“The point is, I understand that each of you, in your own special way, is a real hard-on. Victims of that old testosterone poisoning. Shit, I know how it is, boys. I know how it screws up your little brains. I’ve worked with guys like you so long, I sometimes think I picked up a case of it myself. But you got to get over it-here and now. Take a minute before you answer. Think it over.”
We were all quiet for a while. Debby came in with coffee. DiPaolo blew on it and sipped some and looked at us. Mike spoke.
“We understand your concern, and we want to help you as much as we can. It’s certainly not our wish or intent to have anything to do with an active investigation.” Mike spoke softly and evenly. Except for DiPaolo, everyone on the other side of the table started taking notes. Katz looked at DiPaolo, and she nodded to him slightly.
“Yeah, that’s nice. Why don’t you start by telling us why you’re asking around about Gerard Nassouli.” Katz’s accent was also heavy Brooklyn.
“Sure,” Mike said. “Mr. March is conducting an investigation for me, as part of work that I’m performing for a client. In the course of this investigation we’ve come across what we believe may be a blackmail scheme, carried out by a person or persons, unknown. We think the scheme targets individuals who may have done business with Gerard Nassouli some time ago-fifteen years ago or longer-and that the perpetrators make use of documents that Nassouli would have had access to. Hence our interest in Nassouli.”
The three federal prosecutors had pretty good poker faces, but Pell put it all out there. Surprise, puzzlement, and anger played across his fat face.
“You’re making the right cooperative noises, counselor,” Katz said, “but you’re not actually telling us much. Let’s get specific here, starting with the name of your client.”
Mike smiled a genial, faraway smile. He looked at Katz and DiPaolo. “My client is very concerned with confidentiality. I’m sure you understand.”
But Shelly DiPaolo did not look understanding. Her dark eyes got hard and narrow, and her full lips drew back over small, white teeth.
“Fine, counselor,” she said, “you made your choice. You want to play it this way, that’s okay.” She turned to me. “You, you want to tell me who you’re working for and who you’ve been talking to?”
I looked at Mike. He nodded. “I’m working for Mr. Metz, and I’ve been informed by him that everything I’ve done or discovered in the course of my investigation is considered attorney work-product, and is to be held in the strictest confidence.”
Katz responded. “Did Mr. Metz tell you that the legal ground under that assertion is pretty fucking thin when it comes to keyhole peepers like you? That it might just open up under your feet and swallow you whole? How’d you like to add contempt or obstruction charges to your resume?”
I looked at the president’s photo. He had a nice tie on, and it went well with his suit. Mike answered for me. “I don’t think the legal ground is all that shaky, Mr. Katz.”
Katz looked pale, and his thin mouth was set in a hard frown. “Fine, we can roll the dice and see how a judge feels about it,” Katz said, then he looked at me. “But you should know, March, it’s your ass he’s gambling with. Attorney-client confidentiality protects him just fine. You’re the one that’ll take the fall on this. Think about it.”
“And perhaps Mr. Metz hasn’t mentioned,” Conaway chimed in, “that a client’s name is not itself protected information under attorney work-product confidentiality. Indeed, counselor,” he turned to Metz, “it’s not covered under broader attorney-client protections, either.”
Mike looked at DiPaolo without expression. DiPaolo turned to Neary. “Speaking of gambling… how’re you doing in all this, Tom? As far as I can see, you’ve got no protection against anything. You know who this client is?”
“Nope,” Neary said.
DiPaolo looked at him more and shook her head. “How about the blackmail victims-know any of them?”
“Nope.”
“So what’d they want from you?”
“A look-see at procedures and systems-how documents get handled, how the liquidation teams work, a tour of the offices. We’ve done it before, for other Brill offices, outside investigators, even some government types-the standard busman’s-holiday tour.”
DiPaolo turned back to Mike. “What’s your interest in that stuff?”
Mike smiled again. “Our working hypothesis is that the blackmailers are using documents that Nassouli would’ve had access to. But we believe it’s possible that others may have had access to those documents. Someone on the liquidation team, for example, or someone in the investigation.”
The prosecutors were stony faced, but Pell was looking apoplectic. He was sputtering, and his face was getting maroon, and he couldn’t contain himself.
“What kind of crap…” DiPaolo gave him another icy look, and he shut up. She was quiet for a while.
“That’s one hell of a theory, pal. Really great. It could call our whole chain of evidence into question. A fucking exculpatory wet dream for defense counsel. Maybe somebody thinks up a damages suit, too, and who knows what else. It’s the kind of inflammatory, irresponsible crap that can trash an investigation. Do wonders for Brill’s reputation, too.” She looked at Tom. “That why you gave them the tour?” she asked him.
“Yep,” he said.
“Find anything?”
Tom paused. “My understanding is they’re looking for things from Nassouli’s personal files. As far as I know, we’ve never had any of that stuff,” he said. I thought a look of relief flitted over DiPaolo’s face, but it was gone before I could be sure. If she was relieved, Mike quickly rained on her parade.
“We’ve discussed the possibility that someone on the liquidation team or in the investigation might have kept those documents out of the system altogether,” he said.
“And your theory is based on… what?” she asked him.
Mike looked apologetic. “I’m sorry, but-”
Shelly cut him off. “Cut the crap, counselor. You’re screwing with my witnesses, spouting this irresponsible shit that can fuck my investigation big time, then you and Bruce Wayne here,” she gestured at me, “you hide behind attorney-client protections. Except you won’t name your fucking client! You can’t be this stupid, Metz. You must know the shit storm that’s going to come down on you.”
Mike was quiet for a while. “We have no desire to share our theories or discuss this case at all, with anyone, Ms. DiPaolo,” he said evenly. “Frankly, we wouldn’t be discussing it with you, if you hadn’t invited us in. We’re not talking to any defense counsel, we’re not making statements or giving depositions, and if anyone asked us to, we’d claim attorney-client confidentiality. As I said, we have no wish to be involved in an active investigation.”
“Then why are you messing with Trautmann?” Katz asked.
“Mr. Trautmann came to our attention as a close associate of Gerard Nassouli,” Mike answered.
“Why did you assault Trautmann?” Katz asked me. I glanced at Mike. “Don’t look at him, goddamn it, look at me. Answer my fucking question,” Katz snarled. Mike nodded.
“Trautmann assaulted me. I defended myself.”
“That’s your story. Could be he’ll want to press charges,” Katz said.
“Could be I’ll do the same-against him, and Slim there, too.” I flicked a thumb at Pell. Pell’s face clenched, and for a second he was going to come across the table, but DiPaolo put a hand on his arm. Mike gave me a warning look.
“Counselor,” Shelly DiPaolo said, “we’re reaching the end of useful conversation here. Paulie pointed out a few minutes ago that your client’s name is not protected information. And since you didn’t give him one of your slick, friendly answers, I assume you know it too. So, what’s it going to be? You going to answer questions here, or in front of a grand jury?” Mike smiled at her.