“ROYCE WILL PROVIDE YOU THE DETAILS, but my grandson has run into trouble in your city. A group of major technology companies have sued him in Federal Court. The government has arrested him, taken possession of his computers and cellphone, and seized his bank account. They haven’t allowed anyone from his family to speak with him or have any contact at all. He needs a lawyer, a very good lawyer.”
Not much information, none of it good, but given the scenarios I’d imagined, I was relieved. I rose and said I would be honored to help in any way I could. Thibodeaux stood as well, grasped my outstretched hand, and led me around the table. Each man stood, quietly introduced himself, and extended his hand. I felt as if I were joining a fraternity. Clovis and Royce followed us as we walked toward the front door. Thibodeaux put a hand on my shoulder and said,
“I hope you’ll call me Tom. I’m sorry to have to cut our first meeting short, but as I said, we use these occasional lunches to discuss business. Royce can tell you everything we know about my grandson’s situation. None of us will forget your friendship.”
Without another word he turned back to the table, and Royce again took my elbow, guiding us through the door to a waiting taxi. “I know you must have lots of questions. I’ve booked a suite for you at the Hotel Bienville in the Quarter. It’s not a tourist hotel—we can talk. Wherever you want to eat tonight, let me know. I’ll make the arrangements. But I need to go back to this meeting for another hour or so. Get comfortable, and I’ll be along as soon as I can.”
Before either of us could say a word, he vanished into the restaurant, carefully closing the door behind him. Clovis turned to face me.
“Well, Jack, what have you gotten us into this time?”
Clovis and I had packed to stay overnight, figuring we could get a room in an airport hotel and catch an early morning flight back to DC. I’d assumed that dinner at one of New Orleans’s classic eateries was out of the question, so we’d planned to eat at the nearest Theo’s. You don’t think of New Orleans and pizza, but neither New York nor Chicago can claim pizza as good as Theo’s. Now we had rooms at the Bienville, and our dinner options seemed to have broadened.
When we’d settled into the cab, Clovis asked, “Have you read or heard anything about the grandson in the press? You’d think a group of tech companies suing a single individual whose computer equipment has been physically seized by the Feds would have made The Post.”
“Not a word, but these days I try to limit my newspaper reading to the sports and the comics. The news is too depressing.”
It wasn’t long before we stood in the small but elegant lobby of the Hotel Bienville. From a quick Google search, I had learned that the building began life as a rice mill in 1835. Both its identity and purpose had changed many times since then. Over the years it had served as a firehouse, an apartment complex, and a boarding house, just a few of its incarnations. The property was acquired in 1972 by the Monteleone family, who had transformed it into the refined space I saw as I approached the front desk. I reached into my pocket, but the receptionist shook a playful finger at me and said, “No, no, Mr. Patterson. Mr. Peters has taken care of everything. Your rooms are on the fourth floor. Here are your key cards.” I wondered how she had recognized me, but decided not to ask.
The bellman escorted us to a spacious suite with two bedrooms separated by a large sitting area. Two small plates, silverware and napkins lay next to a large tray of fruit and cheese on the table, and I noticed that the bar was well-stocked. I saw Clovis give the bar a wistful glance, but he pulled his bag into his bedroom, muttering something about phone calls.
I unpacked, washed my face, and kicked off my shoes—it felt good to relax. I’d been on edge since Clovis’s call the day before, but hopefully my anxiety had been for nothing. I had no idea what kind of trouble the grandson had gotten himself into, but Tom’s request wasn’t unreasonable. The young man needed a DC lawyer, and that’s exactly what I am.
I set up shop with my laptop at the conference table and was quickly engrossed in my work. Red Shaw, the owner of the San Antonio Lobos, was completing a deal with the city of San Antonio to build a state-of-the-art, multi-purpose stadium. Every contract, every letter or email, seemingly every handshake, required my review and approval. I dove into the details, happy to earn my keep.
I was roused from my work by a knock at the door and looked up to see Clovis opening it for Royce and a short, dark-haired woman who carried a box of what appeared to be files. She introduced herself as Lula Gonzalez and dropped the heavy box on the table next to me.
Royce frowned at the untouched bar in the corner and turned to me.
“Hey, where’s your drink? Is there something wrong with the bar?”
I couldn’t help but notice the sharp look he directed toward Lula.
“No, not at all. The bar is perfect. We’ve both been dealing with work.” I saw visible relief in Lula’s face.
“Lula, you know what I like,” Royce barked as he plopped down on the sofa.
“Here, Lula, let me help,” I said, meeting her at the bar before Royce could protest. Lula poured bourbon over ice for Royce and handed Clovis the beer he asked for. I opened the bottle of Merlot and poured two glasses.
“Is this okay, Lula, or would you rather have something else?”
She nodded her thanks and took the chair Clovis held for her. Royce frowned, clearly annoyed. Too bad—my hotel room, my rules. Lula gave me a cautious smile as I handed her the glass.
I closed my computer and said, “Okay, Royce, what have you got for me?”
Royce took a healthy swallow of bourbon and began, “First, thank you again. One of the lawyers on our payroll would usually handle any charges brought against a family member, but this matter is anything but usual. Your commitment to help solves a big problem.”
“How is this matter different? What exactly is the problem?” I asked.
“First, let me give you some background.” He swirled the bourbon in his glass, taking his time before continuing.
“This young man is a favorite of Mr. Thibodeaux, a grandson who has caused no one trouble—not his mother, not his grandparents, and not the syndicate. He’s a computer genius; his curiosity is boundless. He’s respectful of his elders and has plenty of friends—even a girlfriend, although I haven’t met her. But he spends most of his time in front of a computer screen.”
“Sounds like a thousand other kids in Silicon Valley,” I responded easily.
“Oh, I think you’ll find he’s much smarter than the average computer nerd, which brings me to why this case is out of the ordinary. This young man…”
“Does the young man have a name?” I interrupted.
“Yes, of course he has a name,” he snapped, but recovered quickly. “Please forgive me—I’m not used to… Well, his name is David, David Ruple. He grew up in New Orleans, went to high school at Country Day, and got a degree in both computer science and math at Santa Clara in California. After he graduated, he moved to DC and started a software design and consulting company with two college friends.”
“Sounds innocent enough.” I commented, wondering why David had left the West Coast.
“Yes. And as far as we know, it is. David has never been involved in the family businesses. He made spending money in high school repairing computers and teaching his friends’ parents how to use them. He went to college on a scholarship, again earning money on the side consulting.”
“What about the company David started? Is it still doing business? Did Mr. Thibodeaux invest in it or provide any seed money?” I asked.
“Why do you ask? Surely David’s troubles couldn’t get Mr. Thibodeaux in danger or in trouble with the Feds.” A slight stammer in his voice betrayed a new anxiety.
“It’s a stretch,” I said with a shrug. “But I wonder if David’s troubles might be an indirect way to go after Mr. Thibodeaux and even his associates. It’s a well-known government strategy to go after a weak family link with threats of prosecution to get him to talk. Spouses, siblings, even mothers, have been held as ransom by the Feds for cooperation or a plea.”
“We are aware of these tactics,” he said, his manner again confident. “That’s why all the heads of the families were at today’s meeting. David’s problems must remain David’s alone. Your presence helped calm the waters. You, Mr. Patterson, are the perfect solution.” He smiled and raised his glass to me. “His grandson will be well represented, and you have no known ties to the syndicate.”
“Did any family member invest in David’s business?” I asked, choosing to ignore his gesture.
“Mr. Thibodeaux would have, but David never asked. I know this is hard to believe, but David hasn’t asked for money from anyone, not even his mother, since he graduated from high school.”
I raised a doubtful eyebrow and he responded, “No, really—David and his friends started the company and ran it on their own. As far as I know, even his mother has no interest in it. Sure, she cooked for him sometimes and bought him clothes, but that was about it. Family members are constantly asking Mr. Thibodeaux for money or a job, but not David.”
“You’ve mentioned David’s mother several times. Does David’s father work for either the syndicate or Mr. Thibodeaux?”
Royce glanced at Lula, who had yet to say a word. “David’s father suffered an untimely death some years ago. I prefer not to discuss what happened or why.” He went to the bar to fill his empty glass.