I was preparing for a lunch meeting with Brad Dellan, the lawyer for Ashley Wells, who
was the late 20s pop star with four #1 albums and several drug rehabs under her belt. She broke it
big when she was 19. She became a client a year later. Brad handled everything including setting
up a trust fund, paying Ashley $60,000 per month in cash living expenses. Two years later, more
funds were given to me, such that the monthly figure spiked to $100,000 per month. That was it
for the money flowing to me, however, and I did find that odd given that I knew Ashley's
earnings had risen tremendously over the past two years.
My son Charlie was obsessed with Ms. Wells, so much so that I stopped talking about her
with my family. When Ashley made it onto Charlie's screen saver, I knew she was something
huge. I had only met her once, at a fashion show in the city six years ago, just before her second
album. That was typical given that I spent way more time talking with the lawyers than the clients
they represented. My firm had twenty five clients in 2002, and, of those, I had not met eight.
Martin's security guy had cut back his hours by now, at my urging, mainly because there
had been no sign of the „pants on fire' harasser since the first week in September. I became
convinced that the extra security was in fact noticed and effectively scared this joker off. Part of me, though, still expected the Attorney General to march into my office and arrest me based on
some „anonymous' tip.
Judy entered my office with the year-to-date report for Ms Wells's investments, of which
20% was fictional.
“I printed it double-sided like you wanted, but the color smeared a little in the bottom
right corner.” Judy pointed to the error.
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I smiled at her. “That's alright…I highly doubt Ms. Wells ever sees this report.”
Darryl was out sick with the flu, a real bummer because he was signed up for a flu shot
the next week.
Brad was kind of obnoxious and I really didn't enjoy his company. Ashley was his first
big client - she pretty much launched him into the big-time of entertainment law – so he split his
time between Hollywood and New York City. Brad always told me about him not understanding
my move out to the New Jersey suburbs. Ever since we first met, I maybe had gotten in 10% of
the words exchanged between us. But Ashley was a very important client, so I was happy to put
up with that.
“You could be so much bigger than you are, Peter,” Brad told me the last time we met.
After Judy and I heard some people out in the lobby, we both went to see who it was. We
rounded the corner to find Brad on his cell phone, next to Ashley Wells who was sitting on the
lobby couch. She sprang up, darted over to me, and gave me a hug. Ashley was wearing an over
sized sweater with jeans not appropriate for the under 18 crowd. Her blond hair, smelling like
peaches, looked way blonder in person.
“It's great to see you again, Peter,” Ashley announced. She had a sweet southern accent
that could put a roaring lion at ease, though the accent didn't come through in her singing.
“Oh, you didn't have to come way out to New Jersey for this,” I said.
Ashley giggled. “Yeah, I kinda did…we have a surprise for you.”
Brad got off the phone. “But let's wait „til the restaurant to share it with you.” Brad stood
about 5'10, was sporting a George Hamilton tan, and his teeth were alarmingly white.
Judy headed off for her lunch break, while I climbed into Brad's suburban, not too eager
to see the surprise they had in store for me. As Brad started talking on the ride over to the
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restaurant, it struck me that his voice kind of sounded like the voice of the „pants on fire'
harasser. That was probably just my dislike for Brad surfacing, however, so I told myself to relax.
As far as I could tell, Brad had two passions away from his law practice: baseball cards
and operas, neither of which I liked to listen about for more than two minutes. Yet, his growing
baseball card collection was on Brad's mind that day. Apparently he had taken advantage of the
recent recession and bought several large card collections over Ebay from unemployed sellers
looking for quick cash. Brad had first row, 1st base line season tickets at Yankee Stadium. He
managed to throw that fact in twice during our „conversation' on the way over to our restaurant,
Zebra. The topic of operas had yet to surface, but it was coming because Brad also was in the
inner circle at Lincoln Center. I would bet hard Vegas money that the topic of Brad's baseball
collection was still virgin to that inner circle of old money.
Zebra was a French restaurant in town. The three of us were seated at a table in the back.
Ashley wore her sunglasses and a sun hat into the restaurant, clearly not understanding that the
diners at this establishment had no idea who Ashley Wells was. They would, however, be drawn
to her disguise, as ridiculous as it looked. I was at Zebra less than a month ago. My steak was
way overdone, and the waiter couldn't have been more rude about it.
Ashley thrusted her left hand across the table and an enormous rock was on display, a
rock that must have been in her purse back in the office. I would have spotted it otherwise.
“Peter, Brad and I wanted to tell you our surprise.” Ashley leaned over to Brad and gave
him a very wet kiss. She then turned to me. “Brad and I are engaged!”
I had never been very good at hiding shocked expressions, so this was no exception, with
my mouth bullfrog wide and my eyes all bugged out. Nobody said anything for a few seconds
until Brad blurted,
“Whoa, buddy, you didn't see that one coming, did you?”
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I smiled awkwardly. “No, Brad, I was not expecting that piece of news…but
congratulations to you both…that's awesome.”
While I was busy trying to figure out just how much older Brad was than Ashley, the two
of them started talking with our waiter. I had figured on the way over to Zebra that Brad was
going to give me more of Ashley's money to invest. It did seem kinda strange that they couched
this as a „surprise', though.
Ashley's fourth album was two weeks old and she was still busy promoting its sales, but
the active rehearsing for the summer tour wouldn't begin for a few months. Why she wanted to
make this special trip out to New Jersey to spring her engagement news to her money manager
who she couldn't possibly remember meeting just the one time they had met was way beyond my
comprehension.
Brad began yapping away about how their relationship morphed from a professional
nature to one of love and passion. I could certainly see how he would be supportive of this
transition, but how the great Ashley Wells could fall for a slightly overweight, hair plugged man
that was Brad was simply mind boggling.
“I'm going to be touring in Europe for the first time,” Ashley told me.
Brad leaned in. “Yeah, I'm going to try to run my practice while on the road with her,” he
declared. “I think it can work.”
Brad flashed me a wink, making me want so badly to pop the guy in the face. The
scallops and salmon plate appetizers arrived. Brad shut up for a while.
No one else in my family liked sea food, so I loved coming to the Zebra. Yet, I knew
Susan would smell the ocean scent when I got home.
“I'm selling my place in Los Angeles and we are looking to buy a place together in the
city,” Ashley stated.
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Ashley didn't take more than six or seven bites of her meal the whole lunch and kept
checking her Blackberry every few minutes because her agent, Chris Thompson, was going to let
her know if she was hosting Saturday Night Live in two weeks. Not many music acts got to play
host, so this was a big deal. Ashley grew kind of on edge about the whole thing as the lunch went
on.
We were there at the Zebra for about an hour. During the ride back to the office, Brad
decided to start talking business and went on about the stock market losses from the prior two
years. Worldcom and Enron were on everybody's mind. I was happy to report to Brad that none
of my clients owned either of those two stocks. By the time they dropped me off at my office, we
had worked out where to put another $15 million of Ashley's money. The goal was to bring her
monthly spend money to close to $150,000 in addition to starting a sizeable long term investment
fund.
Ashley Wells was hotter than ever and my firm was a key part of her team, but the back
of my mind couldn't focus on that because of the house of cards Julio had made of my business.
It wasn't really my business any more – it was Julio's - and I was only the front man. Walking
back into my office building, I should have been jumping with pride. Yet, all that I could think
about was the mess that Julio had forced me to get Nick Johnson into.
Exactly what Oleg told Nick during their meeting wasn't known to me, so I had no idea
just what Nick was thinking at that moment. One thing was for sure, he was scared out of his
mind and madly wondering how this problem had found him. Oleg probably told Nick that they
would leave him alone as long as he did what they asked. While Julio had pretty much told me
the same thing, I was not convinced. Way the heck down in Mexico, it was in Julio's best
business interest to kill Nick and his family even if he gave Oleg the drug study information in a
few months.
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Judy was back at her desk and on the phone when I walked into our office. The day's
mail was on the lobby coffee table, so I began thumbing through it. An official looking letter
from Metrogroup Bank caught my attention because my entire business funneled through the cash
and investment service of this bank. Every client dollar and stock market trade was managed by
Metrogoup Bank, even Julio's money.
The letter from Metrogroup informed me that starting at 3pm on January 17th, their web
site for private client services was going to be shut down for the weekend due to major re-
construction of the web site. This action by Metrogroup only affected the cartel and not my other
clients because Julio was the only client with a private brokerage account at Metrogroup. Martin
had insisted on this the day he walked into my office for the first time and forced me to do all of
those illegal wire transfers. Everybody else's money was put into a pool which I managed as one
account all together with Metrogroup. Martin didn't like that idea at all when I explained it to him on that fateful Monday. Except for a few minutes that morning, when Martin was on the phone
with Julio, Martin stood over my shoulder to watch my moves on the computer and make sure I
didn't pull a fast one on the cartel.
After bringing the rest of my mail into my office, I sat down at my desk. The yellow
sticky on the desk, right in front of me, caused me to shoot up from chair. In large, red marker
writing, it said: LOOK UNDER YOUR CHAIR.
Getting onto one knee, I looked under the chair and found a cassette taped onto the
plastic molding beneath the fabric seat. Pulling off the cassette, I looked over to my ten year old
boombox in the corner of the office, which had a cassette and CD player. The cassette started to
play…Mr. Pants on Fire was back.
“Liar, Liar, Pants on Fire, keep it up and you'll be one big crier,” rang out the same deep
voice as before. At least it sounded like the same voice, but I couldn't be sure because the first
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episode was a slowed down tape recording that sounded underwater and the second phone call
was just a few words. That last phone call was nearly two months ago.
In any case, this was a huge problem because, clearly, he was in this office over our lunch
break. What else had he touched or gotten into? My client file drawer was locked and the key was
still under the rug corner behind the bookshelve. I never used to lock this drawer, but the first two calls from „pants on fire' shook me up enough to want a lock installed, so I told my staff to leave
early one Friday and brought in a locksmith. Not needing those files every day, it was no big
hassle to me to leave the key in an inconvenient, but difficult-to-find place.
I would have to give Martin another call. I really didn't want to do that because I couldn't
help but feel a little too sucked into Julio's evil web when that guy that Martin assigned was
around watching me and my family.
But „pants on fire' was good, always watching and waiting for his opportunity. He must
have known that Martin's guy had pulled back a few weeks ago, so he began his patient hunt. My
parking lot was heavy with the trees, so there were many good places to watch the front of my
building without being totally obvious.
It was a good thing this guy was gone before Judy got back, but, as I thought that, it
occurred to me that he may still be in the office hiding somewhere. I sprang up from my chair,
raced into the conference room and looked under the table. No one there. Judy was still on the
phone at her desk and was laughing at something – probably a family member on the line.
Slinking across the hallway, I sneaked into the spare office that we kept furnished. No one there
either, not behind the door or under the desk. Walking back into my office, I plunked back into
my chair. My brain was pounding against my skull. I began to rub my temples and put my head
between my knees.
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If „pants on fire' had stolen one of the client files, that might have given us a huge clue
who was behind this whole thing. Martin's guy could start following this client and maybe catch
a break in the case. Then, I could worry only about Nick Johnson's problem and not mine.
My cell phone started to ring – it was Martin. What, did this guy have a six sense or
something?
“Hello, Peter Hansen,” I answered, wanting to act like I didn't recognize Martin's phone
number.
“Peter, it's Martin. I wanted to let you know that Julio will be traveling to the New York
area in the next few months, and he will want to see you again.”
“That's a lot of advance notice, but, okay. Martin, that guy harassing us a few months ago
broke into our office over lunch and left a message to stop lying to my clients.”
“Now that's a development, hmmm,” Martin responded. “I will re-assign someone to
watch you again, maybe on a full-time basis now. We need to keep you problem free, don't you
agree, Peter?”
Why Martin didn't consider roping in a friend of mine into Julio's doctor scheme to be
problematic for me was a reflection of the cartel's ability to completely separate business
decisions and emotional responses.
“Nobody likes problems, Martin,” I responded. “So, you're sending a guy over this
afternoon?”
“That's right, now I have to run, but call me if you need anything, okay Peter?”
“I will, and thanks a lot Martin.”
Martin never told me the name of the first guy protecting us, but it was not like I ever
needed to know. I wasn't going to invite him out to dinner or anything like that. Of course, if they did manage to catch this guy, then maybe that did call for a nice dinner for all involved.
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I hung up the phone and looked out the window which had a view of the eastern part of
the parking lot. There wasn't anybody suspiciously staring at the building. Anyhow, „pants on
fire' probably left the area as quickly as possible after accomplishing his mission.
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Wednesday, November 6th
11:30 am
“I'm worried about Nick, I think this drug trial is getting under his skin or something,”
Susan Johnson told her brother Stan over the phone.
“People get bad dreams, you know, remember how I went through that sleep walking
stage when I was twelve?”
The strut down memory lane spurred a much needed laugh out of Susan. That was nice
because she did like to laugh.
“Yes, you scared Mom and Dad half to death. When you first did it, Dad nearly
bludgeoned you with the baseball bat he kept.”
Susan always found it odd that her father kept a baseball bat under his bed, though it
never really occurred to her to challenge him on it. In a strange way, it made Susan feel safer in
the house.
“Uh huh…so I'm told. We still have no idea how it started or how it just disappeared.”
Stan's sleep walking only lasted a few months and he saw several doctors during this
period, none of which provided any answers.
“Yeah, I recall you being rather happy about it disappearing.”
“Sis, my point here is to relax with Nick. He's a good egg. Don't crack him.”
Susan always liked Stan's corny sense of humor but he had also been a huge fan of Nick
over the years.
“So, I guess I shouldn't be suspicious that he's begun smoking all of a sudden?” Susan
asked my brother.
“What!” Stanley shouted.
She sighed away her morning coffee breath and put the cup down on the kitchen table.
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“Last night, after the game, I climbed into our car and got bowled over by a smoky smell.
Stan, it wasn't there when I left the car to go to the game. Nick claims he stayed behind to record
some medical notes.”
“Do his clothes smell smoky?”
“No, I checked that.”
“Does his breath reek of smoke?”
“Nope.”
Susan heard running water on Stan's end. He loved his toasted bagel in the morning
given that he had a real basic toaster. Susan always left a sliced bagel in a zip loc bag on the
counter next to the toaster. He could find the cream cheese in the refrigerator and put it on
himself. Stan mainly drunk tap water with his bagel, though Susan brought him a Starbucks
surprise when she popped in each morning for a mid morning pick me up.
“Then stop it, Susan. It could have been anything, you know that.”
“I guess you're right. Can I ask you a question?”
“You're kidding, right?”
“Are we lonely?”
Stan snorted into the phone.
“What do you mean „we'? I got you in my life; and mom when she wants to be. You have
Nick and Tom. Are they lonely?”
Susan stood up and started scrubbing away at the stove top after Tom made some French
toast last night following the game. He produced quite a mess.
“Tom was blasting a song last week in his room and the chorus shouts, „We're all suckin'
loners, our best is friend is fate…”
Stan repeated the chorus. He tried to sing it but stopped himself after a few attempts.
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“That's pretty bleak stuff. I don't believe in fate.”
“It just got me thinking. Are we all looking out for ourselves in the end?”
“I'm gonna hang up now, Susan. You'd better bring a morning smile. See you in a bit.”
“Okay, hon.”
Susan hung up the phone and finished scrubbing away at the stove top.
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