Coldwater Revenge by James Ross (e novels to read online TXT) 📗

law the way American courts do. They look to the French code and cases the same way we sometimes look to British common law.”

“And how did you wind up signing for this Societia de Electrification Cairo?”

Tom examined Hartwell’s face for a sign, but the senior partner waited patiently with pen poised over notepad, giving away nothing. “The closing was supposed to be at some air-conditioned hotel in downtown Cairo. At the last minute, the Egyptian sponsor decided to do the signing as a photo-op at the job site, two hours out into the desert. A couple of the older guys weren’t up for that, so I offered to stand-in with a power-of-attorney. Professional courtesy.”

“So this company you signed for wasn’t a client of the firm?” Hartwell asked.

“No. All of the equipment manufacturers supplying the project had offshore construction subs. That one belonged to one of the others. Not our client.”

“I see,” said Hartwell, making a bold box and check mark on the yellow legal pad. “Stuart, Charlie, you can leave Tom and me here to chat. We may not need to go through the rest of these boxes, after all.”

The two men left the room quietly. Tom felt the cloth under his arms dampen with sudden sweat. “So what’s this all about, Tanner? I’m not getting a good feeling.”

“Politics,” said Hartwell succinctly. “There’s a mid-term election next year. The parties are starting to look around for mud balls to sling.”

“And there’s mud in those boxes?”

“There might be.” Hartwell pressed a hedge of large upper teeth into a thin lower lip. “I got a call from a source in the Manhattan DA’s office who owes the firm a favor. Our Democratic governor’s instructed his appointees in Albany to jump on this Eurocon thing to see if they can snare some down-state Republicans.”

“With a decade-old subcontract on a Middle East construction project?”

“You can dig clear through to China if you’ve got enough shovels.”

“What did they dig up here?”

Tanner paused, as if deciding what, if anything, to reveal. “You’re right about the ownership of that construction sub you signed for. Charlie looked into that already. At the time of the project, it was owned 51% by Siemens and 49% by Perini. But Eurocon still held a small amount of Perini stock from some lending they did back in the ‘70’s.”

“That wouldn’t make it Eurocon sub, or even an affiliate.”

“For most purposes. But according to Charlie’s research, under federal procurement regs, any ownership interest counts, no matter how small.”

“And let me guess. This indirect minority interest did something it shouldn’t?”

Hartwell nodded.

Shit. Tom stared out the window hoping salvation might be staring back from the reflecting glass of the tower across the street. “Any chance of it being a six year statute of limitations?”

“Ten. So they have to get cracking, if they want to use it.”

“What does your source say?”

“That one of our people is on their list.”

“Me?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“Because fifteen years ago I did an older colleague a favor and saved him a two hour trip out to the desert?”

“Because this is an election year and you’re a photogenic, downstate sometimes Republican fund raiser who’d make a perfect poster boy for a timely government procurement scandal.”

“You’re shitting me.”

“I wish I were. Something like this happens every ten years or so, when one of the parties gets the taste of blood in its mouth and decides to take the gloves off.”

Tom pressed his fingers to temples. “Is this a problem for the firm, Tanner? Or just for Tom Morgan?”

Hartwell’s answer was all the more depressing for its thoughtful diplomacy. “I’ve got a call in to Morris Silverstein. He’s the top white collar criminal defender in New York. I’m not sure what the firm can do if this construction company wasn’t actually our client. But I think you should engage Moe to represent you personally.”

“At what? Nine hundred fifty dollars an hour?”

“This isn’t something you can handle yourself, Tom.”

The old advice that a lawyer who represents himself has a fool for a client, didn’t make Tom feel wiser for following it. It made him feel poor.

“I’m due back from vacation next week. Will that be a problem? I’ll need money coming in, if I’m going to be pumping it back out through a fire hose to Moe Silverstein.”

“Let’s play that by ear,” said Hartwell. “You’re on vacation. Let me talk to Moe first and we’ll take it from there.”

CHAPTER 14

Traffic heading out of Manhattan toward the George Washington Bridge was backed-up almost to midtown, making a typical New York sound soup of angry horns, blaring radios and multi-lingual curses. Street vendors worked the aisles between the stalled vehicles, hawking shopping carts full of fake Rolex watches, faux designer purses and cheap electronics of no known pedigree. Joe turned on the patrol car’s bubble light to cut through the traffic. The New Yorkers ignored him.

Tom decided not to say anything right away about the Eurocon mess. He needed to sit with it first and sort through its implications. None seemed good. It was the nightmare he’d never allowed himself to entertain. The one where the gold cup is snatched away within sight of the finish line.

He had always tried to be rational about money. Rejecting the prejudice of his upbringing and the excesses of his peers, he’d come to view it neither as an evil nor an end to itself, but as a tool. Good, bad, happiness or unhappiness, came from how you used money, not from the fact of having it. Though he had reservations about many of the sacrifices necessary to acquire it: the ridiculous hours, busted romances, and years devoted to things of no apparent value other than how well they paid. But he kept going.

Now what? If Tanner was right, fifteen years of single-minded pursuit of financial independence was headed straight for the toilet. The bromide of being able to start over was an illusion. Spend another decade pushing the rock back up the hill? Suppose the