Foreclosure: A Novel (30 page)

Frank turned his head toward the ceiling and whispered, “Pray for us sinners, now and at the time of our death.”

That evening, David reviewed the trial exhibits in his office. Everything was in order. Everything made sense—too much sense. The fire was an accident caused by a gas line that had been under repair for several weeks. Vasquez’s only evidence that the fire was not accidental was an overpaid expert who would testify that this fire could not have been caused by the alleged fault with the gas line. As long as Ashcroft and his investigators didn’t change their tune and pin this on Frank, David had nothing to worry about, at least concerning the arson claim.

The misrepresentation claim, on the other hand, had kept David awake the past few nights. He couldn’t get Xerxes Capital out of his mind. If Frank had lied during his deposition about Xerxes Capital—and if Xerxes Capital turned out to be an investor in the company—then the jury could deny the claim and void the policy for that reason alone. One material lie was all it would take. And something about the Xerxes Capital issue didn’t sit well with David, especially in light of Frank’s hallucinatory ranting at the safe house. But if that was the case, then Vasquez had to have evidence to show Frank was not telling the truth. So David pored over Vasquez’s exhibits, trying to find anything that might contradict Frank’s testimony about the escrow money. If Vasquez had proof that Frank had lied, then he hadn’t turned it over to David. David wondered whether he was missing something or chasing windmills—or both.

The next day, when David should have been practicing his opening statement and reviewing his trial exhibits for the fortieth time that week, he instead found himself staring at a lime-green brick wall inside a cafeteria at the Federal Corrections Institution in Miami. A low-level security prison that housed crooked pencil pushers, this was where Nick Ruiz would serve his twenty-seven-month sentence.

At the opposite end of the cafeteria, David watched inmates exit through a steel door. As they exited, they all tried to act tough despite the fact that they’d just been strip-searched. David hadn’t recognized any of them. He didn’t recognize the next guy at first either, but he took a closer look when the man stared around the cafeteria as if he had no idea who he was meeting. He’d grown a full beard and bloated about ten pounds, but David realized that this guy was Nick Ruiz.

David stood and waved at him. He looked David up and down a few times before walking toward him. David extended his hand to shake, but Ruiz ignored it. He just turned a chair at the table backwards and sat on it. He crossed his arms and stared at the table.

David took a seat facing him. “You can call me Justin.”

“Is that supposed to mean something to me?” Ruiz didn’t flinch.

“I’m a lawyer.”

“I knew there was a reason I didn’t like you.” Ruiz spit something out the side of his mouth. “Who sent you?”

David leaned closer. “Xerxes.”

“Don’t say that name here,” Ruiz whispered. Then he looked David up and down and rolled his eyes. “You look about like the kind of asshole they’d hire.”

“How they treating you?” David asked.

“No one’s tried to fuck me yet, if that’s what you’re worried about.” He studied David a beat longer. “You sure I don’t know you?”

“All I know is I don’t know you.”

Ruiz shook his head. “What the hell do you know? I been here a month. My wife hasn’t called. She won’t let my daughter call me. I need to know they’re going to be taken care of.”

“We need to know you’re holding up your end. Word is you cut a deal.”

“Of course I cut a deal. The deal we discussed.”

“What did you tell them?”

“I told them what I was supposed to tell them.”

David nodded. “Anything we should be worried about?”

Ruiz rubbed his fingers through his beard. “Everything’s copacetic.”

“They ask anything about Frank O’Reilly?”

“As planned. They think the buck stops with him. I’m surprised they haven’t arrested him yet.”

“Why?” David asked.

“They seemed close. But what do I know.” Ruiz took another look at David, like he was growing weary of him.

“You’re sure of that?”

“As sure as I can be.” Ruiz squinted. Something about David wasn’t sitting well with him.

“So you need anything?”

Ruiz shook his head. Studied David a beat longer before speaking again. “Aren’t you going to ask about the files?”

“The escrow records?” David asked.

Ruiz nodded. “I knew they’d want them back.”

David felt a thin layer of ice cracking under his feet with each question and answer. “I’ll pass it on. Where are they?”

“In the storage warehouse back in Fort Gaspar. Off 39th Avenue. Unit sixteen. You can get in there without being noticed at night.”

“You left the key there?” David asked.

Ruiz rolled his eyes. “Magnus will know the code. You know Magnus, don’t you?”

David knew Ruiz was playing games with him now. “Of course.”

Ruiz rubbed his beard again and nodded. “I do know you. You were at my sentencing.”

David took a quick breath and played it cool. “Of course I was there.”

Nick nodded and grinned. Then he stood. “You know where to go,” he said before he turned and strolled toward the guard who let him out the steel door. “Call Magnus if you need anything,” he whispered before he was out of earshot.

The guard put the cuffs back on Ruiz’s wrists, while Ruiz nodded good-bye to David—a cynical, indifferent gesture. Exactly how David felt.

The storage warehouse Ruiz described was a bland complex of garage doors and empty signs in the middle of a sprawling industrial park north of downtown. David circled the warehouse a few times in the Saab, making sure he wasn’t being followed or watched. He noticed a van parked by one of the units, but it had a flat right tire and looked like it hadn’t seen a highway in years.

David parked a few doors down and made his way to unit sixteen. It was a flimsy fiberglass door about David’s height and five feet wide. He checked the handle. It was locked. The combination was set at 4-5-5. He turned the lock but it wouldn’t budge. But it felt flimsy and weak—everything about the door did.

He returned to the Saab and opened the trunk, where he pushed aside mounds of hearing notebooks, shredded copies of case law, and beer cans that had accumulated over the past eight years. Finally, he found a crowbar he’d been sure was buried somewhere in there. It too felt flimsy and weak, but maybe just strong enough to break the lock.

He slid the teeth of the bar between the door and its track. With an easy turn, the bar tore into the door, gouging a small hole in the fiberglass. He tried to realign the teeth of the bar against the lock and pulled again. Just as it felt like the lock could pop off, he heard what sounded like a car door shutting somewhere in the distance. He lowered the bar to the ground as quietly as he could. He peeked around the corner and saw a car speeding around the opposite end of the warehouse.

Farther away, a black sedan sat idle. No doubt it was Samson’s Acura. Without warning, the car zoomed away and disappeared.

David realized there likely was nothing inside the warehouse. Ruiz was nervous and had called David’s bluff. But what if he’d told Xerxes that David would be here tonight? At least this confirmed that Samson was connected to Xerxes Capital. Why else would he be here right now? It was time to get the hell out of here and concentrate on the trial.

So he turned the corner to return to his car. But it was nowhere to be seen. He trotted to the next corner, in the direction he thought he had run from earlier. He still couldn’t find the Saab, and now he had no idea where he was in the complex of storage sheds. Either he was lost in the maze of warehouses or someone had stolen his car.

He turned another corner. Thick darkness. Just enough light across the alley to illuminate the Saab at the opposite end of the drive.

And the outline of a man leaning against the wall near the vehicle. His back was to David, and he was peering around a wall. He could be Samson—or maybe not. He was clearly holding something to his side.

The faint shape of a handgun.

David caught his breath. He had nowhere to go. There was no way he could get in the Saab without being seen. He could hide in the darkness, but who knew for how long? Or he could take this guy down now and learn what was really on his mind.

With nothing to lose, David slowly lurched toward the man. He hid under the awning of the garage and started inching his way toward his would-be assailant. Gravel and debris rustled and crunched under his feet. His own breathing, he realized, was strained, his wheezing growing loud enough to give him away.

He finally reached the perpetrator. Only about three feet of heavy air separated them. David lunged low, ready to pounce at the right moment. He felt like his heart was going to explode. He told himself to count to three. Grab him from behind, knock the gun away, and then beat him senseless. A long three count.
One,
he told himself.
Two.
Time to go.

Just as he started to spring, he was jarred back by a flood of light behind him. He turned and saw the black Acura thirty feet away, its headlights pointed at David. The man by the Saab turned toward the light, raising his gun. No question now, this guy was not Samson. David didn’t know who he was; he only knew he had never seen him before. And now, he saw David too.

The instant David realized the gun was moving toward him, he leapt for it—just before it began firing. Bullets clanged against metal behind him. He wrestled for the gun. The guy was too strong and mean—he moved like a boar. David held his arm with everything he had. He lost count of the shots, but knew there couldn’t be many left in the chamber.

Meanwhile, he sensed that Samson was now out of his car, on a knee, taking aim. David tried to keep the assailant in Samson’s line of fire. He was losing grip of the arm. Panicking, he sank his teeth into the guy’s bare forearm. He squeezed as hard as he could, and then there was the unmistakable taste of blood. The guy grunted and groaned as David spat and shuddered. A soft thump, like a gun hitting the gravel. David lunged but couldn’t find the gun.

David heard more shots. He realized Samson was firing his gun and screaming something unintelligible. David looked up. The perpetrator was gone. He saw Samson storming in his direction with his gun drawn, screaming for David not to move. David charged into him, trying to knock the gun lose.

But Samson felt like a wall. He rammed David with his shoulder, knocking him back a good five feet.

“I said don’t move, you piece of shit.” Samson squeezed the gun with all his might, keeping it tight on David’s chest.

David saw Samson screaming, but he couldn’t make sense of the words. Couldn’t make sense of anything. His head throbbed. His vision blurred. He could only concentrate on focusing. As he did, Samson’s yelling became clearer.

“I said you’re under arrest.”

David steadied his head. His vision focused enough to see the badge swinging like a pendulum from Samson’s neck.
 

He moaned as he realized Samson was an agent for the FBI.

David kept his fingers gripped behind his throbbing head. Eyes closed, he heard the door open again. He didn’t look to see who it was this time. He didn’t care.

“Let’s try this again.” It was a voice he knew all too well now—that of Special Agent Samson Spikes.

“You’re wasting your time,” David moaned.

“No, David,
you
are.” It was another familiar voice.

David opened his eyes and saw that Beth had followed Samson into the interrogation room. “And you are working with very dangerous men.”

“The only guy who tried to kill me tonight is sitting right over there.” David nodded at Samson.

“You’d be dead if I hadn’t shown up,” Samson said. “Think about it. You visit Nick Ruiz in prison today. Tonight, one of their gunmen tries to kill you.”

“Why do you think that is?” Beth asked.

“I was in the wrong place at the wrong time,” David said. “He was probably someone after this lunatic.” He nodded at Samson again.

She shook her head. “You’re in denial.”

“This has nothing to do with anyone I work for.”

Samson crossed his arm and flexed his pecs. “I should have let him jump your ass.”

“You’re the one who let him go,” David said. “Just get me out of here. I have a trial starting in the morning.”

“A trial?” Beth whacked the table, anger burning in her eyes. “Are you out of your mind?”

David nodded. “Actually, now that you mention it.”

She turned her frustrated glare to Samson. “I need a minute with him. Alone.”

“Be my guest.” Samson slammed the door behind him.

David moaned. “Beth, spare me another lecture, please.”

“Why don’t you tell me what you think you’re going to accomplish with this case?”

“What the hell do you think I’m trying to accomplish? I’m going to win this damn trial. And then I’m going to make partner. Get married. Have a kid or two. Bank seven figures. See the world. And then die.” He smiled. “Interested?”

She snatched his hand and tugged as though she were trying to pull him awake. “You remember our first semester of law school? Remember what you wanted to do after you graduated?”

David pulled his hand back. “I didn’t know what I wanted.”

“You sure did at the time. You wanted to fight for justice. You remember that? You wanted to represent the little guy, do the right thing. And moonlight in a blues bar, for crying out loud.”

“All right, Beth. Good for you. I was wrong. I didn’t know what I wanted. You were right. You had your life all mapped out correctly. Me, it’s taken me time to figure things out.”

“And what do you want now?”

“I want to kick Victor Vasquez’s ass.”

“At what cost, David? You know your client or someone working for him burned down the south tower.”

“No, Beth, I don’t know that. Show me proof of that.”

“What more proof do you need? Your client is the most crooked developer in Florida. Do you know how many investigations we’ve had on him? How many crooks he’s tied to, every which way you can imagine?”