“They’re all tough. You think he’ll call back?”
“Who knows? You gotta figure he talked to Rackley and they’re spooked. The last thing Rackley wants is publicity. There’s nothing illegal about his law school scam, but it stinks just the same.”
“They’ll call. And why not? If you were Rackley, wouldn’t you be curious about how much we know?”
“Maybe.”
“They’ll call.”
36
Mark was sleeping on the fold-out sofa when his phone erupted at 6:50 Tuesday morning. Jockety said, “Mr. Rackley can meet with you at ten this morning in our offices. We’re in downtown Brooklyn, on Dean Street.”
Mark said, “I know where you are.” He didn’t but the firm would be easy to find.
“I’ll meet you downstairs in the lobby at 9:50. Please be prompt. Mr. Rackley is a very busy man.”
“So am I. And I’ll have a friend with me, another journalist, name of Todd McCain.”
“Okay. Anybody else?”
“Nope, just the two of us.”
Over coffee, they speculated that Rackley did not want them near his domain on Water Street in Manhattan’s financial district. It was undoubtedly the gilded lair befitting a man of his stature, something a couple of reporters would have a field day describing. Better to meet them on turf crawling with his own lawyers. Litigation had already been threatened. They were stepping into his world, a rough place where his privacy would be protected at all costs and intimidation was always a useful tool.
They didn’t shave and dressed in jeans and old jackets, the shaggy look of journalists unimpressed with anyone’s surroundings. Mark packed a well-used nylon attaché case they’d found in a secondhand store in Brooklyn, and when they left the hotel on foot they certainly looked like a couple of guys not worth suing.
The building was tall and modern, one of many packed in the center of downtown Brooklyn. They killed time in a coffee shop around a corner and entered the atrium at 9:45. Marvin Jockety, looking at least ten years older than his website photo, was standing near the security counter, chatting with a clerk. Mark and Todd recognized him and introduced themselves, with Jockety reluctantly shaking hands. He nodded at the clerk and said, “This guy needs to see some identification.” Mark and Todd reached for their wallets and handed over their fake D.C. driver’s licenses. The clerk scanned them, glanced at both to compare faces with photos, and handed them back.
They followed Jockety to a row of elevators where they waited without conversation. When they stepped onto the empty elevator, he turned his back, faced the door, and said nothing.
Friendly bastard, Mark thought. What a jerk, Todd mumbled to himself.
The elevator stopped at the seventeenth floor and they stepped into the rather pedestrian lobby of Ratliff & Cosgrove. In their brief careers as lawyers they had visited several nice offices. Jeffrey Corbett’s splendid digs in D.C. were by far the most impressive, though Mark still favored Edwin Mossberg’s unique trophy museum down in Charleston. Trusty Rusty’s was by far the worst, with its medical office feel and wounded clients. This place was only slightly better. What the hell. They weren’t there to analyze the decor.
Jockety ignored the receptionist, who ignored them in return. They rounded a corner, walked through a door without knocking, and entered a long, wide conference room. Two men in dark, expensive suits were standing at a sideboard sipping coffee from porcelain cups. Neither stepped forward. Jockety said, “Mr. Finley and Mr. McCain.”
Mark and Todd had three images of Hinds Rackley, all from magazine articles. One was from Gordy’s research, the enlarged head shot he had tacked to his unforgettable wall. The other two they had found online. Rackley was forty-three years old, with dark, thinning hair severely slicked back and narrow eyes behind semi-rimless frames. He nodded at Jockety, who left without a word and closed the door.
“I’m Hinds Rackley and this is my chief counsel, Barry Strayhan.” Strayhan scowled and nodded and made no effort to take the introduction any further. Like his client, he held the cup in one hand and the saucer in the other; thus, they were unable to offer anything to shake properly. Mark and Todd kept their distance, which was at least ten feet away. A few awkward seconds passed, long enough for the two trespassers to get the message that notions of politeness had already gone out the window. Finally, Rackley said, “Have a seat,” and nodded at the row of chairs on their side of the table. They sat down. Rackley and Strayhan sat opposite them.
Todd placed his cell phone on the table and asked, “Mind if I record this?”
“Why?” Strayhan asked like a real ass. He was at least ten years older than his client and gave the impression that everything in his life was contentious.
Todd said, “Just an old habit that most reporters have.”
“Do you plan to transcribe the recording?” Strayhan asked.
“Probably,” Todd said.
“Then we’ll want a copy.”
“No problem.”
“And I’ll record it too,” Strayhan said as he laid his cell phone on the table. Dueling cell phones.
Throughout the exchange Rackley glared at Mark with a smug, confident look, as if to say, “I have billions and you don’t. I’m superior in all respects so accept it.”
One benefit of practicing street law without a license was that it had chipped away all traces of reticence. As Mark and Todd had brazenly gone about their business in the D.C. courts, they had grown accustomed to pretending to be people they were not. If they could stand before judges and use fake names and assume the roles of lawyers, they could certainly sit across from Hinds Rackley and act like journalists.
Mark returned the stare without blinking. Rackley finally said, “You wanted to see me.”
Mark said, “Yes, well, we’re working on a story and we thought you might want to comment on it.”
“What’s the story?”
“Well, the headline will be ‘The Great Law School Scam,’ for starters. You either own or control or somehow have your finger in several companies that own eight for-profit law schools. Really profitable law schools.”
Strayhan said, “Have you found a statute somewhere prohibiting anyone from owning a for-profit law school?”
“I didn’t say it was against the law, did I?” He looked to his right, at Todd, and asked, “Did I say that?”
“I didn’t hear it,” Todd said.
Mark said, “It’s not against the law and we’re not alleging anything criminal. It’s just that these law schools are nothing more than diploma mills that entice lots of students to apply, regardless of their LSAT scores, and then to borrow heavily to cover the high tuitions charged by your schools. The tuitions are, of course, passed along to you, and the students graduate with tons of debt. About half of them are able to pass a bar exam. Most of them can’t find jobs.”
“That’s their problem,” Rackley said.
“Of course it is. And no one forces them to borrow the money.”