Pleading Guilty (44 page)

He was safer, of course, not confronting Jake openly, but I knew he would ridicule that suggestion.

"Don't you see?" he asked. "Look at this, for God's sake, from Jake's perspective. We tell him the money's missing, we believe Bert's got it, we can't locate any records related to the disbursement to Litiplex. But we also say we're looking high and low for Bert, and when we find him, we'll beg him to give the money back and come home. We even tell Jake we want his blessing for that arrangement. You were sitting right here. You heard that. Now how does Jake know that you're not going to find Bert? How can he be sure?"

This was like law school. The Grand Inquisitor. I swallowed and admitted he couldn't.

"He can't," said Martin, "that's right. He can't. He can't be certain. And when Bert is found, when he returns from whatever exotic detour he's taken, Jake knows where Bert is going to be pointing. Straight at Jake. There's no safety for Jake in the fact we blame Bert. He knows it's a misimpression.

"But now let's consider an alternative. You're out searching up Bert, trying to get him the message that all is well if he just gives back the money, and lo and behold, lo and behold, Jake Eiger, Glyndora, someone is able to report that mysteriously, wonderfully, a wire transfer has come in from Pico Luan. God bless Bert. God bless us. Case closed. As promised, not another word will be spoken on the subject. My God, Mack! Could you really have missed this? Don't you understand that the point was to offer Jake a discreet way, a last opportunity to give the goddamned bloody money back?"

It settled in then, like the mystical presence of some nearby angel. Martin, of course, was speaking the truth. It had all the delicate signs of his typical engineering. Nothing so direct as a confrontation with Jake. That would have been shabby and extortionate--and risky as well, if Jake ever told tales. This way the world could go on, with all its false faces. Oddly, it would be exactly as the Committee had told me from the start. Excep
t f
or the identity of the thief, the plan was precisely the same: Get the money back, sweep it under the rug, kiss and make up. "He could have run," I said to Martin.

"He could have. But he hasn't run yet. Jake obviously wants to hold on to this life. He just craves some security to which he's not entitled. I was letting him know it was time to make a more realistic choice."

"And what happens when he doesn't give the money back? You're not telling me you were actually thinking of turning him in?"

He looked at me like I was nuts.

"What other choice is there? That was the one limit I set with Glyndora to start.- He could see I was astonished. "Look, Mack, if I was determined to say nothing, no matter what Jake did, I would have burned that memo, not kept it in a drawer. -

"But you didn't say anything."

"Why should I? You're the one who brought us Jake's message last week: Be patient, Bert's not to blame, it's not what it appears, future accountings will show that there's been a mistake. That was clearly the prelude. Jake was planning to get the money back.

A strange qualm passed between us then, some recognition of the differing planes where we'd stood which was transmitted in a stark look. Martin got to his feet.

"My God," he said. It was just coming home to him, not the dimension of our misunderstanding--he'd seen that before--but rather, its consequences. He'd assumed I'd sent Carl to Krzysinski out of disdain for the grubby arrangement Martin was orchestrating--protecting Jake and the firm, breaching our duty to TN to fully inform them of what we knew about the General Counsel. Martin saw only now that I'd been propelled by imagining malefactions far grander. He spotted his stud on the floor and pitched it at the windows again--full force, so the jewel flew off in a kind of musical ricochet. He pointed at me. He called me names.

"You goddamned dumb bastard! You wouldn't even talk to me on the phone."

He stood there huffing and puffing. And how did I feel? Pretty strange. Confused. In a peculiar way, I was actually relieved. When I recovered some sense of myself, I realized I was smiling. I'd misjudged Martin and his complexities. You wouldn't call his conduct saintly, but he'd done better than I thought--and, God knows, a hell of a lot better than me.

There was a knock on the door. Brushy. She had put on her formal, a sleeveless black floor-length job with sequins. She wore long white gloves. A rhinestone tiara was perched in her hair like a sparkling bird. Her eyes went to the desk where the copy of the form from the International Bank still lay and she tolled that, as usual, at the speed of a Univac. I whistled at her and she diverted herself for a fraction of a second to smile.

"Is Wash here yet?" she asked. "He just called and asked me to come down. He sounded upset."

Wash arrived presently. In the condition she'd discerned. "I'm just off the phone with Krzysinski. All hell's broken loose up there." He was in his tux, with a jazzy red bow tie, but his face was pale and he had broken a sweat. "Tad asked for everyone TN works with--`my dependables' was how he put it." Wash closed his eyes. "He wants all of us upstairs. You. Me. Brushy. Mack. Bert as well. What do we say about that? About Bert?" Martin waved his hand to pass off the question; Wash, as usual, was missing the point. Martin asked what precisely Tad wanted and Wash at first seemed unable to bring himself to answer. The old age descending on him, where he would be bewildered and addled, seemed at hand. He stood there with his mouth vaguely moving and his eyes never quite fixed. He answered at last.

"Tad said he wants to figure out what to do about Jake."

Chapter
XXIX. AND THIS TIME

IT 'S THE TRUTH

A. Office of the Chair

In Tad Krzysinski's huge office we found the disjointed air of a large, unhappy family. Tad's assistant, Ilene, met us and said that Pagnucci had stepped out to put on the tuxedo his secretary had brought up. Mike Mathigoris, the head of security, was also elsewhere for the moment, while Tad's four o'clock meeting was going on in his adjoining conference room. Only Tad and Jake remained here, paying no attention to each other. Krzysinski was taking a phone call and Jake was abjectly hulked on the edge of his chair, staring without much comprehension at the many portraits of Krzysinski's children that were the principal decoration on the far wall, between the three doors that led to Jake's office, the office of TN's CFO, and the conference room. You could tell from the empty way that Jake first looked at us, the wan smile, that he couldn't explain what was wrong with this picture, why Brush in her floor-length gown and the three men in tuxes appeared out of place. Martin's bow tie was still hanging loose through his collar, and his shirt was held closed over his stomach principally by his cummerbund, since he'd never managed to insert the last stud.

"I wanted you to hear this." Krzysinski had gotten up to shake each of our hands, the usual crushing grip. In college, I'd heard, Tad's nickname had been "Atom" and that about said it all--size, structure, the barely contained power. Tad, of course, had a vast corner office. The parquet was covered by an enormous Oriental rug--fifty grand at least--and his view ran all the way to the airport on a clear day. When the weather was good, Tad liked to stand at the long windows and watch TN's planes rise, giving you the flight numbers and the names of the pilots. Now, once he'd greeted us, he jiggled a commanding finger at Jake, instructing him to proceed. Jake recounted the story somewhat methodically, drained of emotion. You could tell that he'd repeated it about six times already and it was beginning to get routine. He was, as usual, perfectly groomed, hair stiffly parted, his gray herringbone suit buttoned at the waist to add to the impression of his ordered form. But his face was out of focus. Jake, for once in his life, was under the crush of sensible pain and it threatened his sanity. I felt only a twinge of regret. Asked to speak, I might well have said, "Goody."

In November, Jake said, as we were thinking about making the final disbursements on 397, Peter Neucriss and Jake had a talk. Actually, Peter took Jake out for the evening, a characteristic manipulation, wooing the enemy. Royal treatment. Dinner at Batik. Many drinks. Hockey game. Afterwards, as Jake and Peter were having a nightcap down at Sergio's, Peter got to what he had been leading up to all night. He had a business proposition for Jake. For TN, really. Neucriss had three different settlements on 397. Huge cases, naturally. A mother and child one of them. The total was nearly thirty million. Peter was working on the usual third. He had almost ten million in fees coming.

"He told me this long farfetched tale, how a fortune was owed to this litigation support group, Litiplex. He said their work had benefitted all the plaintiffs, but the class lawyers were acting a
s i
f they'd never heard of them and Peter was in a spot because he was the one who'd retained the company and made some cozy deal with them, these Litiplex people, something a little unsavory. You know Neucriss when he gets like this. You'd expect him to leave a spot on the wall. At any rate, he felt it was his obligation to pay Litiplex even though I--me supposedly--I'd said at one point it would come off the settlement fund. I objected. A number of times. I mean, I'd had a few drinks, but I knew I'd never said anything like that.

"I couldn't imagine what was going on, until suddenly he made this proposal: If we'd pay Litiplex offshore--$5.6 million was the number he'd come up with--set up an offshore account in their name, disposition subject to Peter's later direction, then Neucriss would let us reduce our remaining payment to Peter's clients to $22.4 million. That way, TN would be two million dollars ahead. He assured me his clients would net the same amounts. You know how it goes--we pay him, he deducts his share and remits to the clients. He'd just cook his books so it looked like he was working on a lo percent contingency instead of a third. Why should I care? It's two million to us. That's the bottom line."

"I'm not following," said Wash. "What does Peter get out of it?"

"It's a tax dodge." It was Brushy who spoke. As usual, she didn't need a book of instructions. "There's no Litiplex. Not really. It's a sham for Neucriss, who gets his fee offshore and never pays income taxes on it, not this year, and not on whatever it earns in the future. That's why he was willing to take two million less. He'd save two or three times that in the long run." Jake was nodding eagerly as she ran it down. Eagerly. Even Jake had understood this much.

"Neucriss denies all of this, by the way, the entire conversation." It was Pagnucci, in the doorway. Carl was dressed in a double-breasted dinner jacket, blue sharkskin no less, smokin
g a
cigarette and looking somewhat haggard. Considering the assembly, he said dryly that he'd already listened to this story several times.

"Mathigoris and I were just on the phone with Mr. Neucriss," Carl said. "He states, most emphatically, that the only time he's heard of Litiplex was when Mack and Martin spoke with him recently."

"Naturally," said Jake, "naturally he denies it. I told you he would. He's engaging in tax evasion. I don't expect him to put up a billboard. But I'm telling you, that was the deal. I set up the account with that understanding. When he presented me with signed releases on our cases, I'd give him the balance of the settlements and a letter of direction entitling whoever he designated to the account. Don't you see? I wasn't stealing anything. This for the company. For TN. -

He looked at Krzysinski, but Tad's attention was on Ilene, the assistant, who stood at the door signaling obscurely. Tad stepped into his conference room to attend to whatever fire was burning there.

"And what were you thinking the IRS would say about the company and you, Jake?" Brushy asked this. Wash in the meantime was peeking up hopefully. He didn't understand everything, but Jake's last lines had buoyed him. He could see it coming. Undeserved salvation. Story of his life.

"Me? We haven't lied to them. We haven't filed any false documents. I haven't even seen Peter's return. God knows, I've got suspicions, but who can fathom the mind of Peter Neucriss? If the Service ever asked, I'd tell them the absolute truth. And I'm certainly not hiding any income. We want to declare it. It'll be on every return and financial statement. That's the point. Let's not pretend. We all know the story. Tad has been very concerned about the level of legal expenses. And quite pleased with the way 397 has turned out. This is two million, straight to the bottom line. We need that. All of us. The company and everyone here.-

"I still don't think you'd get a good-conduct medal from the Service," said Martin to Jake.

"Or the SEC," said Pagnucci.

"Or Tad," Brushy said.

"Admittedly," said Jake, "admittedly. True on all counts. Krzysinski hates it. Hates it. Look at him. It's not his style." Glancing darkly at the conference room door, Jake lowered his voice. "But he'd love the result. So would the board. Friends, really. A tree falls in the forest. Is there sound if nobody hears? If discreet, what does anyone know? Neucriss won't say a word. The IRS has no reason to audit an escrow account. We're showing a surplus, for crying out loud. That's why I told no one. I sent the memo to Bert, explaining that it was very sensitive. I left no records here. And I made my own hell by doing it that way. I'm the first to admit it. The very first. There was not a thing I could say when all of you began looking into the matter, except what I told Mack last week: If we just wait, it's going to turn out all right. When the disbursements were made, there would be no money missing. There'd he two million more than expected. Who would complain? Don't you see? I'm not a thief." He looked around the room at each of us. He was being achingly sincere, wounded and vulnerable, that Jake-thing I'd probably last seen when he talked to me about the bar exam.