35
Zola was horrified at the news that her partners had been arrested. Even worse, the cops were looking for her as well, though she wasn’t too worried about being tracked down in Senegal. Mark and Todd were in Brooklyn and claimed to have things under control, but she had serious doubts about that. They had been wrong about almost everything since January, and she found it difficult to accept their abundant confidence at this point. She found the story online and monitored it. Her name had not been mentioned and she found nothing about herself in the court dockets. Her Facebook page was flooded with comments and questions from friends, but she had stopped responding weeks earlier.
Idina Sanga had not been allowed to visit Abdou in jail, and after two days of waiting Zola was even more concerned. The police had been to the hotel twice to check on her mother and brother, but offered nothing in the way of news. Being with her family was comforting, and her presence and reassurances gave them hope. Bo and Fanta asked repeatedly about her studies, and graduation from law school, and the bar exam, and so on, but she managed to deflect their questions and keep the conversations away from the mess she had created back home. If they only knew. But, of course, they would not. They would never again set foot on U.S. soil, and Zola wasn’t sure she wanted to either.
On the flight over, Zola had read a dozen articles about the crowded and dangerous conditions in Dakar’s jails and prisons. She hoped that Bo and her mother had not been so curious. The places were deplorable.
Eventually, Zola ventured out of the hotel and went for walks around Dakar. The city sprawled across the Cap Vert peninsula and was a jumble of villages and former French colonial towns. The streets were hot and dusty and badly maintained, but brought to life each morning with heavy traffic and swarms of people. Many of the women wore long, sweeping dresses made of bright fabrics. Many of the men wore fine suits and seemed just as busy as those in D.C., with cell phones and briefcases. Horses pulling carts laden with fruits and produce battled with sleek new SUVs in the clogged intersections. As frantic as it looked at first, the city had a laid-back feel to it. Everyone seemed to know everyone else and few seemed to be in a hurry. Chatter and laughter filled the air. Music was everywhere, roaring from car stereos and shop doors and thumping from street bands giving impromptu concerts.
During her second full day in the city, Zola found the U.S. embassy and registered as a tourist. An hour later, as she was nearing the hotel, two policemen stopped her and asked for identification. She knew the police had broad powers to question and even detain. For almost any reason, anyone could be jailed for forty-eight hours.
One of the cops spoke a little English. She said she was an American and spoke no French. They were surprised to see her U.S. passport and her (real) New Jersey driver’s license. She had wisely left the fake stuff at the hotel.
After a very long fifteen minutes, they handed her documents back and let her go. The incident was frightening enough, and she decided to save the tourist stuff for another day.
HER PARTNERS WERE set up in a small suite at a budget hotel on Schermerhorn Street in downtown Brooklyn. One bedroom, a fold-out sofa, small kitchenette, $300 a night. From an office supply store they paid $90 to rent for one month a printer/copier/scanner/fax machine.
Wearing coats and ties, they walked into a Citibank branch on Fulton Street and asked to see an account manager. Using their real names, driver’s licenses, and Social Security numbers, they opened a checking account for the Legal Clinic of Lucero & Frazier. Using an old story, they said they were friends from law school and had grown weary of the grind in the big Manhattan firms. Their little clinic would help real people with real problems. They borrowed an address from an office building six blocks away, though an address was needed only to print on their new checks, which they would never see anyway. Mark wrote a personal check for $1,000 to open the account, and as soon as they were back in their suite they faxed a wiring authorization to their bank in D.C. The balance, just under $39,000, was wired to their new account, and the old one was closed. They e-mailed Ms. Jenny Valdez at Cohen-Cutler in Miami with the news that their firm of Upshaw, Parker & Lane had merged with a firm in Brooklyn, Lucero & Frazier. She e-mailed a pile of forms making the necessary changes, and they spent an hour on the paperwork. She asked them again about the Social Security numbers and bank account numbers for the eleven hundred clients they had referred to the class action, and they demurred again, saying simply that they were in the process of gathering that information.
Getting Hinds Rackley on the phone would be impossible, so they decided to begin with one of his law firms. The website for Ratliff & Cosgrove was useful enough and did a passable job of glossing over the fact that it was little more than a four-hundred-member firm that handled mortgage foreclosures, repossessions, delinquent accounts, bankruptcies, debt collections, and student loan defaults. Gordy had described it as “the gutter end” of financial services. It had about a hundred lawyers in its home office in Brooklyn, and its managing partner was Marvin Jockety, a sixtyish guy with a fleshy face and less than sterling résumé.
Mark sent him an e-mail:
Dear Mr. Jockety, My name is Mark Finley, and I’m a freelance investigative journalist. I’m working on a story about Mr. Hinds Rackley, who I believe is a business associate of yours. After weeks of digging, I have discovered that Mr. Rackley, through his Shiloh Square Financial, and Varanda Capital, and Baytrium Group, and Lacker Street Trust, owns a total of eight for-profit law schools scattered around the country. Judging from the bar exam results, it appears as though these eight law schools cater to a segment of the population that has no business studying law or sitting for the exam. However, it appears as though the schools are quite profitable.
I would like to arrange a meeting with Mr. Rackley as soon as possible. I have mentioned this story, without too many details, to the New York Times and the Wall Street Journal, and both are interested. Time is of the essence.
My phone number is 838-774-9090. I am in the city and eager to speak with Mr. Rackley or his representative.
Thanks, Mark Finley
It was Monday, May 12, at 1:30 p.m. They noted the time and wondered how long it would take Mr. Jockety to respond. As they waited and killed time in the suite, they launched an assault upon the unsuspecting folks in the suburbs of Wilmington, Delaware. Using online directories, they returned to their mischief and began adding additional names to their class action. Once you’ve committed eleven hundred felonies, what’s another two hundred or so?
At 3:00, Mark re-sent the e-mail to Jockety, and did so again at 4:00. At 6:00, they took the subway to Yankee Stadium, where the Mets were playing in an overhyped crosstown grudge match that was not a sellout. They bought two tickets to the cheap seats in center field and paid $10 for twelve ounces of light beer. They moved to the top row to get far away from the other fans scattered through the bleachers.
They were due in court on Friday and had decided it would be wise not to miss the date. With their vast experience, they knew that bench warrants would be issued for their arrests. Todd called Hadley Caviness, who answered after the second ring.
“Well, well,” she said. “Looks like you boys found trouble after all.”
“Yes, dear, we are in trouble. Are you alone? Fair question.”
“Yes, I’m going out later.”
“Happy hunting. Look, yes, we need a favor. We’re supposed to be arraigned this Friday but we’ve skipped town with no plans to return anytime soon.”
“I don’t blame you. You’ve caused quite a stir around the courthouse. Everybody has a story.”
“Let ’em talk. Back to the favor.”
“Have I ever denied you anything?”
“No, you have not, and I love you for it.”
“That’s what they all say.”
“So, here’s the favor. Do you think it’s possible to ease over to Division 6 and ask the clerk to bump us down the road for a couple of weeks? It should be a simple matter of shuffling some paperwork, which you’re a pro at.”
“I don’t know. There might be some people watching. If asked, what’s the reason?”
“Tell them we’re trying to hire a lawyer but we have no money. It’s just a couple of weeks.”
“I’ll give it a look, see what I can do.”
“You’re a doll.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
In the bottom of the third, Mark’s phone buzzed with an unknown number. He said, “This could be good.”
It was Marvin Jockety and he began with “Mr. Rackley has no desire to meet with you, and he’ll sue like hell if you get anything wrong.”
Mark smiled, winked at Todd, touched the speaker button, and replied, “And good evening to you, sir. Why would Mr. Rackley be so eager to threaten a lawsuit? Does he have something to hide?”
“He does not. He is quite serious about his privacy and keeps some pretty nasty lawyers on retainer.”
“I’ll say. He has his finger in at least four law firms, including yours. Tell him to sue away. I don’t have a dime.”
“That won’t stop him. He’ll sue and he’ll ruin your reputation as a journalist. And who do you work for, by the way?”
“No one but myself. I’m a freelance kind of guy. Come to think of it, Mr. Jockety, a lawsuit could be just the ticket I need because I’ll countersue and go for some real money. I can collect a fortune in sanctions for a frivolous lawsuit.”
“You’re out of your league, buddy.”
“We’ll see. Tell Mr. Rackley that when he sues me he’ll also be suing the New York Times because I’m meeting with them tomorrow afternoon. They want to run the story Sunday, front page.”
Jockety laughed and said, “Mr. Rackley has more contacts with the Times and the Journal than you can possibly imagine. They won’t touch a story like this.”
“Well, I guess that’s a chance he’ll have to take. I know the truth and it’ll make a helluva splash on the front page.”
“You will regret it, sir,” Jockety said and ended the call. Mark stared at his phone, then put it in the pocket of his jeans. He took a deep breath and said, “Tough guy. This will not be easy.”
“They’re all tough. You think he’ll call back?”
“Who knows? You gotta figure he talked to Rackley and they’re spooked. The last thing Rackley wants is publicity. There’s nothing illegal about his law school scam, but it stinks just the same.”
“They’ll call. And why not? If you were Rackley, wouldn’t you be curious about how much we know?”
“Maybe.”
“They’ll call.”