A Plague of Secrets (29 page)

“Yes, that’s about right.”

“Mr. Schermer, in your professional opinion, was Mr. Vogler’s salary as a percentage of the coffee shop’s gross income defensible as a viable business practice?”

Hardy knew he could object, but also knew that it wouldn’t do him any good. Schermer, with the credentials of a recognized expert witness, was allowed to give his opinion. The jury didn’t have to believe it, but the court would permit the testimony. He sat, his hand on Maya’s arm, and both of them seethed.

“No,” Schermer said. “It was an irregularity of a dramatic nature.”

“So would the business running on this model be sustainable over the long run?”

“In my opinion, no. Not given the business’s gross income and this salary.”

“And as a forensic accountant, does this type of irregularity raise a red flag for you of a certain kind of financial malfeasance?”

“Yes, it does.”

“And what is that?”

“Most commonly, it would be money laundering.”

“Could you explain to the jury how that works?”

“Certainly.” Schermer turned in his chair to face the panel. “Let’s say that there is an unreported source of illicit income in a coffee shop such as BBW, such as the sale of marijuana, for example. An employee can ring up any number of coffee drinks on the cash register and not actually pour any of these drinks. So that in the course of a day you might have an extra two or three hundred dollars, or more, or less, on the till. Then you simply supply the cash into the register that you’ve made on your illicit business and entered as regular coffee income, and it becomes part of the business’s legitimate cash flow. Now the dirty money is so-called clean, or laundered, money, and since you can account for the income, it can be redistributed as dividends, profit sharing, or salary.”

“Or salary,” Stier repeated, loving this. And so, it seemed, was the jury. “Now, Mr. Schermer,” he went on, “is there any way to reliably identify the existence of this sort of money-laundering scheme?”

“Yes, there is. That’s what my work essentially entails.”

“Can you explain?”

“Well, in our example above, I think we can all see that there is actually less coffee poured than there is a record of. So by comparing the amount of raw coffee beans actually bought by the business with the income that would be produced by the sale of that coffee, cup by cup, we can pretty accurately determine if there is a discrepancy.”

“And did you find such a discrepancy in your analysis of BBW?”

“Yes.”

“And to what extent?”

“Well, based on the actual amount of coffee beans bought, by weight-we’ve seen this on one of our graphs, if you remember-the maximum gross income from the sale of coffee drinks over the past fiscal year should have been no greater than about three hundred and seventy thousand dollars, as opposed to a reported four hundred and sixty-two thousand.”

“So, a difference of ninety-two thousand dollars? Almost precisely Dylan Vogler’s salary?”

“That’s correct.”

“Thank you, Mr. Schermer, no further questions.” He turned to Hardy. “Your witness.”

But Braun interrupted. “Mr. Hardy, as it’s getting close to noon, I suggest we hold off beginning your cross-examination until after our lunch recess. Is that acceptable to you?”

“That’s fine, Your Honor.”

“All right, then.” Braun tapped her gavel. “Court’s adjourned until one-thirty.”

Stier might have
simply decided to ignore the Ruiz murder as a factor in Maya’s case, but as head of homicide, Glitsky could not do that, even if he was of a mind to. Which he most assuredly was not.

Over the past several months, while Abe had been perpetually brooding over his son’s accident and ultimate prognosis and his own karma, Hardy had grown unhappily accustomed to his new, low-affect persona, to the point that now-meeting with him behind a curtain in a private booth at Sam’s-the full flower of evident rage emanating from his friend’s demeanor struck him as perhaps actually dangerous. To Abe’s own health, maybe, but more to his inspectors, the source of this anger.

“And, if you can imagine,” he was saying with a guttural intensity, “now Schiff is all bent out of shape because I didn’t put them on Ruiz. After what they’ve done to Vogler and Preslee, they should be happy they’re not busted down to robbery, or even patrol. Learn a few of the basics over again.”

Hardy smeared butter on some sourdough. “Maybe you could drop by the courtroom after we’re done here and share some of these thoughts with Braun. She needs to hear them.”

“I’m not saying your client’s innocent, Diz.”

“No. Of course not. You just asked me here to talk secretly because no one else would have lunch with you. And I can’t say that I blame them. Although I’m a little surprised about Treya. You’d think, being your wife and all, she’d at least feel sorry for you.” He popped the bread into his mouth. “Why did Schiff want Ruiz? And Bracco, too, I assume.”

“Why do you think?”

“Obviously, because it’s BBW again. And if that’s the case, they’ve got doubts about Maya.”

“No, they don’t. Not even one. Don’t even ask them.”

“How about you?”

“Not so much doubt about Maya, Diz.” Glitsky tipped up his water glass and chewed some ice. “I just don’t know how they moved the case even this far along.”

“
You
don’t know? I know. It’s Jerry Glass and Schiff. They got the whole thing out of whack. As a righteous murder, much less two, it hasn’t made any sense from the beginning. Not that Maya couldn’t have actually done these guys, but there’s never been any case, evidencewise. You know this.”

“Well, at least I’m thinking it now. I just wonder what else is going to pop that’s going to make the detail look even more incompetent.”

“You mean like Lori Bradford?”

“Close enough. Have you talked to her?”

“Not yet, but Wyatt Hunt did. I put her on my witness list, which is great for the good guys, but not for you.”

“Schiff and Bracco knew all about her and decided she wasn’t important.”

“That’s what I gathered. I think, though, she might be.”

Glitsky sat back as the tuxedoed, ultimate professional waiter drew back the curtain and took their orders-Hardy’s every-time-he-came-here sand dabs and a Crab Louis for Glitsky. When he’d gone, a small silence settled, until Hardy said, “So. You didn’t invite me down here to help me get Maya off.”

“True.”

“So?”

“So the bottom line is the case is starting to look like a loser for us. Certainly the Preslee side.”

“As it should be.”

“Okay, granted, maybe. That’s the problem when things start out so sloppy and get all political.”

“I’m more or less aware of that, Abe. What do you want?”

Glitsky took a beat. “I want to know if you’ve got something I need to know on Ruiz.”

“Like what?”

“If I knew, I wouldn’t need to ask, would I?”

“If I do know something, how’s it going to help my client?”

“It probably won’t.”

Hardy broke a grin. “Wow, you really make it tempting. What do you have so far?”

“Essentially, nothing. If he hadn’t worked at BBW, we’d be at absolute zero.” Glitsky chewed another piece of ice. “As you may have surmised, this goes a little up the food chain.”

Hardy considered for a second, remained deadpan against the urge to show his surprise and pleasure. “Kathy?”

A nod. “Backstage, of course, and always deniable. But through Clarence, then Batiste.” The DA and the chief of police, respectively. Serious high-level pressure from above. “Her mayorship has made her case, especially after hearing about this Lori Bradford fiasco yesterday, that somehow a solid investigation into another BBW-related murder will set Maya free. I’m not so sure of that. It might help on Vogler, though I think she’s going down for that, and she won’t need it on Preslee. But whatever, Kathy thinks Ruiz is going to open a door, and she’s more or less dared us to do something on it, and fast, or maybe a head or two will roll.”

“Yours?”

“Not impossible. Maybe even the chief’s too. Who, you remember, serves at the mayor’s pleasure.”

The waiter knocked, opened the drapes, and delivered their plates. As the curtain closed, Hardy said to Glitsky, “So where were we?”

“Kathy West and Eugenio Ruiz.”

Hardy forked a bite of fish, taking his time. Finally, he made his decision and came out with his answer. “I might have something.”

“Might. I like that.”

“I knew you would. Hence my careful locution. I might have something if you’ve got something to trade.”

“Probably not. But what?”

“If you find something based on what I give you, I want it too.”

Glitsky didn’t hesitate an instant, shaking his head from side to side. “I can’t do that.”

“Fine.”

“Diz.”

“No argument, Abe. You can’t do it, you can’t do it.”

“You mean if it helps your case?”

“I mean whatever.”

“I can’t. You know I can’t.”

Hardy chewed and swallowed. “Not my issue. My issue is my client.”

“What if it doesn’t help her?”

“I’ll be the judge of that. Sorry, but those are the rules.” He hesitated. “Look, if it’s any help, give it to Stier too. I just wouldn’t like to see whatever it might be disappear, the way Lori Bradford did.”

Hardy, by now unexpectedly hopeful at the possibility of having the resources of the entire police department working on his behalf, nevertheless didn’t want to push. He had the cards here and Glitsky either would recognize that fact or not. He took a sip of his club soda, pushed some buttered capers onto his fish.

“It would be discoverable,” Glitsky said.

Hardy shook his head. “Before that. Under the table-under this very table if you want-but before it goes through Stier and company. From what you say, Jackman’s going to back you and so’s Batiste.”

“They’re my troops,” he said. “Bracco and Schiff. I undermine their case…”

“I get it. Though one could argue that it’s already undermined and they deserve whatever happens. But again, Abe, not my problem. And, hey, what I have might be nothing.”

It took Glitsky another full minute, maybe more, Hardy eating with gusto and apparent contentment, tasting none of it.

Finally, Glitsky capitulated. “You want me to sign an affadavit, or is my word good enough?”

Hardy put down his fork. Took a steadying breath against the rush. “There’s a guy who may or may not be named Paco who knew both Levon Preslee and Dylan Vogler back in college and who showed up from time to time at BBW to buy his weed. But not since October.”

“May or may not be named Paco.” Now dismissively. “That’s what we’ve been negotiating about?”

Hardy shrugged. “It’s what I got, Abe. Ruiz was looking out for him.”

“What do you mean?”

“Ruiz was going to get in touch with Wyatt Hunt if he came back into BBW. And by the way, it looks like the whole crew down there was getting cut in.”

“Yeah, we’re assuming that. We’ll be talking to all of them this time, instead of a select few. But this Paco, is he on Vogler’s list?”

“No.”

“No, of course not,” Glitsky said. “He wouldn’t be. How’d you find out about him?”

“Well, Ruiz, first. Then Maya.”

Glitsky’s eyes narrowed. “She knew him too.”

“Knew of him. The name. Back at USF. He hung out with Vogler and Preslee and-maybe-killed a guy in a liquor store they held up.”

This stopped Glitsky midbite. “Maybe.”

Hardy shrugged. It was what it was.

“Where?”

“I don’t know. Except it was probably in the mid-nineties-ninety-five or -six.”

“It might have been in the papers. There would have been an investigation. Maybe a suspect.”

“Knock yourself out,” Hardy said.

“Did Paco know Ruiz was looking out for him?”

“No idea. Anybody working there could have told him, though.”

Glitsky put down his fork. “You’re not making this up?”

“Not any of it.”

After lunch Hardy stood and approached the forensic accountant in the witness chair, seemingly as relaxed as he’d been all morning. “Mr. Schermer,” he began, “you have given a great deal of technical testimony about accounting practices, working with numbers. Are any of these numbers subject to a margin for error?”

“Well, yes, of course. Some to a greater extent than others, but generally, yes.”

“Referring to the analysis you offered on BBW’s gross income versus the amount of raw coffee bought over the last fiscal year, would this have a greater or lesser margin for error than some of the other calculations you performed and shared with the jury?”

“Rather on the high side, I’d think. It is, after all, an estimate.”

“An estimate, with a margin for error rather on the high side. I see. And is there an industry standard that enumerates the margin for error in this kind of analysis?”

Here, for the first time, Schermer’s face creased into something like a frown. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

“Well, I mean you take a certain weight amount of a raw product-coffee in this case-and you do an analysis that shows it takes, say, a pound of coffee to make a certain amount of cups, and then you deduce that the business didn’t buy enough raw coffee to make as many cups as it claimed it sold. Isn’t that the basic idea?”

“Basically, yes.”

“Well, then, can we assume that this type of analysis is a standard tool in the industry?”

“In a general way, yes.”

“With other products, you mean?”

“Yes.”

“How about with coffee? Is this a test with a long history of analysis and comparison with other similar tests?”

“Well, no. This was specific to this one business. BBW.”

“Specific to this one business? Do you mean to say that other licensed and accredited forensics accountants such as yourself, and in fact the organization to which you belong, have not established benchmarks to measure the reliability of these analyses?”

“Well, no, not exactly, but-”

“No is sufficient, thank you, Mr. Schermer. Now, can you please tell the jury a little about the methodology you employed to measure the amount of coffee needed to make a cup at BBW?”

Finally given a chance to simply discourse on his specialty again, Schermer leaned back in the chair and faced the panel. “Well, I gathered information from other coffee shops in the city, both chain and individually owned, and took the average of the number of cups of coffee produced from every hundred pounds of beans.”

“How many coffee shops did you use for your comparison?”

“Ten.”

“And how many different kinds of beans were represented in your answer?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Well, beans come from a lot of different places. South America, Africa, Jamaica, and so on. So what kinds of beans were represented in your sample?”

“As I recall, most of them were from Colombia.”

“And is that the sole source of BBW’s beans, Colombia?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“They came from all over the world, did they not?”

“Yes, I believe so.”

“All right. And do you know how many bags were delivered from all over the world over the course of the fiscal year to BBW?”

“I don’t know that, exactly. Perhaps hundreds.”

“But several thousand pounds of coffee, wouldn’t you say?”

“Yes, at least.”

“And did you test to make sure that all of that coffee had the same density? That is, approximate number of beans per pound?”

“Uh, no.”

“So the representative sample you used for your analysis might have been stores that used more or fewer beans to make a cup, isn’t that true?”

“I guess so. Yes.”

“And in fact, BBW was a very popular coffeehouse, was it not?”

“Yes.”

“Could that popularity have been based on the flavor of its coffee? That is, that its coffee was stronger or more mild than the shops you used in your sample?”

“I have no way of knowing that.”

“All right, then.” Hardy glanced over to the jury, all of whom were with him, following the cross-examination with none of the more common postlunch torpor. “Let’s talk for a minute, if we may, about the coffee made from these beans. Is there a standard BBW uses for various strengths of coffee? Strong? Medium? Weak?”

“I used medium, which is their house blend strength.”

“But do they serve other coffees of different strengths?”

“Yes.”

“Both stronger and weaker?”

“Yes, which is why I used medium, to be about average.”

“But do you in fact know the percentage of coffee actually brewed there that is weak, medium, or strong?”

Schermer took a breath, no longer enjoying himself at all. “No.”

“And what about espresso?”

“What about it?”

“It was a rather large percentage of the coffee sold at BBW, was it not?”

“Yes, it was.”

“Do you know the exact percentage, Mr. Schermer?”

“No.”

“And espresso is roasted differently than other blends of coffee, is it not?”

“Yes.”

Hardy, hammering the man mercilessly, decided to back off for a moment lest to the jury he come across as unsympathetic. He walked back to his desk, took a sip of water, gave half a nod first to his client and then to Joel Townshend and Harlen Fisk, sitting next to one another in the front row. He pulled his legal pad over and pretended to read from it, then turned and came back to his place in the center of the courtroom.

“Mr. Schermer, at the beginning of this cross-examination testimony, you said that your analysis of raw coffee bought versus coffee served was merely an estimate with a margin for error, isn’t that true?”