Gage knew Williams was right. Peterson was looking for a way to make him duck and run. Toxic Disposal Limited was a front company he and Burch created to smuggle medical supplies through Pakistan by mislabeling them as contaminated equipment sent for recycling. It was the only way to keep it from being stolen and sold on the black market. The problem was that the scheme required first presenting fraudulent export documents to U.S. Customs, a felony that could cost Gage both his license and a year in federal prison.
“Sounds that way to me, too,” Gage said, “but I’m working on getting Peterson into mine. We’ll see who locks on first.”
Alex Z hustled to catch up with Gage as he walked down the hallway toward his office.
“You guessed it, boss,” Alex Z said, following him inside. “There’s a connection. The partner at Simpson amp; Braunegg who’s handling the SatTek suit was a frat brother of Peterson at Cal. Franklin Braunegg. And they’re golfing buddies now. They even belong to the same country club.”
Gage pointed at a chair in front of his desk. “How’d you find out?”
“Alumni bulletins. That kind of thing.” Alex Z sat, then flipped open a folder and turned it toward Gage. “I even found a photo of them holding up a trophy from a tournament. They play in what’s called the Winter Circuit.”
“Can you find out whether Peterson was ever-”
“Already did.” He slid over a spreadsheet. “I found three securities cases where Peterson was the prosecutor and Braunegg was the class action lawyer. A total of about fifty-five million dollars.”
Gage gazed out of the window while doing his own calculation. “If Braunegg’s firm got thirty to forty percent, that would be fifteen or twenty million. Even if they had a few million in expenses, they made out like bandits in slam-dunk cases.”
“Slam-dunk? I thought these cases are more complicated than that.”
Gage looked back at Alex Z. “If Peterson can prove a criminal case to a jury beyond a reasonable doubt, then even a second-or third-rate attorney can reach a preponderance of the evidence in a civil trial. It’s not that hard to tip the scales, especially when the defendants all have fraud convictions.”
Alex Z’s eyes widened. “You mean a guy driving on a suspended license facing a four-hundred-dollar fine can’t be convicted unless the jury finds him one hundred percent guilty beyond a reasonable doubt, but Mr. Burch could be wiped out based on fifty-one percent to forty-nine percent?”
“Pretty close.”
Alex Z threw up his hands. “That’s absurd.” He looked down, shaking his head, then up at Gage. “I see what Braunegg gets out of it, but what about Peterson?”
“Peterson can use Braunegg to take advantage of civil discovery rules that force defendants into depositions. The smart thing is for Jack to take the Fifth. He could do it secretly in front of the grand jury. But he knows if he did it in a deposition, Braunegg would leak it to the media.”
Gage cringed as he imagined the press stationed on the sidewalk in front of Burch’s house, and the humiliation inflicted by cameras riveted on his car window as he drove from his underground garage.
But there was something worse: “In a criminal case, a jury can’t hold it against you if you take the take the Fifth; in a civil trial they can. Braunegg would crush Jack with it.”
“But I thought they delayed-”
Gage shook his head. “There’s no way a judge would delay the civil case until the criminal trial is over. A lot of the shareholders are elderly. The court will want them to get their money back, not die waiting.”
“Well, then Mr. Burch should just let himself be deposed. Maybe once everyone hears the truth that will be the end of it.”
“It’ll only make things worse. Not only will Peterson assume Jack is lying, but it’ll give Matson a chance to adapt his story to Jack’s defense. In fact…” Gage imagined Braunegg and Peterson forehanding Burch back and forth like a tennis ball on an imaginary red clay court at a very real old boys’ club. “Braunegg can tailor his questions to what Peterson is forcing out of witnesses at the grand jury.”
Alex Z drew back. “That’s not right. Grand juries are supposed to be secret.”
“Only in theory.”
“But I thought Peterson was a straight shooter. NFL and all that.”
“Sports build muscles, not character. How many times do you think Peterson held a blocker, tripped a half-back, forearmed a quarterback, took a penalty rather than let the other side score? You think any coach ever complained? The only thing a coach ever said to him was, ‘Don’t get caught next time.’”
“And Braunegg?”
“A calculating little scavenger.”
CHAPTER 44
F ranklin Braunegg was just biting into a BLT when Gage pulled up a third chair to his table for two at the Hidden Valley Country Club. Over the years, Gage had watched Braunegg try to transform himself from a personal injury street fighter into a white-collar sophisticate, but he only ended up looking slick. Eyes too predatory. Hair dyed too dark. Too many rings on his clawlike hands.
“Where’s your pal, Peterson?” Gage asked, glancing at the half-eaten Cobb salad across the table from Braunegg.
Gage knew the answer. He’d spotted an FBI agent driving Peterson away a few minutes earlier.
“Hadda go inta the offish,” Braunegg said, trying to chew and answer at the same time. Braunegg swallowed hard, then took a sip of ice tea. “How ya doing, Graham?”
“I’m a little concerned about a friend of mine.”
“So I heard.”
Gage tilted his head toward the parking lot. “From Peterson?”
“A little bird.”
“I think Peterson would find that description insulting.”
Braunegg laughed, spitting out a piece of bacon that landed in Peterson’s abandoned salad.
“So what do you want?” Braunegg asked.
“I want you to lay off Burch. Withdraw your subpoena and don’t name him as a defendant for a few months.”
“Not possible.” Braunegg sucked on his teeth. “I’ve got a thousand plaintiffs who want his head. And, of course, his money, which he has a lot of. I need to keep the clients happy. Happy clients are grateful clients. Grateful clients refer friends and family.”
“But that’s not how you got SatTek.”
Braunegg shrugged. “I don’t know how we got it. The case just came in. Maybe the shareholders saw me on FOX News and liked my spiel.”
“I don’t think so,” Gage said, finally repaying the wink.
“What are you suggesting?” Braunegg’s face flared. “I don’t need to sit here-”
“Then get up.”
Braunegg threw his napkin onto his plate, but didn’t rise.
“Peterson fed you SatTek just like he fed you your last three securities fraud cases.”
“I’d like to see you prove it.”
“No you wouldn’t. That’s the last thing you want me to do.”
Braunegg glanced around the restaurant. Gage imagined that he was worried that members seated near them had noticed his loss of control in throwing down his napkin.
“You want to take a little walk?” Gage asked.
Braunegg signaled a waiter and signed his tab, then Gage led him out to the parking lot.
“So what if Peterson sent over the plaintiffs,” Braunegg said, as they stood next to Gage’s car. “It’s not a crime.”
“That depends.”
“Depends on what?”
“What else got put on your tab besides an overpriced salad and whether he also sent over grand jury material.”
“You’d have a hard time proving either one.”
“Not so hard.” Gage leaned in close, pointing at Braunegg’s chest. “You’re too flashy. It’s the reason why you never did well in trial. You show your hand too soon, no self-control.”
Braunegg drew back. “Look, Gage, I don’t have to stand here and take this shit from you.”