“I don’t want the FBI snooping around.”
“Understood. But there are ways to tip them off.”
“Figure out a way and do it fast. When does the money change hands?”
“Soon. This week, by agreement and court order.”
“I’m in a box here, Barry, and I don’t like it. I want the settlement done, and quickly, so the bank can put this nightmare to bed. At the same time, I can’t stand the idea of getting ripped off. You and I know that nobody can trust these class action lawyers, and with a million possible plaintiffs out there, it’s nothing but a frenzy. There’s gonna be fraud, and a lot of it.”
—
MONDAY MORNING, TODD dressed in his best and took a cab to the Second Royal Bank of the Lesser Antilles on Center Street in the business district of Bridgetown. His 10:00 a.m. appointment was with a Mr. Rudolph Richard, a dapper old fellow whose specialty was welcoming foreign clients. Todd’s spiel was that he and his partners back home had knocked a home run in the litigation wars, and, at the ripe age of twenty-seven, he was cashing in his chips and moving to the Caribbean. He was shutting down his law firm and would spend the next few years running his new hedge fund, York & Orange Traders, from the side of a pool with a view of the ocean. He presented his fake passport, his contract for the condo, a place he would never see again, and a rather gushing letter of recommendation from the Citibank account manager in Brooklyn. Mr. Richard wanted $10,000 to properly open a bank account, but Todd would have none of it. The big money was a week or two away, he explained in legalese that Mr. Richard had a difficult time following, and the best he could do was $2,000 in U.S. cash. If that wasn’t enough, he would simply walk down the street, where there were at least a hundred other banks looking for business. After an hour of Todd’s smiling, lying, and cajoling, the account was opened.
He left the bank and found an empty sidewalk café where he texted his partners with the delightful news that they were now in business in Barbados.
Back home, Mark was hammering away at Jenny Valdez and Cohen-Cutler. The Swift settlement had been approved at all levels, so where was the damned money? She wasn’t sure, these things take time, she explained, but they were waiting on the wire transfer. It did not arrive on Monday. Mark roamed the streets of downtown Brooklyn, where the skies were overcast and gloomy, and tried not to think of his partner lying in the sun and pickling his liver. To make matters worse, every hour or so Todd zipped along another photo of another hot babe in a string bikini.
—
LATE TUESDAY AFTERNOON, two FBI agents entered the offices of Cohen-Cutler in downtown Miami and were quickly led to the office of Ian Mayweather, the firm’s managing partner. Special Agent Wynne did most of the talking, and the meeting was tense from the opening bell. The Feds wanted information that was confidential and not to be shared.
“How many law firms referred clients to your class?” Wynne asked.
“Several dozen and that’s all I’m saying,” Mayweather replied, somewhat abruptly.
“We are requesting a list of these firms.”
“Great. Show me a court order and we’ll comply. You’re asking for confidential information, gentlemen, and absent an order from a court we cannot hand it over.”
“Well, we suspect there may be some fraud involved with your class.”
“That wouldn’t surprise me. Fraud is not that unusual in these massive settlements, as you know. We’ve seen it before and we do our best to prevent it. But we’re dealing with over 200,000 individual plaintiffs and dozens of law firms. We cannot check everything.”
“When will you pay out the money?”
“Our disbursement staff is working around the clock right now. The first tranche arrived from Swift this afternoon. We will start disbursing first thing in the morning. As you might guess, with so much money involved our phones are quite busy. We are instructed by the court to disburse as quickly as possible.”
“Can you delay this for a day or two?” Wynne asked.
“No,” Mayweather answered angrily. “We are under a court order to disburse as soon as possible. From what I gather, gentlemen, the FBI is in the early stage of an investigation, so you are, basically, just fishing right now. You show me a court order and this firm will do as instructed.”
Never stand between a mass tort lawyer and his money from a class action settlement. The FBI knew that Cohen-Cutler’s estimated haul from the Swift litigation was expected to be something close to $80 million.
Wynne stood and said, “Okay, we’ll be back with a court order.” He and his partner left the office without another word.
42
At 9:40 Wednesday morning, Mark received an e-mail from Cohen-Cutler informing him that well over $4 million was being wired from its disbursement office to the Citibank account of Lucero & Frazier, Attorneys-at-Law. The sum represented damages of $3,800 for each of the firm’s 1,311 clients, less the 8 percent cut Cohen-Cutler took off the top to manage the class, so $4,583,256.00 to be exact.
Mark sprinted to Citibank and waited in the offices of his favorite account manager. For one agonizing hour, fifty-six minutes to be exact, he paced around the office, unable to sit still and thoroughly unable to act as though it was just another routine settlement. The account manager was nervous about the situation, but she had spent so much time with Mark she liked him and was excited for the young lawyer. As the minutes dragged by, Mark asked her to prepare six certified checks, three to the loan servicers for the outstanding balances of Todd Lucero, Zola Maal, and Mark Frazier. The total was $652,000. The fourth check was payable to Mr. Joseph Tanner, Gordy’s father, and it was for $276,000. A fifth check in the amount of $100,000 was payable to Mark’s mother, and a sixth, in the same amount, was to Todd’s parents. The checks were prepared but not issued.
The wire landed at 11:01, and Mark immediately signed an authorization to wire $3.4 million of the money to the account of York & Orange Traders at the Second Royal Bank of the Lesser Antilles in Barbados. He left a few bucks in the law firm’s account, took the six certified checks, thanked the account manager profusely, and stepped into the bright Brooklyn sunshine far wealthier than he had ever dreamed. Walking briskly, he called Todd and Zola with the thrilling news.
Mark entered a FedEx office on Atlantic Avenue and asked for six overnight envelopes and four domestic air bills. On a sheet of yellow legal paper he penned a note to Gordy’s father. It read,
Dear Mr. Tanner: Enclosed please find a certified Citibank check in the amount of $276,000. This should cover the balances of Gordy’s student loans. Sincerely, Mark Frazier.