Without a Hitch (3 page)
“History is full
of people ‘everybody knows are guilty.’ Lots of them turned out to be innocent,
often after they were executed.”
Theresa rolled
her eyes. “Oh cry me a river. You know guilty people escape justice all the
time.”
Beckett became
annoyed. “You’re missing the point. No matter what you
think
they’ve
done, you’re talking about substituting your judgment for the legal system.
You’re assuming they’re guilty, even though they’ve never been found guilty. You’re
talking about throwing away the legal system and replacing it with millions of people
seeking their own private vengeance.”
Theresa
grunted. “I’m not talking about getting rid of the system, I’m—”
“But you are,”
Beckett interrupted. “If we go with your plan, no one can trust the system
because it won’t be the system making the decisions. What you’re suggesting takes
us back to the age of Romeo and Juliet where ‘justice’ meant private
vendettas.”
Theresa folded
her arms. “You are so thick. I’m not talking about getting rid of the
system. I’m talking about people who are clearly guilty, but who escape
justice through some ridiculous technicality!”
“What you call
technicalities are safeguards that protect you from the government. Two
thousand years of jurisprudence have proven that certain types of evidence are
so unreliable or so inflammatory that you can’t get a fair trial if the
government is allowed to use it. Confessions obtained through torture,
unsubstantiated rumors or innuendo, those are your technicalities. Eliminate
those safeguards and nobody’s safe. They protect you from the government.
You’re a lawyer, you should know that.”
“Don’t be so
melodramatic. I took criminal law too, but I didn’t drink the Kool-Aid.
Genuinely innocent people have nothing to fear.”
“You’re still
missing the point!”
“No, you’re
missing mine!” Theresa shot back. Her lips snarled and a wide crease developed
across the center of her forehead. She was known for her temper, a temper which
often seemed to verge on violence. “I’m not afraid of getting rid of these
loopholes because I haven’t done anything wrong. I haven’t committed any
crimes, and I don’t intend to.”
“But guilt or
innocence become irrelevant if you eliminate these safeguards. The Nazis, the
communists, they got rid of these so-called technicalities because they wanted
to use the courts to get people. They just made up some charge, held a show
trial, and locked you away. Guilt or innocence didn’t matter. There was no
evidence. It was just character assassination thrown up like a shroud over the
truth. Do you really think you’d be safe living under those regimes,
especially with your penchant for speaking your mind?”
“There’s a huge
difference between Nazis and Democrats and Republicans!”
“There is now,
but how long do you think it would take before our politicians start taking
advantage of the new powers you’re giving them?”
“‘I’m giving
them’?! So now I’m Hitler?!” she growled.
“If the
moustache fits,” Beckett said coldly.
Theresa’s face
turned crimson and her eyes narrowed. She clenched her fists and stepped
toward Beckett aggressively. He rose.
“Children,
behave,” Corbin interjected calmly from behind a magazine.
Both Beckett and
Theresa looked at Corbin and backed off slightly.
Beckett
continued. “What’s more disturbing is you won’t admit what you’re advocating.
When you claim the right to frame an innocent person, you’re putting yourself
above the legal system as judge, jury and executioner. You’re giving yourself
the power to eliminate people you don’t like, but you don’t even have the moral
courage to tell the truth about why you’re eliminating them.”
“Shove your
moral courage!” Theresa stepped closer to Beckett.
“Don’t make me
separate you two,” Corbin said more forcefully.
“You can jump in
any time,” Theresa sneered at Corbin without unballing her fists. It wasn’t
clear if she meant for Corbin to join the argument or the pending assault.
Corbin rose and
moved to the other side of his desk, between Beckett and Theresa. “Beckett and
I don’t argue about criminal justice, we’ve agreed to disagree,” he said, as he
leaned against the edge of his desk. “There is one important point however, which
both of you are missing.”
They looked at
Corbin. He smiled.
“Evan’s tie. Where
in the world did you get that tie, Evan? Was it grave robbing night at the
Beckett household?”
Beckett
laughed. “What’s wrong with my tie? This is a cool tie.” He flapped the paisley
tie about with his hand.
“It’s an awful
tie!”
“No way.”
Beckett held his tie out toward Theresa. “What do you think? Cool, right?”
“It’s horrible.”
Unlike Beckett, she continued to steam about their argument.
“I don’t care
what either of you says. This is one cool tie.” Beckett smoothed his tie and sat
down.
Theresa focused
on Corbin, which calmed her. “Speaking of ties, that’s a lovely tie, Alex, and
a beautiful suit,” she said of Corbin’s red and gold designer tie and his dark-gray,
tailored suit. “You always have such great suits.”
Before Corbin
could respond, Beckett started up again. “You know, there’s another problem
with your plan.”
Theresa tensed
up immediately.
“Doesn’t your
plan guarantee that at least one guilty person will go free? After all, you
can’t charge the real criminal with the crime after you frame somebody else for
it. . . unless you’re planning to start charging multiple people with the same
crime? If that’s your plan, why not drop the whole charging charade? Just
lock up the people you don’t like.”
Theresa glared at
Beckett. “You are
so
frustrating,” she said icily.
Beckett
chuckled. “I really am.”
Theresa walked
toward the door, but stopped at the threshold. “Even you, Beckett, need to
admit too many bad people escape justice because of technicalities.”
Beckett smiled
good-naturedly. “Which technicalities would you like to eliminate?”
Without another
word, Theresa stormed off down the hallway.
“Some day she
really will punch you,” Corbin said, as he returned to his seat, “or run you
over with her car.”
“That’s ok, I
heal fast.”
Beckett pulled
the letter Stuart had brought him from his inbox. The envelope was marked
“personal.” It was from his former boss in New Jersey. As Beckett read the
letter, his complexion became ashen, his breathing became labored, and his
shoulders slumped. A few moments later, he crumpled the letter up and tossed
it into his garbage can.
“Good news?”
Corbin asked.
Beckett ran his
hands through his hair before answering. “I’m not getting my promotion. . . I
can go back to my old job, but there won’t be a pay raise. . . I’m going for a
walk.” He never looked at Corbin.
A testy Beckett
returned to the office the following morning. The letter from his old boss weighed
on him. Private school for two kids was expensive. His house was expensive.
His wife refused to leave New Jersey. Commuting drained his finances, not that
he could afford this job anyway. All of these problems would have been solved
if he had gotten the promotion in New Jersey, but now he knew that would never
happen. He had a serious problem, and as far as he could see, Corbin had the
only solution. But that didn’t make him feel any better about committing a
crime. It was wrong, he told himself, but maybe it was necessary.
“What’s your
plan?” Beckett demanded, as he hung his winter jacket on the coat rack.
Corbin hesitated;
Beckett’s foul mood would make this an uphill battle. “You sure you want to
talk about this now?”
“Why not?”
Corbin paused. “All
right. You know those ‘introductory’ checks they send you when you get a new
credit card, the ones they want you to use to transfer your balances over?”
“Right.”
“You can use
those to get cash advances.”
“Right.”
“The plan is
simple. We apply for a large number of cards, open bank accounts, deposit the
‘introductory’ checks into the accounts, withdraw the money, and vanish.”
“Oh, that is
simple,” the cranky Beckett said mockingly.
Corbin refused to
take the bait. “Simple plans are the best plans.”
“I suppose
you’ve thought about how much can go wrong with this plan?”
“We can talk
about this later if you need to take a Midol or something.”
Corbin and
Beckett glared at each other for several seconds. Finally, Beckett shrugged
his shoulders and said, “Go ahead.”
“First, we need
a third person.”
Beckett
immediately became agitated. “Where do we get this third person?!”
“I have someone.”
“The more people
you add, the greater the chance of us getting caught!”
“This guy is
reliable. You can trust him,” Corbin said calmly.
“Trust
him
?!”
Beckett laughed. “I don’t even trust you!”
Corbin let
Beckett take a few short breaths before responding. “We need a third. If you
can’t handle that, then we can stop right now. Do you want to hear this or
not?” Corbin asked without emotion and without breaking eye contact with
Beckett, who found it difficult to meet Corbin’s gaze.
“This has prison
written all over it,” Beckett complained. His eyes darted between Corbin and
the floor.
Corbin waited silently.
“This isn’t some
joke! If I’m not satisfied this thing will work, I’m out! I need a guarantee
I won’t get caught. I have a family, responsibilities. I can’t go to jail!”
“I wouldn’t
suggest this if I thought any of us could end up in jail,” Corbin said, still
without emotion. “I’ve worked out every aspect of this, not only how to avoid
getting caught, but also how to avoid prosecution if we do get caught. If we
do this right, it can never be traced to us and, even if it could, they can
never prosecute us. You and I have the knowledge to pull that off. Now, do
you want to hear what I’ve got or do you want to get back to living out your
life in this dead-end job for a half-ass paycheck?”
Beckett dragged
his hand over his chin. “Go. Continue. But I’m not committing to anything
yet!”
“Fair enough.
On date X, you and this third guy travel to a big city with a lot of banks.
You travel by train, using cash to buy the tickets. I’m thinking Philly, but
New York works too. We just need a city with lots of banks concentrated in a
small area. On this trip, you and he obtain prepaid cell phones, open mail
boxes, and open bank accounts.”
“How do we open
bank accounts? You can’t just open an account as Joe Blow. Banks want
identification, social security numbers, details like that. I’m not using my
name and your friend better not use his name, because if they find him, they
can find me, and I’m not going to jail for this.” Beckett’s voice rose as he
spoke.
“Are you done?”
Corbin asked calmly.
Beckett squinted
at Corbin.
“We’re going to
create fake documents. We’ll have phony drivers licenses, phony socials, phony
leases and phony utility bills. One for each account.”
Beckett
scratched the back of his neck. “How many accounts are you talking about?”
“As many as my
friend can open.”
“If he can’t
open enough?”
“Then we open
more on a second day.”
Beckett ran his
fingers through his hair and exhaled deeply. He looked downward. “That’s a
lot of documentation. Keeping track of it will be difficult.”
“That’s your
job. You’ll have a duffel bag containing all the documents and phones,
organized into packets. You manage the bag so my friend doesn’t need to worry
about keeping everything straight. Also, you stay outside the banks so no one
inside sees a duffel bag overflowing with fake IDs and account paperwork from a
dozen other banks.”
“That would look
suspicious,” Beckett said to himself, still staring at the ground. “Can you
make these documents?”
“Of course.”
Beckett looked
up at Corbin. “I’ll want to see them first.”
“Naturally.”
“After your
friend opens the bank accounts. . . ?”
“You and he
return to Washington by train. You give me the duffel bag. I’ll apply for
credit cards. A month later, my friend goes back to Philly, New York, wherever,
and gets the cards from the mailboxes. We fill in the intro checks and deposit
them. A week later, I take my friend back one more time and we withdraw most
of the money.”
“Aren’t there
limits on how much you can withdraw at any one time?”
“That’s why we
need lots of accounts.”
Beckett furrowed
his brow. “So why do you need me?”
“You manage the duffel
bag.”
“Why can’t
you
manage the duffel bag?” Beckett asked.
“Because I’m the
alibi. While you’re gone, I’ll run interference for you. I’ll send e-mails
from your computer. I’ll tell people they just missed you. I’ll even put a
cup of coffee on your desk. I’ll also tap your computer every twenty minutes to
keep your screensaver from coming on. That way, Kak’s log will show both of us
being here all day except for lunch. At lunch, I’ll go to Fiddeja’s and order
something that looks like the meal you and I normally order. I’ll put it on
your card, and I’ll keep the receipt. The waitress knows us and won’t look at
the card I give her or the signature I use. That gives us written proof that
you and I had our usual lunch that day.”
“What if somebody
calls the waitress to verify the alibi, and she remembers you eating alone?”
“She won’t
remember any particular day. And since we have the receipt showing us eating
there, she’ll conform her memory to the receipt. Also, the day before, you and
I will go for lunch, but we’ll order what looks like only one meal on the
receipt. That way, we can show her that her memory is off by one day. If she
still refuses to change her mind, we can use the two receipts to impeach her
testimony.”
“That would play
well with a jury,” Beckett conceded.
Beckett often
marveled at Corbin’s grasp of criminal law and his understanding of the art of
jury persuasion. Although his practical experience was limited to working for
his uncle’s practice during the summers and one year clerking for a District of
Columbia judge, Corbin possessed an impressive theoretical knowledge of both
law and psychology. Beckett, by comparison, honed his knowledge of the nuts
and bolts of criminal procedure through years of actual trial experience, but he
lacked the depth of Corbin’s raw knowledge, and he could never match Corbin’s
creativity or his writing skill. Together, Beckett often mused, they would
have made a formidable legal team. Sadly, their current job was entirely
administrative.
Corbin
continued: “The minute I’m done at Fiddeja’s, I’ll race down the street and
order a meal at a different restaurant using my friend’s card. That gives him
proof he was in D.C. as well. I then return to the office and use your phone
card to call your house in the afternoon. That’ll create a phone record of you
calling from here. When you come back, we make a very obvious tour around the
office to reinforce the idea that you were here all day. All in all, that
gives us computer proof, credit card receipt proof, phone card proof and eyewitness
proof that each of us was in Washington the entire day. If we were here, we
couldn’t have been up north.”
“That would be
one heck of an alibi to break,” Beckett agreed, scratching his chin as he
spoke. “Still, why can’t I arrange the alibi and you go north?”
“Because, of the
three of us, I’m the only one who can vouch for the other two. You can’t
provide an alibi for my friend and he can’t provide one for you, because you
two don’t know each other. I, on the other hand, can provide an alibi for both
of you.”
“What if the
prosecutor decides you’re part of the plan?”
“How? I’ll have
overwhelming proof I was here all day. It’ll sound like desperation to the
jury if they try to link me to the crime. And if they can’t break my alibi,
they can’t break your alibi.”
“Unless they
grab us the first day?”
“But that’s the
beauty of this: no one’s looking for you on the first day. When you guys do
this, no one will have any idea yet that a crime is being committed.”
Beckett nodded.
“And if they
can’t grab you the first day, they’ll never be able to link the two of you.
You don’t work together. You didn’t go to the same schools. You don’t even
live in the same state. After this, you’ll never see each other again. The
only connection between you two is me, and I’m not giving that connection up. I’m
a dead end for the cops, and as long as I’m a dead end, you two have perfect
alibis. It’s like a reverse catch 22.”
Corbin waited
patiently as Beckett contemplated Corbin’s plan. “This might work,” Beckett
finally said. “Will your friend do it? He’s taking the most risk.”
“He’s ready.”
“Well, don’t
ever tell him my name!” Beckett exclaimed, pointing at Corbin for emphasis. “I’m
serious about this. I don’t want to know his name, and he never gets to know
mine!”
“Agreed.”
Beckett looked
out the window. “You said we’re only taking some of the money?”
“That’s to keep
anyone from investigating. Credit card companies don’t realize right away
they’ve been taken. They typically give you thirty days to pay a bill and
another thirty before their collection people start calling. If you pay
anything, not even the minimum, just anything, they start the clock all over
again. Do you see where I’m headed?”
“I think so.”
“One month after
we deposit the checks, I’ll send the minimum payment to each card. I’ll also
send change of address letters for somewhere across the country, like Texas.
Then I wait sixty days and send another payment. That buys us at least 180
days before they start looking, and hopefully when they do start looking,
they’ll look in the wrong state.”
Beckett cracked
his first smile. “Nice. We get 180 days for memories to fade and videotapes
to be erased. When I was a public defender, the Chief of Detectives once told
me that crimes that aren’t solved within a few days are never solved.”
“So I
understand. What’s more, they won’t even know if this was a crime. If we make
two payments before we stop, this’ll appear to be a bad debt, not fraud. I
doubt they can even get the cops to look into it once they admit the accounts
had positive payment histories.”
“You devious
bastard,” Beckett chuckled. “Wait a minute. What if the real people pull
their credit and see these accounts? Won’t they call the cops?”
“Actually, there
was something interesting about that on TV recently.”
“TV is real life?”
“This was the
news, that’s close enough. It turns out the big problem identity theft victims
have is the cops don’t consider them victims because they’re only liable for
the first $50. So unless the credit card company reports it, the cops won’t
even look into it. But credit card companies don’t like reporting this because
of the accounting consequences of reporting fraud.”
“So they might
just want it to go away,” Beckett added.
“Also, keep in
mind, by the time this hits people’s credit reports, no one can find us
anymore. After we withdraw the money, we never go back to the banks or the
mailboxes. Thus, they can’t just stake out a bank to catch us. They actually
need to trace this to our doors, and that’s impossible.”
“What about the
documents your buddy gives the banks? They’ll have his photo on file.”
“Yeah, but he’s
non-descript. He can pass as either Hispanic or Asian or possibly even
Italian. Also, I’m going to digitally manipulate his photo to alter key
structural features. Anyone using that photo to identify him will never be
able to pick him out of a line up. By the same token, if we somehow end up in
court, we can use that same photo to show they have the wrong guy.”
“So, you made
fake IDs in a past life?”
“Among other
things.” Corbin smiled.
Beckett sighed
and nodded his head. He strummed his fingers on his desk. “It’s workable, but
let’s talk about this friend of yours. . . can we give him a name?”
“What do you
suggest?”
“I don’t care.
How about ‘Joe Nobody’?”
“Overly
dramatic, but fine.”
“Is he any good
under pressure?”
“Yes.”
“How do you
know?” Beckett asked.
“I know.”
“Does he have a
criminal record?”