“Fuck his quality of life,” Swonger agreed.
Gibson told himself to get out of there. He didn’t move. The judge looked down at his lap, cowed by the anger in the air.
Get out of here, Gibson told himself again, but he still didn’t move.
“Do you hear me?” Birk said a second time.
“Yeah, I hear you. What I don’t hear is what I’m doing here. This is a sad story, but I’ve got sad stories of my own.”
“You’re here because of that.” Birk pointed at the cover of the magazine.
“What about it?”
“Why don’t you read it and tell us.”
Gibson read the interview with Charles Merrick with a growing sense of awe. Not for Merrick himself, but for Merrick’s delusional, self-important arrogance. It was the stuff of legend. His rant about the failure of his criminal enterprise being the fault of Americans who defaulted on their mortgages sounded like an obscene parody. And it only got worse from there:
Merrick: We took a chance on the American people. We offered them the opportunity to elevate themselves. Gave them the keys to their own home. And what did they do? They accrued credit-card debt they couldn’t service. The banks opened a door for people to move out of the middle class, but the American people didn’t meet us halfway.
That should have been the showstopper, but Merrick was only warming up, each quote more jaw-dropping than the last. When Gibson finished, he whistled and pushed the magazine away from him like it caused cancer.
“Wow,” Gibson said. “Just . . . wow.”
“Right?” Swonger said.
“Who is he?” the judge asked.
“Gibson Vaughn,” said Birk. “Remember?”
“What does he want?”
“You know. Charles Merrick. The interview.”
The judge lost interest in the conversation and drifted away.
“I don’t get it,” Gibson said. “No argument, the guy sounds like a world-class prick, but you don’t need me to tell you that.”
“Last line, chief. Read it out loud,” Swonger said.
Gibson gave him a look.
“Trust me.”
Gibson flipped back to the end of the article and read:
Finance: What does the future hold for Charles Merrick? How do you plan on starting over?
Merrick: Oh, don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine. I’m a man who knows how to invest his pennies.
“Pennies,” the judge repeated, shifting in his seat.
“Uncle Hammond,” Birk said. “What does Charles Merrick say about pennies?”
“Save them. Always save them!”
“And if you do?”
“Real money!”
Birk and Swonger looked at Gibson like they’d just proved the existence of God.
Gibson stared back blankly. “I still don’t get it.”
Swonger was nodding. “Tell him, Chris.”
“So Uncle Hammond was always repeating things this Merrick clown said like it was scripture. Merrick this, Merrick that. Well, Merrick had a motto. Went something like, a million dollars wasn’t worth the paper it was printed on anymore because everyone’s a millionaire these days. A million is the new penny, he claimed.”
“But,” Swonger cut in, “if you save your pennies, eventually you’re talking real money.”
“So save your pennies,” Birk repeated.
“Pennies,” the judge echoed.
They all stared at Gibson again, waiting for him to acknowledge the utter self-evidence of their discovery.
“You think Merrick’s saying that he’s got money the government didn’t find.”
“Damn right,” Swonger said.
Gibson saw the appeal of the theory, but it sounded a little far-fetched. “Let’s say that’s all true. What does it have to do with me?”
“Help us get it,” Birk said. “The money.”
“Yeah, help us. Son of a bitch need to go down.”
“We’ll cut you in. Just name your price,” Birk said.
“My price isn’t the issue. The issue is, how am I supposed to do what you’re asking?”
“Money’s electronic now. If he hid money, stands to reason there’s a digital trail. Uncle Hammond told us all about you, so I Googled you. Saw what you tried to do to Benjamin Lombard back in the day. What you did in the Marines. The other stuff.”
“What other stuff?” Gibson asked.
“You know,” Birk said with a wink. “Look, we need your computer expertise to track the money. Help us take back what belongs to us.”
Gibson looked from one to the other. So that was what these people wanted from him. He hated to be the one to break it to them, but it was impossible.
“I can’t help you.”
“Why not?” Swonger demanded.
“A lot of reasons, but I’ll just give you one. You point me at a network; I’ll find a way in. I’m very good at that. But Merrick’s accounts? His network? None of it exists anymore; his money’s in a Swiss vault gathering dust. There’s nothing to hack. No starting point. Even if there was a trail, it’d be, what? Eight to ten years old? I doubt I could track that. I don’t know a thing about Merrick’s world and even less about forensic accounting. But you know who does? The Justice Department. AFMLS.” Gibson saw Birk’s and Swonger’s blank looks and explained. “Asset Forfeiture and Money Laundering Section—I worked with those guys in the military. They are scary good at following money, and if they couldn’t find Merrick’s hidden stash when the trail was fresh, then I have no chance now. None.” Gibson stopped to let it sink in.
Birk sat back and let out a sigh. “But he gets out in a month. After that, he’ll be a ghost.”
“Then he’s a ghost. So is his money.”
Swonger cursed and kicked the side of the trailer. “Well, this was a waste of time. Guess that’s what we get for listening to this old vegetable.”
“I’m sorry,” Gibson said.
“Yeah, everyone’s sorry,” Birk said. “Uncle Hammond’s sorry for flushing the entire family’s life savings down the toilet. The rest of the family’s sorry for being a bunch of lemmings and listening to this old faggot. Dad’s sorry that Jim Beam bottles have bottoms. Swonger’s dad is sorry he worked thirty years for a man who doesn’t keep his word. Yeah, it’s just a chorus of sorry around here.”
“I’m sorry,” the judge echoed.
“Hey. Screw you and your sorry,” Swonger said.
“Take it easy.”
“Don’t tell him to take it easy,” Birk said. “Our families are barely scraping by while Merrick is set to live the high life on some tropical island. Dad’s gonna lose this farm. Been in my family since 1947. The Swongers’ll be out on their ass. And the day that happens, I’m driving up to DC and dumping him on a street corner. You hear me, old man?”
Christopher Birk threw back his chair and stalked toward the house.
Swonger stood staring at the judge as if trying to make his mind up about something. “Show yourself out,” he said and followed after Birk.
The judge watched the pair go, eyes rimmed red and sorrowful. Gibson flipped the magazine over so he wouldn’t have to see Merrick grinning up at him. One more powerful man who had gamed a broken system, ruined lives, and lived to rub it in his victims’ faces.
CHAPTER SIX