chapter twenty-six

a Tums moment

Maynard never walked into DeFrane's office the rest of that Sunday, nor did he call.

He did call the holding area to see if I was in jail.

DeFrane brought me home to his lovely wife Angie and their two sons instead of a jail cell. He talked into a secure phone most of the night, nursing a Bud and making plans for the morning. Angie and I did the dishes and talked about where we went to high school (a St. Louis tradition because the city has seventy-nine separate neighborhoods, not counting the surrounding counties), the latest movies, raising two teenagers who quickly vanished after dinner, and what it’s like being the wife of a Secret Service agent shot protecting a former president, and what it’s like being a social worker in private practice who was nearly killed by a madman. By the time she set up the guest room, DeFrane was finishing on the phone and it was past midnight.

“Good as it’s going to get on short notice. He could always be patient or walk into a new bank and we’re screwed.”

“I see him using a trusted inside man to clean the money. He’s a latecomer to the senate race and wants to catch up. He hates being behind in anything.”

“You better be right. I stuck my neck out for you. Our computer and banking men are working overtime. Hopefully we’ll have a lead by morning.”

“He’s got blood money on his hands. The longer he sits on it, the greater his risk. He knows they’re fakes. What he doesn’t know is they can be traced.”

In the morning Angie made us a western omelet with toast and orange juice. We left their home at seven and parked in a lot two blocks away from a city Bank of America location. We walked in a back door where DeFrane shook hands with Dominic Lucchesi, a lead agent at the Department of Justice. Lucchesi had no neck, broad shoulders, and a beard like a Norse god. His wide nose looked like it’d been broken more than once, and I sensed mischief in those eyes that bordered on loosely controlled mayhem. His dark and swarthy complexion fit his carefree demeanor. He was a chatterbox who talked loud and fast; full of energy, life, bullshit, bravado, and opinions. They quickly set up operations, having called in key employees early to get acquainted with the staff and walk them through their roles.

Nine o’clock came and went uneventfully, business as usual for a Monday morning. No sign of Maynard or his staff. No heavy bags, unwieldy trunks, or wheelbarrows of hundred-dollar bills presented themselves for laundering.

Nine became ten, then eleven.

Lunchtime came and went while one of the men re-entered the back door with a boxful of great Italian takeout from Zia’s and assorted subs from The Hill.

DeFrane periodically checked ancillary banks Maynard did business with. No activity there, either. We ate in silence as the bank employees helped the day’s account holders. The later the day grew, the more eyes glanced my way with increasing uncertainty. I overheard DeFrane ask a superior for more time. The call didn’t go well.

“I may have to put you in a holding cell tonight if nothing pans out today,” DeFrane said.

“That means questioning from Maynard and his lawyers?”

He nodded.

My mood had plummeted from high alert to hopeful anticipation to questioning my logic to worrying that somehow he’d already laundered his blood money elsewhere to fearing I’d end up like Lonnie.

Before closing time, DeFrane was about to call off the mission when a late model black Lincoln Town Car cruised into the bank parking lot. A stranger emerged from the back seat, tall, middle-aged, and thin, with receding wiry hair and glasses. He entered the lobby, gliding across the neutral carpeting to the empty teller lane with the long easy strides of a confident, purposeful professional. He wore a tailor-made dark blue three-piece suit and carried a small leather attaché case. Much too small to hold millions, but what caught my eye was the handcuff running from his wrist to the case. Showtime.

At this time another vehicle, a dark Escalade, silently eased into the lot. Two beefy men in sport coats and sunglasses got out; one stood at the rear of the vehicle while the other came inside. He borrowed a cart from the bank.

I tried to watch all three at once but couldn’t. The tall, wiry man approached Alice O’Shay. The outside men hoisted two large silver-colored steamer trunks onto the cart. One of them I had never seen before, the other was the stocky man with the wing-nut ears.

Alice O’Shay, a teller in her thirties with long flowing red hair, a warm smile, and a voice that reminded me of the Emerald Isle, said, “Good afternoon, Mr. Snodgrass. What may I help you with on this fine day?” She was a natural, acting like this was just another day.

The man did not return her welcoming smile but said, “I am here to see Mr. Finch.” Snodgrass turned on his heels and walked toward the office of Bruce Finch without waiting to hear her say, “Certainly. I’ll tell him you’re here, sir.”

The two big men entered the lobby with the cart. They made their way toward Finch’s office.

Snodgrass opened the door to Bruce Finch’s office without knocking, and the three men and cart quickly disappeared behind the closed door. An orchestrated, efficient entrance.

Finch, a senior loan account specialist, wore a rumpled white shirt, dark blue pants, and yellow tie. His complexion was too blotchy to be considered ruddy, his belly hung out over his too-tight brown belt, and a fine bead of sweat appeared on his brow. I’d never seen him before today, but he was nervous and self-conscious as he sat behind his oak desk. I hoped he wouldn’t blow this all to pieces.

Without a word Snodgrass freed and unlocked his attaché case while Finch fidgeted with his water bottle. He shot furtive glances up at the wall behind where the three men sat opposite him.

Don’t stare at the camera, Finch!

Snodgrass produced a thick stack of paperwork and said, “As you know, my client has a wide variety of interests and dealings on many fronts. Taking precedence over them now is the coming election. What you see before you is the first installment of financial contributions from his party constituents and supporters.”

“I assume it’s a mixed bag, checks and cash?” Finch said, wiping his brow.

“Cash today.” Snodgrass handed the first set of papers to Finch and said, “I want the amounts listed here deposited directly into these numbered accounts.”

Finch looked at the figures on the sheets and his eyes widened. “That’s a lot of money. What about the SARs and CTRs?”

Snodgrass raised an eyebrow at this. “By all means, complete the usual paperwork. And I want to watch you do the deed. Same as before.”

Finch busied himself completing a stack of applications that took fifteen minutes. Snodgrass sat calmly, occasionally sipping his bottled water. His first task completed, Finch tore the back NCR paper from each application, swiveled self-consciously and awkwardly in his chair, which emitted a loud creak, and shredded every bottom copy in full view of Snodgrass.

Snodgrass stared suspiciously at Finch and said, “You seem twitchier than normal today, even for you.”

Finch again wiped his brow. “I think I’m coming down with the flu. I feel sick to my stomach.”

Snodgrass frowned and said, “We’re on a tight schedule. Keep working.”

Finch stared at him, frozen.

“We have more business,” Snodgrass said, impatiently. “File the top forms correctly and let’s proceed,” he said with irritation growing in his voice.

Finch dutifully placed the top SAR and CTR forms in the correct folders to the attorney’s satisfaction.

Snodgrass laid a smaller stack of paperwork on Finch’s desk and said, “Moving on, I wish to acquire the following bank accounts, credit cards, and loan agreements in my name on behalf of my client. Finally, I wish to establish the following corporations, trusts, and partnerships as outlined in the pages here, all of which have been duly notarized by my client. As before.”

Finch studied the forms for some time, chewing on his thin lower lip. Sweat stained the armpits of his shirt; he reached for his water bottle again but he’d already emptied it. He looked in his desk drawer and said, “I’m sorry, but I’ve run out of contract forms. I’ll be right back, gentlemen.”

Finch left the room. Damn! The two young security men looked expectantly at Snodgrass, who looked at his platinum Rolex and shook his head. I thought I detected a growing sense of unease on the face of Maynard’s senior lawyer.

Five minutes later Finch re-entered his office with a stack of forms in his shaky hands, a second bottled water, and a container of Tums. He sat down and said, “I’m concerned about the size of some of the deposits into the offshore accounts. The paperwork seems a little incomplete. I’m not certain these will get past the manager without explicit written authorization by Mr. Maynard himself. I’m afraid I’m going to need his signature on some of these forms.” Finch looked at Snodgrass like he expected a reprimand from the school principal.

The attorney in the three-thousand-dollar Armani suit said, “Don’t go soft on us, Finch. You’re paid extremely well for this.”

For the first time, Finch stood his ground and lowered his voice. “I am aware of that, sir, but if you wish to continue doing these transactions as free men, everything must be bulletproof.” Then, in a more appeasing tone: “Your documentation is flawless, as always, Mr. Snodgrass. I assure you, it’s just a formality, but before we continue I must have Mr. Maynard’s signature on these seven documents, since the offshore accounts are in his name. Seven John Henrys and he’s on his way. I’ll take care of the Medallion Signature notaries and the rest, like before.”

Snodgrass assessed Finch for some time, his coal dark eyes trying to peer into the loan specialist’s soul for a telltale clue, then said into his Bluetooth, “We need your signature on some forms.” He listened for some time and said, “I advise we delay. Yes, I’m aware time is of the essence. No, I don’t think it’s right.” He sighed and the call terminated as he said, “He’s coming in.”

In the bank parking lot, Nelson Dodd stepped out of the Town Car and opened a back door for his boss, Maynard Junior, who adjusted his tie and smoothed his tailored suit. Dodd and Paul Fallon accompanied him inside. I saw no 100-watt smile until he entered the office of Bruce Finch and closed the door.

Maynard offered his hand and said, “Bruce, how’s the wife and kids?” Not waiting for a reply and with condescension in his voice he added, “Did I forget to dot an ‘i’ or cross a ‘t’ again?” Big man in a hurry, talking down.

“An important oversight, sir, but an easy one to fix, and then you’ll be on your way. We need your signature approving the amounts you wish to transfer to Bermuda and the Cayman Islands. With these signatures, the forms will sail past my boss’s desk and I can do my magic act later.” Then in a conspiratorial whisper he added, “So no questions are asked and everyone’s happy. Best tax rate money can buy.”

Maynard’s smile beamed. “That’s what I like about you, Bruce. Your strong American work ethic makes you an ever vigilant, and well-rewarded, silent partner.”

Finch kept looking across the desk expectantly at the Montblanc pen in Maynard’s hand, as if he were trying to will him to sign the forms and be done with it. His nerves shot, Finch was losing it. He wouldn't last much longer. Snodgrass sensed something was wrong and started to object but Maynard waved him off and began signing. I found myself Finch-like, biting my lip and leaning forward in anticipation.

As soon as Maynard signed the last form, the door flew open and DeFrane, Lucchesi, and six other DOJ agents burst into the room. Four had their weapons trained on the two security men with the cart and the other two took down Mr. Dodd. The three men were thoroughly searched and their concealed weapons confiscated. The coordinated, choreographed take-downs lasted a minute and a half.

“John Clayton Maynard, Jr., Paul David Fallon, William Franklin Snodgrass, and Nelson Stanley Dodd, you’re all under arrest,” DeFrane stated in a voice like he was announcing today's starting lineup.

“On what charge? Do you know who—” Maynard started to say, but Snodgrass shook his head and interrupted. “Don’t say a word, Mr. Prosecutor. Let this man ruin his career if he wishes.”

DeFrane finished reading the men their Miranda rights.

Lucchesi turned to Maynard and bellowed, “Mr. Prosecutor? Oh, I remember you now. I didn’t recognize you without the silver spoon in your mouth. You ladies are under arrest for counterfeiting with intent to distribute and conspiracy to counterfeit.” Flashing his best Italian grin, he added, “Two slimy shysters and a little big man with a board up his ass—you’re going to be very popular in prison.”

Maynard approached Lucchesi who stood his ground and beamed from ear to ear while two agents restrained the chief prosecutor. Snodgrass tried but failed to control his client.

Through it all, Fallon sat still and silent, like an alligator in the weeds.

Maynard spotted Bruce Finch, who by now was silently slinking toward the door clutching his Tums to his chest, and said, “Better run home and give your wife and kids one last kiss, Bruce.”

DeFrane intervened. “You better stay up nights praying no harm comes to him or his family, Mr. Maynard. If it does, I will connect you to it and add it to your growing list of felonies.”

Maynard protested, “Don't you know who I am? Besides, I didn’t make that money—”

“John, SHUT UP NOW!” Snodgrass screamed. Then: “I told you not to trust the fat bastard!”

Fallon remained quiet as death; only his eyes moved.

Lucchesi seemed to derive special delight in reading these men their Miranda rights a second time, which he delivered with the excessive flare and stage presence of a Shakespearean actor.

“Gentlemen, I prefer not to be handcuffed when you take us outside,” Maynard said.

Lucchesi smiled. “And I want to be married to a young Sophia Loren. Guess that’s the first in a long line of arguments you’re going to lose, Counselor. Hands behind your back. And no damn sunglasses for any of you. That goes for you, too, Incredible Hulk.” He tore off Dodd’s shades and for a split second appeared ill at ease when he noticed the man’s rapacious eyes.

“You’ll be writing traffic tickets along St. Louis Avenue or chasing smash and grabs near Jennings and West Florissant when this is over,” Snodgrass threatened.

Lucchesi laughed. “I think you’ll be the expert on moving violations in the joint, Brillo pad.”

During the controlled police action, the few bank customers inside had been safely escorted into the parking lot, which was now filled with patrol cars. The cars in turn had drawn a sizable crowd of gawkers, growing by the minute. Everyone outside assumed the bank had been robbed and they’d have a surprise coming when the truth eventually came out that the criminals were actually caught trying to deposit money.

Life has its enjoyable little ironies every so often.

As agents DeFrane and Lucchesi prepared to lead the six men in custody to waiting squad cars, I stepped out of the bank manager’s office next door that had served as command central. I watched and listened to the scenes play out on multiple hidden surveillance cameras, alongside uniformed officers ready to spring into action. Bruce Finch lay sprawled on a sofa with a wet towel draped over his forehead. (He’d nearly passed out in there. When he excused himself on the pretense of needing forms, I gave him a quick pep talk.) He fanned himself and chewed Tums like they were Skittles.

I walked up to Dodd and said, “They don’t want you. They want the big fish. Do yourself a favor. Cut a deal. Do that and I won’t press charges.”

His heterochromic eyes stared into mine and that sick, crooked grin appeared like a slice made by a knife blade. “Remember, I will get out.”

It’s a good thing he couldn't see the chill I felt creeping up my spine.

Through the clear double doors, I spotted a Channel Four news van rumble into the parking lot and screech to a stop near the police barricade. Debbie Macklin and a male crew member hoisting a portable TV camera hopped out and double-timed it to the lobby entrance.

I walked up to Maynard. “I heard you two missed hooking up the other night, so I invited Ms. Macklin to your coming-out party. Or is it now a going-away party?

“Once I knew the real man behind your public persona, the rest became relatively easy to figure out. Lonnie and the Secret Service helped obtain the proof. From behind bars, even after his murder, he was a step ahead of you. When I learned the “Big Top” is code for the Secret Service, I knew you had a mole there. An underling of Winston’s.”

Recognition dawned in those icy blue eyes. “You ... you overheard us.”

“Your career is in ruins in part because I had bad tacos for lunch the day you announced Lonnie’s capture. Something else to blame on the Mexicans,” I said. I held up my phone and watched his eyes grow larger. “I know you and Dodd were concerned about my cell phone the other night. I want you to know that it’s in safe hands.”

I stepped back so Maynard was in my phone’s field of vision and took a picture of him in handcuffs. He had that same faraway, dead look in his eyes that I first saw in Lonnie’s mug shot. “That’s exactly how I want to remember you.”

“You’re no better than he was. I’ve done nothing wrong. I’ll be out in a matter of hours once I clear up this little misunderstanding. You’d be wise to keep that in mind,” he said, above the protestations of his wire-haired attorney to keep his mouth shut.

I smiled. “I had you pegged for a bully—you don’t disappoint. It’s good to keep a positive attitude, but my friend Lonnie was also a brilliant, meticulous man. He was more patient than you. He kept records of everything. You’ll hear more about that at your trial.”

Maynard’s tanned face turned to white marble.

“Have a nice day, Mr. Maynard. Good luck with the election. After you settle in, I think you'll be a shoe-in for prisoner representative.”

He took a step toward me and spoke in a hushed tone. “You think you've done something good here, even noble. You think you’ve stopped me. My cause will endure. I am a patriot. Unlike you, I love this country and will fight for her and the direction she must take. You’ve just weakened our country.”

“I'm sure you believe that, ‘Mr. Murphy.’”

In a face-saving gesture, he stood about to say more when Snodgrass yelled, “John, keep your damn mouth shut!”

Maynard stood his ground, fists balled, and stamped his feet.

Lucchesi stepped between us, chuckling to himself, and patted me on the back. “That’s enough, Big Dog. You talk to him anymore and he’ll be on suicide watch.”

“Thanks for giving me a minute.”

DeFrane and Lucchesi stayed behind to insure proper chain of evidence collection of the subpoenaed bank records and shredded items and to take Finch into custody as a material witness. The special agents called me into Finch’s now vacant office and carefully opened the trunks.

“Show me the money,” Lucchesi said, rubbing his meat-hook hands together, as the special agents raised both lids simultaneously.

Each contained a large duffel bag with the Green Bay Packer logo on the sides. Inside them were neatly banded stacks and stacks of Benjamin Franklins. It appeared every bill was the 1996 hundred-dollar enlarged portrait variety. They looked like the real thing to my untrained eye.

When Lucchesi tried to lift one of the duffels from the large ornate silver trunk he grimaced, his wide face red from the effort and said, “Holy Magnolia, one strong MoFo must have toted these babies around.”

“That would be Mr. Dodd,” I said, remembering my terrifying night in the dark alley.

DeFrane turned to Lucchesi. “We have the serials of every counterfeit bill he and his crew made, thanks to Dr. Adams.” The two agents had found the flash drive intact taped to my fan, right where I’d hidden it.

“That’s a quarter of a million numbers, ace,” Lucchesi said, looking at me skeptically.

“I can do the math,” I said. “The flash drive has more than enough space to contain the randomly generated numbers. So if this passes inspection from the experts—”

“The Golden Boy and his followers face the charge of intent to distribute counterfeit money, same as counterfeiting. That carries the same penalties Lonnie Washington faced,” DeFrane said.

“Maynard planned to use the forgeries to finance his senate run, even though he was worth millions.”

“Why the hell would Richie Rich risk it all if he had his own money?” Lucchesi asked.

I smiled. “As they say, you can never be too thin or too rich.”