[Boston Law 01.0] Unlawful Deeds Page 5

  Of course, in front of Roberge’s family, she presented herself as a well-tanned and slightly exotic looking preppie. Or used to.

  She knew of LAP from a dispute she had had with her landlord when she first came to Boston. Though they seemed more interested in the publicity they received for beating up on the landlord then in winning the case for her, she had received a nice judgment and they handled the case for free. Which was all she could afford then.

  And all she could afford now. Only a week had passed since Roberge ran out, and she was already worried about her living expenses. Roberge owned the South End condominium she lived in free and clear, but she would still have to pay all the utility bills. She figured she could last four or five months, as long as she could stay in the condo rent-free. The sex-change operation, obviously, would have to wait. Or maybe she didn’t even want it anymore.

  The receptionist escorted Charese to a large, neat office. A man sat behind a desk, just finishing up a phone call. Charese guessed he was in his mid-forties. He was decent-looking, in a frat-boy grown up sort of way, though Charese did notice his hair was overdue for a washing.

  He hung up, then half-stood. “Ah, yes. Nice to meet you. I’m Reese Jeffries. Please call me Reese.” He had a slight accent, which made Charese think of nannies and afternoon teas. He reached across the desk, shook and then quickly released her hand.

  Reese was one of the full-time lawyers at the clinic, and explained that they were currently accepting cases that would be staffed by law students returning to school in September. The law students would work at LAP for the entire academic year in exchange for class credit. If they took her case, a specific student would act as Charese’s lawyer, under the supervision of the full-time staff lawyers.

  He asked Charese to recount her history with Roberge. He took notes as Charese spoke, rarely interrupting, his face frozen in feigned sympathy. Charese spoke slowly, trying to be articulate and organized, aware that some vestige of her Georgia accent still came through when she was nervous. As she spoke, Reese made periodic slurping noises, sucking the saliva off the floor of his mouth in a way that reminded Charese of the straw-like instrument dentists used to keep a patient’s mouth dry.

  In any event, Reese seemed only mildly interested in her narrative. Although he hadn’t stopped her in mid-story and showed her out, Charese was beginning to doubt he would agree to take her case.

  Suddenly his attitude changed. “Is this Roberge Krygier related to the real estate family of Krygiers?” Charese noticed that Reese had shifted forward in his seat as he asked the question. She knew that Roberge’s father owned many apartment buildings in Boston, and was active in local politics.

  “Yes. Roberge’s father is Wesley Krygier.” Charese paused here, but Reese just stared at her expectantly, as if she couldn’t possibly have finished answering such an important question with only six words. So Charese continued rambling, not really sure what Reese wanted to hear. “Roberge and his father aren’t that close, but I’ve met him a few times at family functions. But he only knows me as a woman—Roberge never told his family that I was really a man or even that he was gay. The family just knew me as Roberge’s girlfriend. At first they didn’t like me, but then they sort of got used to me and used to pressure Roberge to get married so we could have kids. I actually became pretty friendly with his little sister before she went off to college in Vermont.”

  Reese cut her off. “You mean you attended Krygier family functions as Roberge Krygier’s girlfriend, dressed as a woman?” Charese nodded. “Do you have any pictures?” Reese was now actually leaning forward across the desk waiting for Charese’s answer. She could see spittle on his lower lip—apparently he had forgotten to swallow.

  Charese understood where Reese was going with this. She hesitated a moment, then realized she had no choice. Distasteful or not, she needed Reese’s help. If the price for that help was allowing Reese to publicly humiliate the Krygier family, well, it seemed like a fair exchange. “Pictures? Yes, I’ve got pictures.”

  CHAPTER 6

  [August 29, 1989]

  Pierre drove from his condominium to his office on Beacon Street in the Coolidge Corner section of Brookline and parked. He popped into the office, checked his messages—one, from a panicky landlord asking if he had had any luck renting her apartment—snatched a fist-full of quarters, and kicked off his shoes. He grabbed his rollerblades from the closet, stuck his sneakers and a hand towel into his backpack along with a notepad and his appointment book, and stepped out onto the raised stoop of the brownstone. He sat on the bottom step and pulled on his skates. It was only 8:30, but it was already warm and sticky.

  The distance from Pierre’s office—Premier Properties—to the Registry of Deeds downtown was about three miles. Pierre expected that the traffic would be light due to the usual August outflux of vacationing Boston professionals, but he kept to side roads and sidewalks as much as possible. He could usually make the trip downtown in about twenty minutes. He began at a leisurely pace—he would save his hard skate for the return trip, then grab a quick shower at his office.

  Pierre knew he was still an object of curiosity as he zipped around pedestrians and in and out of traffic. During the entire summer, he had never seen another rollerblader on the streets, although there was a group of bladers who were fighting with cyclists for space on the bike paths along the Charles River. Still, Pierre found it a convenient and healthy way to move around Boston. And he loved to skate. For his 35th birthday, Carla had given him a T-shirt that read: “People dream they can fly. Birds dream they can skate.” Pierre wore it proudly, though many of his friends didn’t seem to understand it.

  In fact, as Pierre got older, he realized that many of his friends didn’t really understand him, either. They weren’t confused so much because he had changed, but rather because he hadn’t. For Pierre, being 35 was not much different than being 25 or even 15. Of course he had responsibilities and a career—or, at least, hoped to still have one. But Pierre still viewed life as a giant playground. Once your homework and chores were done, it was time to go out and play. Ice hockey and skiing in the winter. Softball and more skiing in the spring. Sailing and rafting and biking in the summer. Touch football and hockey again in the fall. The problem Pierre was having with his friends was that they didn’t want to play with him anymore. They had become adults. Their toys had become cigars and gas grills and BMW’s.

  That’s what he adored about Carla. She loved to play. She had learned how to ski at 31, and within two years had almost mastered the sport. Valerie’s arrival the past winter had kept Carla off the slopes, but she was already planning a December ski trip. “Next kid,” she had told Pierre, “I’m getting pregnant in February so I don’t miss any of the ski season.”

  “Next kid,” Pierre had responded, “we’ll have enough for doubles tennis.”

  Pierre’s skate was fairly easy until the last quarter mile, when the incline of Beacon Hill forced Pierre to stride hard just to maintain any forward momentum. Near the top of the hill, it took all of his energy to keep from rolling backwards. Was the real estate market working this hard as well, just to not lose ground?

  He sat on a bench in the Boston Common opposite the State House, pulled off his skates, wiped his face and neck and slid into his sneakers. The Old Courthouse, which housed the Registry of Deeds, sat in the middle of a brick plaza, and Pierre knew from an earlier nasty fall that a wise rollerblader avoided cobbled surfaces. He walked across the plaza to the massive wooden doors of the Old Courthouse and entered. It was just 9:00, and the lobby was full of attorneys and law enforcement personnel. Pierre walked through the crowd, aware of a few curious glances at the skates slung over his shoulder, and stepped into a crowded elevator. “Five, please,” he said to the elevator operator, and waited while the antique lift creaked upward. It still amazed Pierre that the political patronage system in Massachusetts was so strong that the ancient lifts hadn’t been mechanized.

  Pierre w
as surprised to see that the giant hall was mostly empty, especially since the end of the month was typically a busy time for closings. Pierre began researching the Baron’s recent transactions. Within an hour, he understood the Baron’s game. It was simple, but brilliant.

  The Baron would start with a building containing, say, 25 condo units, worth $60,000 each on the open market. He would then “sell” three of the units for $100,000. But the sales were actually nothing more than transfers to trusts controlled by the Baron. No real money changed hands. Nonetheless, according to the public records, three sales at the $100,000 figure had occurred. Three sales for the appraisers to rely on. Three sales to show the bank that their $80,000 mortgage would be a secure one.

  The Baron would then sell the remaining 22 condos to members of his painting crew at the $100,000 price, with the bank supplying $80,000 of it up front in cash. Pierre did some quick arithmetic: The Baron’s little ploy would net him $400,000 in extra profit, not to mention selling out the entire building before the market sank even lower. All he needed was one stupid bank and a roomful of painters.

  Pierre was beginning to understand why the Baron was pushing so hard to sell the units to the painters and their friends. The Baron had not acquired his noble rank by failing to appreciate a $400,000 profit.

  Pierre did more research, found that the Baron had sold almost 200 condo units in this way since the first of the year. Pierre knew most of the properties, and estimated that the prices the Baron had paid to buy the properties were equal to or even slightly above the buildings’ current market value. Apparently, the Baron had fallen into the trap of assuming the market would continue to climb. But, unlike most buyers, the Baron had a safety net that had allowed him to unload almost 200 units at inflated prices.

  And who held this safety net? A bunch of bank that were either stupid or willfully ignorant, and a group of buyers who, though not sophisticated, were savvy enough to understand they were playing with the house’s money.

  CHAPTER 7

  [September 6, 1989]

  Bruce arrived for his second day of work. He had found a new apartment on Beacon Hill, a short walk from the office. No sign of Bodybuilder. Yet.

  It was only 7:30, but already the office building was bustling. Bruce stepped into the elevator, then reached forward to block the door to allow a latecomer to enter. Bruce tried to extend small acts of courtesy whenever possible, under the theory that they sometimes were repaid many-fold. But this time it would cost him.

  Gus slid into the elevator and flashed Bruce a quick smile. As he had ever since the chemotherapy had thinned his bright orange hair, he wore a hat—this time a black leather beret. He was also wearing a black leather jacket and aviator sunglasses. He looked ready to pilot the elevator.

  They rode in silence, waiting for the other passengers to disembark, then Gus turned to Bruce. The elevator began its long descent back to the first floor.

  “Nice suit.” He sniffed in amusement as he looked Bruce up and down. “So. Where’s my money?”

  Bruce had been carrying a wad of cash around with him for the past few weeks, expecting Gus at any time to make an unannounced appearance. “Your guy only paid $45,000. And I had to fight for that. I’m keeping forty of it—my half of the sixty plus ten for doing the delivery. So here’s your five grand.” He reached his hand out to Gus.

  Gus sniffed again, kept his hands in his pockets. “Wrong, Law Boy. I want half.”

  Gus seemed different. More spirited, more emboldened. The Gardner Museum theft would be big-time if he pulled it off. Maybe that made him think he was big-time himself. Bruce straightened himself. “Tough shit, Gus. You want more, you fly to Hong Kong and shake down your guy for the other fifteen. But no way am I taking a hit because of your incompetence.”

  Gus removed his sunglasses, focused his steel blue eyes up at Bruce. “Don’t fuck with me Bruce.”

  Bruce raised his voice. “No, don’t you fuck with me. The deal is that I steal and you fence. What part of that don’t you understand, Gus? Since I did both jobs, you don’t get your half. Now take your five and get out of my face.”

  Gus yanked the wad from Bruce’s outstretched hand just as the elevator door opened. He glared at Bruce, then stomped into the lobby. “This isn’t over.”

  Bruce rode the elevator back up to the 52nd floor. He hadn’t expected Gus to be so hostile, so angry. He knew that Gus had been hurt by Bruce’s rejection of him, both as a partner-in-crime and as a friend. They had been nearly inseparable for 15 years—from cancer ward to college dorm, from sleepovers to stakeouts. But it was time to grow up. There was simply no room for Gus’ recklessness in Bruce’s life right now.

  Bruce had always assumed that Gus’ impulsiveness was the product of an understandable urge to squeeze a lifetime of excitement into what the doctors told him would likely be an abbreviated existence. But Bruce also assumed that the flip side of this impulse would be that Gus would become less mercurial the longer the cancer stayed in remission. Instead, Gus’ behavior had recently become even more erratic and volatile. Maybe it was because he had no idea what to do with his life now that it hadn’t been taken from him.

  Whatever the reason, Bruce could understand how Gus would have trouble dealing with the fact that Bruce had simply outgrown him. For all of Gus’ faults, his loyalty to Bruce had been absolute.

  Maybe he’d have to make it up to Gus somehow. Gus wasn’t the type of person you wanted as an enemy.

  The elevator stopped, and Bruce stepped directly into the newly decorated offices of the law firm of Stoak, Puck & Beal. He was a long way from Gus’ world.

  Other lawyers referred to the firm as Choke, Suck & Steal. But they usually did so in a low whisper. Ruthless lawyers, 263 of them. But eminently respectable in the eyes of the business community, the greed hidden behind the green marble and polished mahogany decorating the top five floors of Boston’s plushest office tower.

  Most young lawyers were resigned to working in a pressured environment, but among the large firms, a few—like Stoak, Puck—have particularly nasty reputations. They’re called sweat shops, and many young lawyers tried to stay away from them. Not Bruce.

  Bruce reasoned that an unfriendly, even hostile, working environment would serve as a natural buffer between himself and the potentially curious minds and eyes of the other associates. So far, the hunch had paid off. Bruce had been cordial and friendly, but the other associates seemed to have no desire to socialize with him or with each other. They were there to bill hours, not make friends.

  Although Stoak, Puck was conservative by nature, the partners saw the dangers of projecting a close-minded and stodgy image in a state that had produced such contemporary liberal national political figures as Ted Kennedy, Tip O’Neil and Michael Dukakis. As a result, the firm was careful not to discriminate against women and minorities, and the current class of first year associates represented a decent cross-section of gender and ethnic backgrounds.

  Despite their outward diversity, the associates’ personalities were fundamentally identical—competitive, intelligent, tireless, intent on making partner. Bruce knew the type well from his three years at Harvard law school. It wasn’t that they were bad people, it was just that their Type A personalities demanded that they attack this latest challenge in their lives with the same intensity as they had the second grade spelling bee. “Success” for them had become an end unto itself, rather than a means for achieving happiness or fulfillment. They each wanted to become partner not because they necessarily needed the money or wanted the power or even enjoyed practicing law, but because it was the next hurdle in a series of academic challenges beginning with that second grade spelling bee and running right through law school.

  Bruce laughed at them. They were nothing but brilliant lemmings—able to outthink almost anybody, but incapable of figuring out how unhappy they were as they spent their lives following each other down a career path that held little promise. They had no clue that they really were
leading miserable lives, and that the absolute best they could hope for after eight years of 80-hour work weeks was the possibility of being promoted to junior partner. At that point, they could cut back to 75-hour weeks. Unless, of course, they wanted to make senior partner.

  And the reality, Bruce knew, was that only two or three of the 22 first year associates would ever even rise to junior partner at Stoak, Puck. The “Queen Bee” structure at the big firms—a few top partners drawing huge salaries, supported by round-the-clock efforts of scores of drone-like associates—made it impossible for it to be otherwise. Ten years from now, the vast majority of these associates would be facing the first academic or professional failure of their lifetime.

  The words of one of his law professors came to mind: There is nothing so misguided as an ignorant man with zeal.

  CHAPTER 8

  [September 7, 1989]

  Just after the Labor Day holiday, a little less than two weeks after her first meeting with him, Attorney Reese Jeffries phoned Charese. “Can you come down to the office tomorrow morning? We’ve put together a draft complaint for your case, but we need you to fill in a few gaps and to sign an affidavit. If you can stay the whole day, we could finish it tomorrow and have it filed at the court by Friday.”

  “Sure, I can come down tomorrow.”

  “Good. And don’t forget the pictures.”

  Charese hung up, then smiled as she pictured the look on Roberge’s face when he got served with the papers. He had probably thought she would just roll over, like she always had before. Not this time.

  Charese arrived the next morning at the LAP office. Reese introduced her to a young woman seated at a table, surrounded by a stack of law books. “Charese, this is Shelby Baskin. Shelby is the law student who will be helping out on your case.”

  Shelby stood, smiled politely at Charese and offered her hand. “Nice to meet you, Charese. I was just doing some research on your case. Can you sit down for a while? I have some questions for you.” Charese studied the young woman. Shelby wore a tailored, rust-colored suit over a cream-colored silk blouse, the suit cut to reveal just a hint of her toned figure. Charese admired the effect—it reminded her of the impression made by the light scent of an expensive perfume.