Read Online Saving Grace by Barbara Rogan - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Barbara Rogan
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triplicate—know what I mean?”
Afterward, Jonathan poured himself a shot of bourbon from a bottle he kept in a cupboard. Spiegel’s after-shave had left a sweet, brackish odor in the room. The man was no rocket scientist, but he was useful and he had a good political nose: the kind of guy you could throw cold into a meeting of strangers and in ten minutes later he could tell you with absolute accuracy that A, ostensibly allied with B, was secretly playing footsy with C.
Respect bordering on the obsequious was his usual manner with Jonathan. Today there had been an undertone of doubt, the sound of a man hedging his bets.
His secretary buzzed him. “It’s your bank, Jonathan. The woman’s called twice; she says it’s urgent.”
“Thanks, Maggie. Put her through.”
“Mr. Fleishman, this is Maria, Mr. Gonzalez’s secretary from the bank? You remember you helped me out with my son a few years ago?”
He remembered doing some small thing—making a phone call when her boy was busted, getting the kid rehab instead of jail. “Of course,” he said heartily. “How’s the boy doing?”
“Fine, thank you. Mr. Fleishman, something terrible is happening here. Mr. Gonzalez couldn’t call you ‘cause they’re sitting right in his office, but he gave me a sign and I came out to the lobby.”
“What’s the problem, Maria?”
“These people came with a subpoena, Mr. Fleishman. They’re auditing your account.”
“Who is? The IRS?”
“No, sir,” she whispered. “I heard them say the U.S. attorney’s office.”
Jonathan felt a dull impact, like drilling on an anesthetized tooth. “They had a subpoena?”
“Yes, sir, because Mr. Gonzalez didn’t have no choice, he had to let them look. Only he gave me a wink to go call you. You better come right down here, sir.”
* * *
The bank was only two blocks from his office. He was there in five minutes. Maria was hovering by the entrance. As they strode through the front room toward the manager’s office, the tellers looked at him, then looked away. Maria opened the office door and stood aside to let him enter. When Jonathan squeezed her arm in thanks, she turned away, wiping her eyes.
Luis Gonzalez glanced up, and a look that was half-relief, half- embarrassment flooded his face. He spread his hands. “Nothing I could do, Jonathan.”
Three people were seated at a table strewn with computer printouts and ledgers. Two clerkish men glanced up incuriously, then went back to the papers before them. The third—a woman, red-haired, hard- faced, striking—took the time to scowl at Gonzalez. Then, without a word, she stood and thrust a subpoena at Jonathan.
He skimmed it and tossed it aside contemptuously. “What grounds did you give for this fishing expedition?” he demanded.
“I can’t answer that.”
“Don’t be a smart-ass—Bugalio, is it?” He knew damn well who she was—the bitch who was after Michael’s blood.
“Buscaglio, and we both know I don’t have to cite grounds to you, sir.” The “sir” was late and ironic.
“Lucas knows about this?”
“Of course.”
He needn’t have asked. Buscaglio might be flavor of the month in the U.S. attorney’s office, but she had nowhere near the authority or the clout to take him on herself.
They’re like roaches, Michael had said, but he was wrong: they were maggots. Jonathan felt a spreading sickness in his gut. It was happening to him. He’d seen it done to so many others, he knew just how the process worked. It was inexorable. Once they started, they never let go till they found something to justify their efforts; and if they couldn’t make a case, they’d manufacture one.
He stood in the doorway, paralyzed by the realization that after all these years of fighting for the system’s victims, he had finally joined them. It was all wrong; it was never supposed to happen. This pawing through his bank records was pure harassment. What else could they expect to accomplish by
Afterward, Jonathan poured himself a shot of bourbon from a bottle he kept in a cupboard. Spiegel’s after-shave had left a sweet, brackish odor in the room. The man was no rocket scientist, but he was useful and he had a good political nose: the kind of guy you could throw cold into a meeting of strangers and in ten minutes later he could tell you with absolute accuracy that A, ostensibly allied with B, was secretly playing footsy with C.
Respect bordering on the obsequious was his usual manner with Jonathan. Today there had been an undertone of doubt, the sound of a man hedging his bets.
His secretary buzzed him. “It’s your bank, Jonathan. The woman’s called twice; she says it’s urgent.”
“Thanks, Maggie. Put her through.”
“Mr. Fleishman, this is Maria, Mr. Gonzalez’s secretary from the bank? You remember you helped me out with my son a few years ago?”
He remembered doing some small thing—making a phone call when her boy was busted, getting the kid rehab instead of jail. “Of course,” he said heartily. “How’s the boy doing?”
“Fine, thank you. Mr. Fleishman, something terrible is happening here. Mr. Gonzalez couldn’t call you ‘cause they’re sitting right in his office, but he gave me a sign and I came out to the lobby.”
“What’s the problem, Maria?”
“These people came with a subpoena, Mr. Fleishman. They’re auditing your account.”
“Who is? The IRS?”
“No, sir,” she whispered. “I heard them say the U.S. attorney’s office.”
Jonathan felt a dull impact, like drilling on an anesthetized tooth. “They had a subpoena?”
“Yes, sir, because Mr. Gonzalez didn’t have no choice, he had to let them look. Only he gave me a wink to go call you. You better come right down here, sir.”
* * *
The bank was only two blocks from his office. He was there in five minutes. Maria was hovering by the entrance. As they strode through the front room toward the manager’s office, the tellers looked at him, then looked away. Maria opened the office door and stood aside to let him enter. When Jonathan squeezed her arm in thanks, she turned away, wiping her eyes.
Luis Gonzalez glanced up, and a look that was half-relief, half- embarrassment flooded his face. He spread his hands. “Nothing I could do, Jonathan.”
Three people were seated at a table strewn with computer printouts and ledgers. Two clerkish men glanced up incuriously, then went back to the papers before them. The third—a woman, red-haired, hard- faced, striking—took the time to scowl at Gonzalez. Then, without a word, she stood and thrust a subpoena at Jonathan.
He skimmed it and tossed it aside contemptuously. “What grounds did you give for this fishing expedition?” he demanded.
“I can’t answer that.”
“Don’t be a smart-ass—Bugalio, is it?” He knew damn well who she was—the bitch who was after Michael’s blood.
“Buscaglio, and we both know I don’t have to cite grounds to you, sir.” The “sir” was late and ironic.
“Lucas knows about this?”
“Of course.”
He needn’t have asked. Buscaglio might be flavor of the month in the U.S. attorney’s office, but she had nowhere near the authority or the clout to take him on herself.
They’re like roaches, Michael had said, but he was wrong: they were maggots. Jonathan felt a spreading sickness in his gut. It was happening to him. He’d seen it done to so many others, he knew just how the process worked. It was inexorable. Once they started, they never let go till they found something to justify their efforts; and if they couldn’t make a case, they’d manufacture one.
He stood in the doorway, paralyzed by the realization that after all these years of fighting for the system’s victims, he had finally joined them. It was all wrong; it was never supposed to happen. This pawing through his bank records was pure harassment. What else could they expect to accomplish by
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