invisible force of a riptide. It told Granger even before they’d made the short walk from the bar to the booth, that his day planner would have a bunch of new entries by the time he stood up.

Gage’s leadoff question did it. It convinced him that the first thing he’d need to do was fire his attorney, Sid Lavender. He liked Sid. He respected Sid. But Sid wouldn’t represent a snitch. Sid said it was a matter of principle—and Granger was about to become one.

Snitch
. An ugly word.
Switch. Bitch. Snitch.
But Granger knew he’d eventually get used to it.

“What do you know about Fitzhugh and the engineering software company in Ireland?” Gage had asked.

The question vibrated through Granger. Gage had figured it out. And so would the government. Or Gage would explain it to them.

“I don’t know anything about it.” His tone was flat, unconvincing. They both knew it.

“That’s the wrong answer,” Gage said.

“I know. But there’s nothing you can offer me that’ll give you the right one.”

Granger leaned back, smiling. It was neither aggressive nor defensive. Granger didn’t play those games. It was simply melancholy.

“At least tell me this,” Gage said. “Was Burch in on
it? I don’t need you to say whether you were. You and I already know that answer.”

Granger thought back to the beginning. He smiled to himself.
Some people think in clichés, I think in analogies.

“Let me put it this way,” Granger finally said. “Do you tell the lumberyard what you plan to use the plywood for?”

Granger didn’t expect Gage to answer. There was no need to. He could see by Gage’s face that he’d given Gage what he wanted to hear: Peterson couldn’t prove intent.

“What about Matson? How did he use the plywood?”

“That’s the last one you get,” Granger said, knowing that it was already one more than he’d prepared himself to answer. “You’re a smart guy. Listen carefully…Sometimes children grow up to do things you never expected in your wildest imagination. And trust me, I’ve got a wild imagination.”

“So I’ve heard. Will you tell Peterson?”

“When the time comes.”

Granger fired Sid an hour later, then let his fingers do their walking through his Rolodex to Bobby Harrington, a member of the country club and a white-collar lawyer he hoped had enough pull to cut him a deal.

“Bobby, this is Ed Granger.”

“How’s the old putter?”

“Stiff and straight. How’s yours?”

“Don’t believe what you read. It’s not the smallest club in the bag. What can I do for you?”

“You still have any connections left in the U.S. Attorney’s office?”

“Sure, I ran the place under two presidents. My picture
is still on the wall somewhere, darts and all. What’s up?”

“I’ve got a little situation.”

“How little?”

Granger hesitated, knowing that once he spoke the words that had echoed in his mind as he lay in bed the night before, there’d be no turning back, and nothing would ever be the same.

“I won’t kid you or myself,” Granger finally said. “I’ll be doing time. No way around it. But I’m willing to trade what I know for what they want. I just need a release date soon enough to get in a few rounds before I check out.”

“Sounds bad.”

“It’s SatTek.”

“Ouch.”

“Yeah. A lot worse than I expected. How much do you want to come into the case to cut a deal?”

“Fifty.”

“Might as well charge whatever you want, the government is going to forfeit what’s left.”

“Fifty thousand is fine. Who’s the Assistant U.S. Attorney?”

“Peterson.”

“True believer. But we can deal with him. I’m the one that hired him, right out of law school. Who’s the agent?”

“Zink.”

“An idiot. He’s been pretty much neutered because of a DUI a few years ago. I wouldn’t worry about him.”

“There’s another guy involved. He’s the reason I’ve got to make a deal.”

“Who’s that?”

“Graham Gage. He’s ready to hand my head to Peter
son to keep his pal Jack Burch from being indicted. No stopping him.”

“You sized him up right,” Harrington said. “He’s the guy I’d hire if I was on the hunt. And I’d be fucking terrified if he was doing it on his own dime. You better jump on board before the train runs you over.”

“That’s what I was afraid of.”

“You know they’ll want to put you in front of the grand jury?”

“I figured. I’ve got the feeling that they’re already meeting. A guy in the scam named Matson has been acting real squirrelly.”

“Then we’ll have to move fast. I’ll call Peterson this afternoon and tell him you want to come in. And you start putting money together for bail.”

Granger then called his banker and the next morning was among the first on the driving range.

Granger swung like a pro. Smooth. Flowing. Decisive. Each time, the ball cracked off the tee like a gunshot.

A
voice mail from Peterson was waiting for Gage when he arrived at his office. He thought of Granger’s promise to come clean with Peterson
when the time comes
. As he reached for his phone, Gage hoped for Burch’s sake that the moment had already arrived.

“Let me put you on conference,” Peterson said.

Gage heard nothing for a moment, then the static of the speakerphone.

“Zink is here with me.”

“What’s up?” Gage asked.

“Just like your pal Burch, you’re a hub around a very bad wheel.”

Gage heard Zink snort in the background.

“What do you mean?”

“You meet with Granger?”

“Maybe.”

“He got murdered this morning. At the driving range. Shot once in the head.”

Gage’s whole body tensed. The linchpin that held together his strategy to rotate the case away from Burch had broken off.

“Damn.” Gage said the word more to himself than to Peterson.

“Why damn?” Peterson asked. “He was about to finger Burch.”

“No he wasn’t.” Gage sat forward in his chair. His voice intensified. “You
wanted
him to finger Burch. That was the one thing he told me he
wouldn’t
do. And he had something on Matson. Something big.”

“So you say.” Peterson’s snide tone made him sound like a schoolgirl gossiping at the lunch table.

Gage blew past it. “Look, I needed him more than you did.”

“Being needed by you is a very dangerous occupation. First Burch, then Fitzhugh, and now Granger. My indictment is getting shorter every day. It looks like we’ll need to cast the net a little bit wider.”

“Is that a threat?”

“Against you? No. Unless you know something I don’t. But we’ll be looking real hard at anything that connects to Burch.”

Gage hung up, then rose from his desk and stepped to a window. He watched a tugboat, its nose to the bow of a container ship, nudging it toward the Oakland Port. He realized that this was what he’d been trying to do with Peterson’s indictment, steer it from the outside. But it wasn’t going to work. Peterson had too much momentum, and with Granger dead, Gage had nothing left to push with.

Gage called Courtney, trying to sound upbeat, wanting to protect her and Burch from the world closing in around his ICU room.

“How’s he doing?” Gage asked.

“Not good.” Her tone was weary. “He’s got an infection, maybe pneumonia. They’re working on him now.”

Gage heard conversation in the background.

“What’s that?”

She didn’t answer immediately. “The doctor is talking to one of the nurses…Oh, dear. They’re going to put the breathing tube back in.”

“I’ll call back.”

“Wait. They want me to step outside.”

Gage heard her footsteps on the linoleum floor, then the room sounds faded.

“I hear something in your voice,” Courtney said. “Is something wrong?”

“No. Other people are trying to blame Jack for things they did. But it’s nothing to worry about. I’ll take care of it.”

Gage hung up, then examined the flowcharts covering the walls of his office. Too many arrows pointed at Burch and the companies he’d set up for Matson.

He wished he’d hung up two sentences sooner.