Читать книгу Andrew Gross 3-Book Thriller Collection 2: 15 Seconds, Killing Hour, The Blue Zone - Andrew Gross, Andrew Gross - Страница 15

It was a long, difficult drive back to Westchester that afternoon for Raab, in the back of the black Lincoln limo his lawyer, Mel Kipstein, had arranged.

An hour before, he’d been brought in front of Judge Muriel Saperstein in the United States courthouse at Foley Square for arraignment, the most humiliating moment of his life.

The frosty government lawyer who’d been in on his interrogation referred to him as a “criminal kingpin” who was the architect of an illicit scheme by which Colombian drug lords were able to divert money out of the country. That he had knowingly profited from this enterprise for years. That he had ties to known drug traffickers.

No, Raab had to hold himself back from shouting, that’s not how it was at all.

Every time he heard the judge read off a charge, it cut through him like a serrated blade.

Money laundering. Aiding and abetting a criminal enterprise. Conspiracy to defraud the U.S. government.

After some negotiation, during which Raab grew alarmed he might not even be freed, bail was set at $2 million.

“I see you own a fancy home in Westchester, Mr. Raab?” The judged peered over her glasses.

“Yes, Your Honor.” Benjamin shrugged. “I guess.”

She scribbled something on an official-looking document. “Not anymore, I’m afraid.”

An hour later he and Mel were heading up Interstate 95 toward Westchester. All he told Sharon was that he was okay and that he’d explain everything when he got home.

Mel thought they definitely had some wiggle room. He figured there was a reasonable case for entrapment. Up to now he had represented Raab on matters like contract disputes, the office lease, and setting up a trust for his kids. Just two weeks before, the two of them had come in second in the Member/Guest golf tourney at Century.

“The law says you had to assist them, knowingly, Ben. This Concerga never declared to you what he intended to do with the gold, did he?”

Raab shook his head. “No.”

“He never explicitly told you the money he was giving you was derived from illicit means?”

Raab shook his head again. He took a long gulp from a bottle of water.

“So if you didn’t know, you didn’t know, right, Ben? What you’re telling me is good. The RICO statutes say you have to conspire with ‘knowing’ or ‘intent.’ You can’t be a participant, nonetheless aid or abet, if you didn’t know.”

It somehow sounded good when Mel said it. He could almost believe it himself. He had made some critical mistakes of judgment. That was what he had to get across. He had acted blindly, stupidly—out of greed. But he never knew whom he was dealing with or what they were doing with the gold. Tomorrow morning they had a follow-up meeting with the government that would likely determine the next twenty years of his life.

“But this last thing, Ben, this Berroa guy … this complicates matters. It’s bad. I mean, they have your voice on tape. Discussing the same arrangements with an FBI agent.” Mel looked at him closely. “Look, this is important, Ben. We’ve been friends a lot of years. Is there anything you’re not telling me that could have an impact on this case? Anything the government might know? Now’s the time.”

Raab stared Mel in the eye. Mel had been his friend for more than ten years. “No.”

“Well, one thing’s lucky.” The lawyer looked relieved and jotted a few notes on his pad. “You’re lucky you’re not the one they really want here. Otherwise there’d be nothing to discuss.” Mel kept his gaze on him awhile, then just shook his head. “What the hell were you possibly thinking, Ben?”

Raab dropped his head back and closed his eyes. Twenty years of his life, gone … “I don’t know.”

What he did know was that the hardest part was yet to come. That would take place when he arrived home. When he walked in the door and had to explain to his family, who had trusted and respected him, how the smoothly climbing arc that had been their lives the past two decades had basically been blown from the sky. How everything they counted on and took for granted was gone.

He’d always been the rock, the provider. He always talked about pride and family. His handshake was his bond. Now everything was about to change.

Raab felt his stomach churn. What would they think of him? How would they understand?

The car pulled off the thruway at Exit 16, traveled north along Palmer into the town of Larchmont. These were the streets, stores, and markets he saw every day.

By tomorrow this would all be public. It would be in the papers. It would be all over the club, the local shops, Em and Justin’s school.

Raab’s stomach started to grind.

One day they’ll understand, he told himself. One day, they will have to see me the same way. As a husband and a provider. As a father. As the person he’d always been. And forgive me.

He had been a coach to Emily. He had given Kate her insulin shots when she was ill. He had been a good husband to Sharon. All these years.

That was no lie.

The limo turned down Larchmont Avenue, heading toward the water. Raab tensed. The houses grew familiar. These were the people he knew. People his kids went to school with.

On Sea Wall the Lincoln turned right, and then it was only a short block with the sound directly in front of them, to the large fieldstone pillars, and then on to the spacious Tudor house at the end of the landscaped drive.

Raab let out a measured breath.

He knew he had let them down—their faith, their trust. But there was no turning back now. And he knew that what happened today would not be the end of it.

When the truth came out, he would let them down a whole lot more.

“You want me to come in with you?” Mel asked, squeezing Raab’s arm as the car pulled into the pebbled driveway.

“No.” Raab shook his head.

It was only a house. What’s important is the people in it. Whatever he’d had to do, his family hadn’t been a lie.

“This I have to do alone.”