And I don’t even come close to having the resources. If this guy’s as good as he sounds, he’s gone deep. He’s probably vanished by now, along with most of what he took. He’s probably hidden the money in a dozen different ways.”
“So what do you expect me to say, Jason? I’m sorry you aren’t even willing to talk to this girl? Is that it?”
When she got a bite on something, she was like a badger: shake her all you want, she wasn’t letting go. I needed a new plan.
“Nora, listen to me. I’ve been down this road dozens of times. I know it sounds easy, but it isn’t. Unfortunately, we live in a very dynamic global culture now, practically without borders. On top of that, these crooks are not your run-of-the-mill bookkeeper stealing from the petty cash drawer. These guys are very savvy highly sophisticated. They’re after millions billions in some cases. Think of hedge fund manager Stamford, or Gerald Payne, or the Ponzi king of them all, Madoff.
“With that kind of money, these crooks can surround themselves with armies of lawyers. Plus, they’re in it for keeps. They know they have only so much time before the gig is up. One day a client will want his money back, and that’s the beginning of the end. So the smart ones, they take the time to map out their exit strategy well in advance, they hide the stolen assets very well and usually out of reach. Not that it always works, though. These days the government has better wire-tracing capabilities. Everything leaves a paper or electronic trail. But by the time the client finds out something’s wrong, the money, stocks, bonds, gold, art, macramé heirloom, or whatever is gone. What’s left is often located offshore, out of U.S. jurisdiction, laundered and dried so many times that not even the SEC or Treasury with all their sophisticated bag of tricks can make sense of it all. Those are the sad cases. All the client can hope for is a conviction, because after expenses and attorneys’ fees, there’ll be damn little else to recover.” I took a deep, hopeful breath. I had delivered an unbeatable summation.
“Then, you should be very interested in talking to Amy,” she said.
Good Lord, she was relentless! It was time to change the subject. “Nora, I haven’t seen you in five days. Why don’t we talk about it later? Say, after a shower and dinner?”
“Oh, no,” she said. “That’s not gonna work this time, cowboy. First we talk, then you see her, and then maybe, just maybe, we’ll see about you getting lucky.”
“Seriously?”
“Think melanoma carcinoma.” In other words, she meant business.
I remained silent.
“Do this for me, please? Just talk to her; hear her out. You won’t be able to turn her down if you do, Jason. Trust me.”
“Why is that?” I instantly regretted asking.
“Remember 1987? The big market crash?”
“Yeah?” I said, breathing a little from the five flights and leaning back against the stairwell door. I wanted to wind this up before going into my office. I did remember. The crash exposed several fraudulent schemes, where hundreds of investors lost a lot of money. In 1987 it took longer than it should have to uncover the extent of the crimes committed against the investing public, but eventually the perpetrators’ flimsy web of lies came crashing down and the truth came out. There were high-profile arrests, with the crooks perp-walked out of their Wall Street corner offices and past the news cameras. The press went on a feeding frenzy, keeping the criminals’ faces plastered on the front pages for weeks while consigning the tales of the ruined victims to the back pages. Prosecutors pounded their chests and promised justice and stiff sentences; lawmakers jockeyed for the limelight. But the actual victims of the fraud were lucky to see two cents on every dollar lost.
“Well, Amy’s dad was one of those sent to prison.”
“Is that right?” I was still unimpressed.
“Her father was Samuel Reichmann,
“So what do you expect me to say, Jason? I’m sorry you aren’t even willing to talk to this girl? Is that it?”
When she got a bite on something, she was like a badger: shake her all you want, she wasn’t letting go. I needed a new plan.
“Nora, listen to me. I’ve been down this road dozens of times. I know it sounds easy, but it isn’t. Unfortunately, we live in a very dynamic global culture now, practically without borders. On top of that, these crooks are not your run-of-the-mill bookkeeper stealing from the petty cash drawer. These guys are very savvy highly sophisticated. They’re after millions billions in some cases. Think of hedge fund manager Stamford, or Gerald Payne, or the Ponzi king of them all, Madoff.
“With that kind of money, these crooks can surround themselves with armies of lawyers. Plus, they’re in it for keeps. They know they have only so much time before the gig is up. One day a client will want his money back, and that’s the beginning of the end. So the smart ones, they take the time to map out their exit strategy well in advance, they hide the stolen assets very well and usually out of reach. Not that it always works, though. These days the government has better wire-tracing capabilities. Everything leaves a paper or electronic trail. But by the time the client finds out something’s wrong, the money, stocks, bonds, gold, art, macramé heirloom, or whatever is gone. What’s left is often located offshore, out of U.S. jurisdiction, laundered and dried so many times that not even the SEC or Treasury with all their sophisticated bag of tricks can make sense of it all. Those are the sad cases. All the client can hope for is a conviction, because after expenses and attorneys’ fees, there’ll be damn little else to recover.” I took a deep, hopeful breath. I had delivered an unbeatable summation.
“Then, you should be very interested in talking to Amy,” she said.
Good Lord, she was relentless! It was time to change the subject. “Nora, I haven’t seen you in five days. Why don’t we talk about it later? Say, after a shower and dinner?”
“Oh, no,” she said. “That’s not gonna work this time, cowboy. First we talk, then you see her, and then maybe, just maybe, we’ll see about you getting lucky.”
“Seriously?”
“Think melanoma carcinoma.” In other words, she meant business.
I remained silent.
“Do this for me, please? Just talk to her; hear her out. You won’t be able to turn her down if you do, Jason. Trust me.”
“Why is that?” I instantly regretted asking.
“Remember 1987? The big market crash?”
“Yeah?” I said, breathing a little from the five flights and leaning back against the stairwell door. I wanted to wind this up before going into my office. I did remember. The crash exposed several fraudulent schemes, where hundreds of investors lost a lot of money. In 1987 it took longer than it should have to uncover the extent of the crimes committed against the investing public, but eventually the perpetrators’ flimsy web of lies came crashing down and the truth came out. There were high-profile arrests, with the crooks perp-walked out of their Wall Street corner offices and past the news cameras. The press went on a feeding frenzy, keeping the criminals’ faces plastered on the front pages for weeks while consigning the tales of the ruined victims to the back pages. Prosecutors pounded their chests and promised justice and stiff sentences; lawmakers jockeyed for the limelight. But the actual victims of the fraud were lucky to see two cents on every dollar lost.
“Well, Amy’s dad was one of those sent to prison.”
“Is that right?” I was still unimpressed.
“Her father was Samuel Reichmann,
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