Chapter 93
AFTER BRINGING STELLA to the screening room, where the bulldog was greeted like Cleopatra returning to Luxor, Sanders reluctantly led us into his private library, a polished, meticulous man cave done up like an alpine lodge: oxford-red leather club chairs and couch; a poster-sized photograph of the attorney skiing at Aspen when he was younger; his framed degrees from USC and Boalt Hall; and a massive flat-screen television above the gas fireplace where the moose head should have been.
“What’s this all about?” demanded Sanders, who was flanked by Camilla Bronson and Terry Graves, both of whom were regarding Justine and me as if we were ferrets or some other kind of blood-seeking weasel.
I took one of the club chairs while they remained standing, said, “We think we’ve made a break in the Harlow case. Several, in fact.”
Their expressions mutated through a variety of emotions, surprise, skepticism, and wariness, all in a matter of two seconds.
“What—?” Camilla Bronson began before Sanders cut her off.
“You were fired, Jack.”
“Absolutely,” Terry Graves said. “Whatever you’ve turned up, don’t expect to be paid for it.”
“Wouldn’t dream of that,” I said, marveling at the way the man’s brain worked. “But you should know that people who work at Private are suckers for lost causes. We also have a deep aversion for jobs left unfinished.”
The producer’s eyes darted to Justine and back. “What have you found?”
“That the three of you are colossal liars,” I said, speeding up before any of them could protest. “We can’t figure out exactly why yet.”
“But we’re close,” Justine said.
“Get out,” Sanders said hotly. “Take the help with you. Time’s up.”
I didn’t move, said as firmly as I would to one of Justine’s terriers, “Sit down. The three of you. Or I will make a call to the FBI that will turn your world so fucking far upside down and confining, it will take a Houdini act on your part to get any of it right again.”
They watched me for a long beat, trying to see if I was bluffing. Then, one by one, and more contritely, they took seats.
Camilla Bronson cleared her throat, said, “What is it you think we’ve lied to you about?”
“All sorts of things,” Justine said.
Sanders scowled.
I said, “But we’ll limit the discussion at present to the Harlows’ finances.”
That got their attention. “What about them?”
“You told us, Dave, that they were on the verge of bankruptcy,” I said. “Nothing could be further from the truth, isn’t that right?”
“No, it’s not right,” he snapped. “They were spending far beyond their means, and they were in danger of personal bankruptcy, Chapter Seven.”
I saw the nuance. “But not corporate bankruptcy, Chapter Eleven?”
He studied me. “They were on more solid ground there.”
“Why?” I asked. “Because Thom got the cash from the mystery investor you told us about?”
“That’s right,” he said, sounding like he was on surer ground himself.
“Or should I say Harlow-Quinn got the money?” I said, looking at Terry Graves. “Is that right?”
The producer hesitated but then nodded. “Yes, it was … a good thing.”
“No doubt,” Justine said agreeably. “So who is Mr. Mysterious Deep Pockets?”
Sanders rolled his palms outward. “As I’m sure you understand, this kind of investor prefers to remain anonymous, and we can’t breach the attorney-client and fiduciary privileges.”
Terry Graves almost smiled. But Camilla Bronson was scratching her right forearm. It was the first unpolished thing I’d ever seen her do.
“Lying again,” I snapped. “You three are pathological. What did that come from? A genetic defect? A rotten childhood? Or did you all study hard to be lying asses?”
As one, their faces reddened and twisted in anger. Sanders struggled to stand. The publicist did too, saying, “I’m not listening to—”
Justine said, “We know that ESH Ltd is the deep pockets.”
“Nicely done, by the way,” I said. “The offshore company. The Panamanian bank. Just enough distance that you could claim the money came from a mysterious investor.”
Sanders’s face had looked ready to explode, but now he sank into his chair. Camilla Bronson followed, scratching at her forearm again.
Terry Graves had paled considerably. “How could you know about ESH?”
“We’re good,” I said. “It’s why you hired us. Breaking the registering agent’s will only cost me twenty grand. Thom and Jennifer own ESH Ltd.”
Sanders said quickly, “So what? We use ESH to receive and hold monies earned overseas. There’s absolutely nothing illegal—”
“Then why lie?” Justine asked.
I made a tsk-tsk gesture with my finger. “Let’s just get it out on the table, shall we? No more beating about the whatever. ESH is indeed where the Harlows gather overseas money to be funneled into Harlow-Quinn Productions. But the money is not from foreign film proceeds. Or not so much, anyway.”
Not one of them responded.
I went on, enjoying myself, saying, “That’s what we thought ESH was all about when we first learned of its existence. But earlier today we figured out that ESH really stands for ‘Endowment Sharing Hands,’ the fund boasted about ad nauseam on the so-called charity’s website.”
“So-called charity?” Camilla Bronson said fiercely. “That foundation has saved hundreds, thousands of lives.”
“Probably,” Justine said. “But think how many more kids could have been saved if the twenty-seven million the Harlows siphoned away to fund their for-profit movie business had actually been spent on orphans.”
“Siphoned?” Terry Graves cried. “It’s not like that at all.”
“Sure it is,” I replied. “Did you know that Private has done a lot of work with PayPal the last few years? Lots and lots of goodwill there.”
“PayPal?” the producer said, confused. “So what?”
Justine said, “You jiggered the PayPal account associated with Sharing Hands so that fifty percent of every dollar was diverted and deposited in ESH Ltd’s Panamanian bank account.”
“Brilliantly conceived,” I said. “A secret piggy bank that just keeps filling for little piggies like you, Dave. And you, Camilla and Terry.”
“Not to mention Thom and Jennifer,” Justine said.
“It’s not like that at all,” Sanders protested. “There are promissory notes, and detailed contracts, agreements. Those funds were an investment for Sharing Hands. The charity stands to make back its money fivefold when Saigon Falls hits.”
Incredulous, I said, “But you’ve got interlocking boards of directors between the charity, an offshore legal entity, and a production company designed to make its owners multimillion-dollar profits? That’s collusion any way you look at it, Counselor. And the way I look at it, when this comes to light, you will all be put in prison, punished, and publicly vilified for taking money from orphans to make a goddamned movie, no matter how brilliant it might be.”