IT WAS AS bizarre a raid as I’d seen since I’d been on the force. Pretty funny, actually, if you have a sense of humor like mine.
We pulled one joker out of a concrete-block room, where he was still manacled to the wall in his thong underwear, presumably ditched there by his dominatrix. In fact, most of the people I saw were in one state of undress or another—completely naked, satin underwear, skimpy see-through robes—and one soaking-wet couple in towels, including turbans, the male smoking a cigar.
The men were a mix of Saudi and American. From what I gleaned, one was a billionaire by the name of Al-Hamad. He was having a birthday party that night. And a very happy fiftieth to you. One you won’t forget.
We kept the English manager—if that was what he was—in a small study downstairs. By the time I got back to him, he’d settled into a stubborn silence. When I asked about the bruise on his cheek, Mahoney told me he’d taken to spitting at the arresting officer. Never a good idea.
I stood in the doorway, watching him sulk on an antique settee, surrounded by high shelves of books I couldn’t imagine anyone had ever read. He was obviously a nasty sonofabitch and presumably a pimp. But was he also a killer? And why was he acting so arrogant about the raid?
His lawyer got there less than an hour later, wearing suspenders and a bow tie in the middle of the night. If I’d seen him on the street, I’d never have expected he was tied into something like this. He was Dilbert, minus the pocket protector.
Unfortunately, his paperwork was very good.
“What’s this?” Mahoney asked, as the lawyer handed it over to him.
“Motion to quash. As of this moment, your ex parte’s void, and this raid is illegal. My client will generously allow you five minutes to clear out. After that, we’re looking at contempt of court and criminal trespassing.”
Mahoney did a slow double take between the lawyer’s little bug eyes and the motion to quash. Whatever he saw seemed to have the intended effect. He dropped the pages to the floor and walked away as they fluttered. Then I heard him shouting orders and shutting everyone down, the entire raid.
I picked up the motion and started scanning. “Who the hell’s your judge at one in the morning?” I asked the lawyer.
He actually reached up and flipped the page for me, pointed. “The Honorable Laurence Gibson.”
Of course, I thought. Senators, congressmen, billionaires for clients—why not a judge?