“Yeah, I guess…I mean…I thought I knew what you had in mind.”
Gage dropped his hand from Matson’s shoulder.
“I’m thinking you need to consider a different strategy.”
Matson nodded.
“I know a lawyer who could help you.”
“Is he good?”
“Yeah. The best.”
“Could he cut me a deal?”
“Easy.”
“You trust him?”
“With my life.”
“What’s his name?”
“Jack Burch.”
Viz racked the shotgun, metal on metal ripping at the still air.
Matson’s hands began to shake as if his body understood before his mind. Gage watched him disassociate, lose his bearings.
Gage leaned in toward Matson and grabbed the front of his jacket, just below his chin, and yanked up. “You little runt. Burch took two bullets in the chest because of you.”
“You…you are…” Matson’s voice failed him.
Unmoved by either anger or sympathy, Gage watched the spectacle. He knew that the actual, the imaginary, and Matson’s bewildered attempt to distinguish them had been sucked into a ferocious vortex. He saw Matson’s eyes recoil from the images flying at him, the names and faces emerging out of the whirlwind, gouging at his sense of reality.
Matson dropped to his hands and knees, splattering vomit on his parka and pants, and ending with dry heaves that arched his back into spasms. He tried to wipe his mouth with his sleeve as he struggled to his feet, but missed and fell forward, then curled into a fetal ball and began whimpering.
Viz stepped forward and looked down at Matson. “Jeez, boss. I think you broke that son of a bitch.”
CHAPTER 80
I’ve got him stashed,” Gage told Peterson across the conference table on the eleventh floor of the Federal Building the following morning. Zink sat at the end of the table near the door, childishly sneering.
“It’s called kidnapping and false imprisonment,” Peterson said.
“You don’t know when to give up.” Gage shook his head. “How do you know he doesn’t want to be stashed? You’ve listened to the recording I made last night. Does he sound like a guy who’s ready to cozy up to you again?”
Peterson leaned back in his chair. “What do you want?”
“Transactional immunity for Burch. No prosecution ever for anything related to SatTek.”
Peterson tossed his pen onto the table, as if Gage’s demand was absurd. “I’ll only give him use immunity for anything he tells the grand jury.”
Gage looked hard at Peterson. “You don’t get it. Maybe you don’t want to. Maybe you’re still addicted to the headlines you’d get bringing down a lawyer like Burch. Maybe his indictment was going to be your ticket to Willie Rose’s job after he quits to run for governor.” Gage paused for a beat. “I’ve got news for you: Burch…didn’t…do it.” Gage stood up. “Maybe your boss will catch on a little faster.”
Peterson straightened himself in his chair. He glanced over at Zink. The sneer was gone. “Okay. Sit down.”
“What does okay mean?”
“It means transactional.”
Gage sat down. “And I want a court order before I leave today.”
“Fine. And I assume that’s not all you want.”
“You got that right. I don’t want Burch or his firm named in the civil suit.”
“I can’t control what Braunegg does,” Peterson said. “DOJ policy says I can’t interfere.”
“It’s a little late to start drawing ethical boundaries between you and Braunegg. You’re the tit he sucks on. He’ll do whatever you tell him.”
Peterson smirked. “Anything else on your wish list?”
“Nope. But I’ve got twenty million dollars that Matson had in a Swiss account. KTMG Limited. I’ll wire it to the court’s bank when Braunegg confirms that Burch is out of the case.”
“Why the court?”
“Because I don’t want Braunegg getting a cut of it. If he doesn’t recover it on his own, he doesn’t get a percentage. His thirty percent will go to the victims.”
Peterson picked up the telephone and dialed.
“Franklin Braunegg, please…Frank, this is Bill…Yeah, fine…Look, the complexion of the SatTek case changed…Yeah, just today…I’ll fill you in on the details later…You’ll need to drop Burch and his firm from the complaint…Yeah, that’s what I said…It’s gotta be that way…Yeah, how’d you guess? He’s sitting right here…” Peterson covered the mouthpiece. “Can they interview Burch?”
Gage shook his head. “They’re not coming anywhere near him. I’ll tell them what they need to know.”
Peterson removed his hand. “He won’t go for it…Gage will do it…He’s kinda got a gun to our heads on this one…You need to cut your losses…okay…I’ll talk to you later.”
Peterson hung up. “He agrees.”
Gage nodded, then dialed his cell phone. “Bring him in.”
Two minutes later the conference room phone rang. Peterson picked it up, listened for a few seconds, then said, “Zink’ll come down,” and disconnected. Zink pulled himself up from his chair and shuffled out.
Gage watched as Peterson began to write a column of names on a blank yellow pad in front of him. Gage knew what it was without asking: a revised grand jury target list.
“You’re pretty light on your feet for a big guy,” Gage said.
“It’s the only useful lesson from football. Sometimes you have to settle for a field goal.”
“Who’ve you got?”
“Matson, the stockbrokers, Gravilov, the controller at SatTek…what’s his name?”
“Milsberg, Robert Milsberg. Leave him off. He’s worked his tail off helping me.”
“Will he debrief?”
“He’ll do what I tell him.”
“Okay. He’ll be an unindicted coconspirator.”
Gage tossed a bone. “Why not the Ukrainian president’s son instead? He’d be a prize.”
Peterson brightened.
“You’d get headlines around the world. A helluva press conference for your boss.”
“Not a bad idea.”
“Of course, you’ll never get him to trial. No extradition treaty.”
“I’m not so sure,” Peterson said. “CNN is saying the new president wants to put his predecessor and his cronies on trial. Maybe him and his son will make a run for it and we’ll snag him in a country where we do.”
Peterson rose and headed toward the door. “You want coffee?”
“Sure. Black.” Gage knew Peterson’s offer wasn’t really about a warm drink. He’d simply made peace with the reality Gage had imposed on him.
Peterson returned just a minute before Viz, Matson, and Zink approached the door. Matson froze at the threshold, glancing first at Gage, then at Peterson, then back at Gage, uncertain where to sit, not sure who now owned him.
Gage pointed at the end of the table, farthest from the door. Viz walked him to a chair and unlocked the handcuffs. Matson rubbed his wrists, then pulled out the chair and sat down. Viz leaned against a bookshelf behind him.
“What about his lawyer?” Peterson asked. “Shouldn’t Hackett be here?”
“No.” Gage looked at Matson. “Didn’t you tell me you wanted to represent yourself?”
“Yeah,” Matson said, slumping down in his chair. “I guess so.”
“You disappointed me,” Peterson said, glaring at Matson. “And you’re gonna pay for it.”
“I’m willing to do a few years. I told Gage I’d do that.”
“A few years won’t do it.”
“Okay, five, five years.” Matson said the words in an expectant tone, as if a negotiation had begun. “I can do five years.”
“Not a chance.” Peterson’s forefinger thumped the table. “There’s something called sentencing guidelines and you’re now off the fucking chart.”
Matson swallowed hard, then sat up rubbing his hands together. “We can work something out. I know we can work something out.” He forced a weak half smile, his salesman’s instincts taking over. “I got it. Gravilov. He’s big. Him and Kovalenko were behind the killings. Absolutely. And they weren’t part of my deal. It’ll be something new. I can testify about those guys. Then go into Witness Protection.”