The Jezebel Remedy (33 page)

“All true,” Joe agreed. “But then somebody broke into the system and substituted a forgery. A forgery they want everyone to discover as a forgery.”

“Why take the original, Joe?” Lisa asked.

“Riding over here,” Joe said, “it dawned on me that the original, genuine will would have my fingerprints on it, as well as Lettie's and the sheriff's. A paper fake in the file wouldn't. Even Benecorp couldn't engineer that. Hacking the computers and inserting their forgery to frame me only works if they eliminate the real will.”

“Unfortunately, being local and having frequent access makes you
a prime suspect,” Williams said. “From a big-picture view, the missing document doesn't contradict their position because, well, you'd have the same fingerprint problem. They'll argue you gave Vicky the forgery and then destroyed the original since it didn't have Lettie's prints or DNA on it. Planting it for Sheriff Perry to find was part of a lawyer's clever scheme. Or even better, you didn't give Vicky the will the sheriff gave you. Switched them after he turned over what he found.”

“How the hell would I learn she was dead before anybody else?” Joe asked. “I'd have to discover she's burned to a crisp, then sneak out and drop in my forgery. That doesn't make sense. Plus, Sheriff Perry could testify there was no switch—he'd read enough of the will he found to know it favored me.”

“We need to see if we can discover evidence of the computer breach,” Lisa said. “If we can establish how they did this, then Joe's off the hook.”

“I'm not sure who's doing what to whom,” Helms interjected, “but I can tell you every clerk's office in the state is linked into the system and so is the Supreme Court. There're a gazillion entry points and only basic security.”

“We'll have to give it a shot,” Williams said. “Even though they probably had George Hotz himself do the substitution and cover their tracks. Is there any surveillance video in here, Vicky?”

She formed a “duh” expression with her eyes and mouth. “We're lucky they let us burn the lights during business hours. The county's broke, Robert, and even if we weren't, I doubt the board of supervisors would fund a video system for us.”

Williams smiled. “I needed to ask. I'll check the security entrance to the building, but unless we see Seth Garrison or Edwin Nicholson rolling through, I can't see where it'll do us much good.”

“So from what I'm piecing together,” Helms said, “you think someone stole the original and then hacked the system to put a forgery online?”

“Exactly,” Lisa replied.

“But I read the scanned copy,” Helms said. “Joe still inherits. Why go to that kind of trouble and not change anything?”

“Believe me,” Joe said, “they've changed a whole lot.” He looked
directly at her. “Are you sure the scan image is the same as the will I gave you, Vicky? Identical?”

“I didn't study every jot and tittle. The scan looks very similar. But I'm a hundred percent certain that the paper you brought me is the one I entered into the system, and we had three independent witnesses confirm the writing—Delegate Armstrong, Debbie Hall at the newspaper and LuAnne from the bank. That's all I can tell you. I'm no expert on Lettie's handwriting—if it's fake, then it's fake, but I can't say I see anything obviously different.”

“I understand,” Joe said solicitously. “Like Robert mentioned, this isn't your mistake. You did your job perfectly. You always do.”

“Well, thanks,” Helms answered. “I hope this doesn't cause you any grief, Joe. I know you wouldn't do anything dishonest. You'd be the last person to steal from a court file. Not you. Never. That I could swear to from a witness stand.”

Two weeks later, on a Thursday near the end of July, Lisa and Joe sat in her office and talked to Phil Anderson over the speakerphone.

“So I'm back, and here's the report from the Bahamas,” he said with mock cheerfulness. “Rasta Phil. Mind you, I did turn down the hair braids at the straw market. I—”

“Wait,” Lisa interrupted. “You actually went to Nassau? Robert told us you were investigating the bank; we didn't realize you were there.”

“Tough gig, but somebody had to make the sacrifice,” Anderson deadpanned. “My boy was home from college, and I used your case as an excuse to take him bonefishing. Hot as hell and not the best month to fish, but we still had an excellent trip.”

“You shouldn't have done that, Phil,” Joe said. “We absolutely need to reimburse you.”

“If we make it to the finish of this mess and you're not in jail and still have a law license, we'll discuss it. In the meantime, we'll consider it a much-deserved vacation with my son. Hey, we won a couple hundred bucks playing cards, so there you go. An offset.”

“Please send us your costs,” Lisa insisted.

“Here's what I found,” he said, ignoring her. “The bank is legitimate.
It's not Fort Knox or the Federal Reserve—it's the Caribbean and all that comes with it, but it isn't a complete front or a depository for hoodlums and dope smugglers. I hired a local attorney to hold my hand and make the introductions, and—”

“More we owe you for,” Joe interjected.

“And he arranged for me to meet with the bank manager there in Nassau, an interesting fellow named LaMarr Pinder. I got the impression these people are accustomed to discreetly moving and parking some serious cash. They also make it a point to promote their confidentiality and offshore advantages, if you catch my drift.”

“We do,” Joe said.

“Since I already had the documents from the counterclaim and convinced him they were public record, he didn't have much problem confirming they were accurate and had been generated by his bank. Unfortunately, that means Garrison has a bank employee who will testify to the $750,000 deposit and the withdrawal on March fifth.”

“No surprise there,” Lisa said. “They'd never plead something so flamboyant and not have all their fake ducks in a row.”

“The question is who really wound up with the $750,000,” Joe noted.

“Exactly. The woman who allegedly withdrew the money had what appears to be your passport, Lisa. Pinder claims they checked it and made a photocopy. We'll compare the copy to your actual passport, but I won't be surprised if it's a basic match. Of course, when you Xerox only the main page of the passport with a black-and-white machine, darned if you don't lose most of the subtleties and built-in protections that could flag a counterfeit. Item next: They have your Virginia driver's license on file. Same story. A black-and-white copy. I'll fax you all this in a moment.”

“If you're Seth Garrison,” Lisa said, “coming up with quality counterfeit documents wouldn't be too difficult.”

“Oh,” Anderson said, “the lady who withdrew the money also had to provide them with a numerical password, which she did. The number came from Benecorp, so that's a nonissue in my book. Window dressing.”

“What do we know about this woman?” Lisa asked. “I didn't sign anything there, so what about the signature?”

“Well,” Anderson said, “we have the pleadings copy, and the name Lisa Stone appears on the signature line. Pinder refused to let me see his original. It is what it is. We'll need our own handwriting expert.”

“It's forged,” Lisa replied. “I didn't sign it. I never set foot in that bank. Never. But my signature is on literally thousands of documents in the court system. Twenty years of practice will do that. Anybody could locate an example and transfer it onto whatever they pleased.”

“Sure,” Anderson agreed. “The final piece of the puzzle is a security video. As you can imagine, if you've seen them on TV or during a trial, the tape from the bank is herky-jerky and blurred. Well, not blurred, but fuzzy. No resolution. My paralegal calls them Blair Witches. I often wonder why businesses even bother, given the poor quality. We see a dark-haired white woman with sunglasses and a hat enter and visit a teller, then she goes off camera to meet with Pinder. It could be Lisa. The video woman has the right size and build and hair color. It could just as easily be a thousand other women. I showed Pinder Lisa's photo, and he said, yeah, it was most probably Lisa who met with him. It happened months ago and they process a lot of transactions, so he claims he has no particular recollection. The clever answer. It's suspicious if he's too positive.”

“If it was Lisa,” Joe stated, “he wouldn't forget her.”

Anderson chuckled. “True. I say that as her attorney and your loyal friend and a happily married man, and for no other reason.”

“So it's very simple, isn't it?” Lisa declared. “Benecorp discovers the date I was in the Bahamas and films a look-alike pretending to collect the cash. They could've engineered this two weeks ago so long as the bank's in on the deal. The whole scheme requires a couple fake documents and a few banana-republic types and doesn't cost them a penny of the $750,000. More important, I'm sure our friends at the bank didn't do this for nothing; no doubt they received a handsome fee for their help.”

“Alas, Mr. Pinder wasn't very forthcoming on those details,” Anderson said. “And unfortunately it's a safe bet that a state court in Henry County, Virginia, will never manage to shake that information loose.”

Joe made a whistling sound. “Wow. These fuckers can see into the future, can't they? There's another reason they didn't remove the suit—the feds might be able to lean on Pinder. Damn. An easy boat
ride from Florida, but the Bahamas is another country. We'll see Pinder at trial, but we'll never see his bank's actual records.”

“For me,” Anderson said, “the most curious twist is the date the money hit Nassau—almost a month before Lisa arrived. Pinder confirmed that, seemed way too eager to talk about it, and Nicholson was happy to fax documentation of the transfer from Benecorp's U.S. bank. The money really and truly did go to the Bahamas, but well before Lisa got there. $750,000 was transferred while you were allegedly negotiating, but why send it so early?”

“It's simple, then,” Joe said. “Lisa's right—they forge a few papers, film a lady no one can positively identify and claim she took money that Benecorp had already sent for some other reason. Most likely to conceal or launder. Or a tax dodge. Hell, I'll bet Garrison has money squirreled away on every island in the Caribbean. Lucky for him, Lisa happened to visit Nassau.”

“Here's the problem,” Anderson said, his tone constrained, worried. “I don't have to tell you this—you're both probably better trial lawyers than I am—but we're going to face a helluva job explaining away so many coincidences. We're stuck with some inconvenient facts—Lisa and the cash in Nassau simultaneously. Bank records from Pinder, even if they're fake.”

Lisa spoke up. “If you're a crook, you think, act and plan like a crook. If the first deal's iffy and tainted, you naturally build in a safety net. He kept an eye on us in case this started unraveling—just like it in fact did. Having met him, I'd say he probably loved diagramming all the intrigue and monkeying around with his plans. He's a bit of a dork.”

Anderson was quiet for a moment. A jag of static popped in the phone's antiquated speaker. “I hope you're correct,” he said. “This won't be a cakewalk for us.”

Joe bowed closer to the phone. “So we're clear, Phil, you're still on board with this? I need my lawyer to believe us.”

Anderson answered quickly. “We both realize I don't have to believe you to be effective—we're lawyers, not priests. But, yeah, absolutely, I think you're telling the truth. You're the most ethical, honest lawyer I've ever met.” He paused, laughed. “Of course most people would say that's not much of a compliment.”

As soon as the call ended, Joe stared at Lisa, barely blinking. “I'm
sorry I fucked up with the trust thing. It was a bad idea and played right into their hands. The one time in my career I skirt the rules, and look at the mess I've made.”

“It was a reasonable strategy at the time. We had no idea. None. We've never been involved with something on this scale, with this kind of person, a man with this kind of power and influence.”

“This is totally my doing too, my little red wagon. Thanks for sticking with me and supporting me; we've now officially got everything at risk.” He sounded dispirited. “You're a good wife. I hope I haven't screwed us both.”

Pained to see him so low and anguished, Lisa considered what she ought to say. “I…” was all she could muster before choking on spit and emotion and nerves. “I need to…”

“To what?” he asked.

“To…”

“I'm waiting,” he said.

She came around her desk and stood behind him, leaned down and wrapped her arms around his neck, her cheek against his hair. “I need to make sure you know how much I love you and how hard it is for me to see you suffer and fret.” She was close to his ear, so her voice was tame and subdued. She swallowed two quick times to push space in her throat. “You listen to me: I am positive, one hundred percent positive, that we will win this. We won't lose. Please don't worry. We're a good team, you and me.”

Joe didn't move, answered without twisting toward her or changing his position, sat there punctured and listless. He was facing the empty chair behind her desk, staring at where she'd been. “You want to tell me whatever it is that's really on your mind?”

“I just did,” she said. She tightened her arms and leaned more of her weight into him.

That night, a few minutes after nine, Lisa printed out a series of posts from #1 Chat Avenue and brought them to Joe: