"Turn around, Ron," Russell said.
Slattery wheeled around quickly.
"Now, you see, Ron, you're talking down to me, and I don't like that. Obviously I'm not talking about stacks of bills. I'm talking about a couple of keystrokes on the computer. Click click click. Electronic funds transfers and all that. Takes a few seconds. I do know a thing or two."
"Not as much as you seem to think you do," Slattery said.
Russell gave a sly smile.
"We have controls in place," Slattery said. "Security codes and PIN numbers and callback arrangements. Things you can't even begin to imagine."
"Thing is, I don't need to imagine it, Ron. I've got you right here to explain it all to me."
"And which account do you imagine this hundred million dollars would go into? Your checking account? Or your savings account? Do you have any idea how fast you'll have the FBI up your ass?"
"What I hear, the government doesn't do so good with offshore banks, Ron."
Slattery was quiet for a few seconds. "You have an offshore account," he said. A statement, not a question.
"Anything can be arranged," Russell said. "If you know the right people."
"Please." Slattery smiled. "Setting up an offshore account is a complicated legal process that can take days, if not weeks. And it's certainly not something you can do from here."
"Ronny, you ever heard of something called the Internet?"
Slattery's smile began to fade.
"These days, Ronny, all you need's a laptop. There's websites out there that wanna sell you ready-made shell companies, incorporated in the Seychelles and Mauritius, places like that. Couple hundred bucks. You pay an extra fee, you can get the whole thing done in a day." He shook his head. "You mean I know more about this stuff than a professional money guy like you?"
"Well, be that as it may," Slattery said, "it's all theoretical anyway. We don't have the authority to move money like that."
"You don't?" Russell took a folded piece of paper from a pocket in his vest and held it up. "Says here you folks are the 'Executive Management Team' of Hammond Aerospace. CEO, CFO, Treasurer, Controller, blah-blah-blah. All the top guys in the company. You're all here. You telling me you guys-and gal, excuse me-don't have the 'authority' to transfer corporate funds? I don't buy it."
Slattery shook his head. His bald pate had begun to flush.
"Russell." It was Upton Barlow.
Russell turned. "Yes, Upton?"
"What you're really asking for is ransom, isn't that right?"
"Ransom? I don't know whether I'd call it that, Upton. I'm just looking to make a business deal here. Call it a transaction."
"Well, call it ransom," said Barlow, "and all you've got to do is call our headquarters in Los Angeles and make a demand. We have kidnap-and-ransom insurance. The company will have no choice but to pay you the money, then you can be on your way, simple as that. Everybody wins. Except maybe Lloyds of London."
Ali and I exchanged glances again. She seemed to be as astonished as me that one of our own would actually suggest a ransom. But then, as I knew well, fear could do strange things to people.
"Well, Upton, I do appreciate the suggestion," Russell said pensively, as if he were a fellow executive helping to hash out the details of some complicated marketing strategy. "But kidnap-for-ransom, as I see it, is for amateurs. Or banditos in Mexico or Colombia. That might work in some foreign country where you've got the cops in on it with you, taking a piece of the action. But it never works here."
"But the difference is, we want to cooperate with you," Barlow said.
What an idiot, I thought.
Ali rolled her eyes.
"Sorry, Upton, but I won't play that game," he said. "I don't really feel like having this beautiful old fishing lodge turned into-what was it?-Waco or Ruby Ridge. You think I want me and my buddies trapped in here with SWAT teams all around, shouting at us through megaphones, using us for sniper practice, helicopters circling and all that? Uh-uh. No way, Josй. That's for idiots, Upton, and I'm not an idiot."
Barlow seemed momentarily stymied.
"No need for all that drama," Russell went on. "Not when we got all the players here who can make our little deal happen."
"I told you, we can't do that!" Cheryl said.
"Now, see, Cheryl, I'm not talking to you. You and Ronald, you seem to be the naysayers around here." He raised his voice, addressing all of us at once. "Okay, kiddies, here's the deal. I'm gonna make a call to an old buddy of mine-a guy who knows how all this stuff works. Meanwhile, Upton, why don't you and your Executive Management Team have a little powwow. A little…offsite, right? Figure out how you guys are gonna get me that money. Hey, Buck, do you think you guys can clear your schedule for a couple of days?"
"Shee-et, I dunno, I'm a busy guy," Buck said. He was using his redneck Deliverance accent again. It must have been some inside joke among the hunters, or whatever they were. "Hain't even finished worming the hogs."
"Want something done, ask a busy man to do it," Russell said. "So why don't you and Wayne check your Filofaxes and see if you can block out a little time for me, could you, please?"
Buck cackled. "Soon's I finish cooking the roadkill beef jerky, boss."
"When you're done searching everybody, I want you to tie 'em all up at the wrists. Hands in front of 'em so they can use the john if they have to." He took out his walkie-talkie and pressed the transmit button. "Verne, you and Travis bring the staff in here, please."
"Roger," a voice said.
"There's no need to tie anybody up," Cheryl said. "Honestly-where the hell do you think we're going to go?"
"Well, Cheryl," said Russell, "you sound very reasonable, the way I'd expect a CEO to sound. But you folks might be here a little while, see, and I never like to take chances." He had the pleasant, confident voice of an airline pilot announcing that we'd just encountered a little "heavy weather" and telling us not to worry about it. "All right, boys and girls, my buddies here will take good care of you. By the time I get back, I'm hoping and expecting we'll all be ready to rock 'n' roll." He smiled and nodded. "Gonna be a kinda carrot-and-stick approach, whatever you want to call it. You cooperate, we do our deal, and me and my buddies pack up and move on."
"What's the stick?" asked Slattery.
"You," said Russell. "We'll start with you. Thanks for volunteering." He was talking to all of us now, his eyes hooded, nonchalant. "You folks give me any problems, I'm going to kill my little friend Ronald. Call it a penalty for nonperformance, isn't that what you guys say? So I'm hoping you guys do some real creative thinking, okay?"
Slattery went pale as Russell stowed his walkie-talkie, then gazed around the immense room for a few seconds. "I want everyone on the floor where we can see 'em," he ordered his men.
"What do you want us to tie 'em up with?" said Buck.
"Jesus." Russell shook his head. "They're supposed to be doing something called 'ropes courses' tomorrow, whatever the hell that is. Just a wild guess, here, but I'm thinking it might involve rope, Bucky, what do you think?"
Buck gave Russell a look of irritation.
"Well, there you go," Russell said, pointing at the big wooden reel of climbing rope that Bo Lampack had held up at dinner. "And listen, Buck. Pay careful attention to that young guy." He jabbed a thumb in my direction. "I get a bad feeling about him."
29
Watch out for this guy, Glover," the guard said, smiling.
My first day at the Glenview Residential Center. Juvie. My home for the next eighteen months.
"Yeah, I see what you mean," said the second guard. "Better warn Estevez. He's gonna shit in his pants."
Their laughter rang in the cinder-block hallway. The first one said something in a low voice to the second, something I didn't catch. Handed him a clipboard with forms on it. The intake forms I'd had to sign at the bottom of every page.