One of Stan's clients, a widow, is found murdered in her home along with eleven of the twelve dogs that were living with her. When Stan reviews the old woman's will, he discovers she has appointed him executor of her estate and that her beneficiary is the SPCA. He could kick himself for agreeing to be the executor of Lottie West's estate and has no desire to act in that capacity since he's already in the middle of a high profile murder case, but there is nobody else to do it so he accepts the job and starts to dig into her affairs. Although she is living like a pauper, Stan finds an ice chest full of gold and silver coins under her house. This piques his interest in this mysterious woman and he set out to find out who she is and why she was murdered.
In the course of the investigation, Stan discovers that the woman's dead husband was a lieutenant in the U.S. Army during World War II who apparently stole priceless art treasures that were entrusted to his care during the Allied occupation of Germany at the end of the war. Further investigation reveals that the stolen art is the famous Ludinburg Collection, a collection that includes a 9th-century version of the Four Gospels, the Reliquary, and other gifts from kings and emperors who ruled numerous German states in the 9th and 10th century. With this knowledge, Stan is determined not only to bring the woman's killer to justice but to find the famous Ludinburg collection that has been missing for over 40 years.
Stan teams up with Detective Bingo Besch of the Dallas Police Department to search for clues as to Lottie's murderer and the whereabouts of the famous art collection. While interviewing legitimate art dealers in Dallas, Stan finds an entry into the art underworld where he learns two pieces in the collections have already been sold. But the dealers involved claim most of the collection remains intact and is hidden somewhere in North Texas. As Stan continues to search for the Ludinburg collection, so does Lottie's murderer and it's only a matter of time until their paths cross.
While Stan is chasing down Lottie West's killer and looking for the Ludinburg Collection, he and his partner Paula Waters are also in the midst of the defending Jimmy Bennett accused of the murder of his father-in-law, the Chairman of Metroplex Savings and Loan. To further complicate matters Stan is drawn into a turf fight between the FBI and CIA involving the Iran-Contra Scandal and digs up information that could get him killed.
About the Author
William Manchee grew up in Ventura, California in the 60s. After obtaining his BA from UCLA in 1965 he and his family moved to Texas in 1970 where Manchee attended law school at SMU. He began his legal career in Dallas as a sole practitioner in 1976 and currently practices with his son Jim. A resident of Plano, Texas he and his wife Janet have been married nearly 40 years and raised four children. Inspired by twenty years of true life experiences as an attorney, Manchee discovered his passion for writing in 1995.
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If there was a day of the week I could skip it would be Monday. Clients had too much time to think and worry over a long weekend and by Monday they were often riddled with fear and anxiety. Nearly half of my week's telephone calls from clients came on Monday. But today it wasn't just a few clients who had succumbed to their fears, but the entire population. I got a frantic call from my old client Tex Weller late Monday afternoon. The stock market had taken a nosedive dropping 22.6 percent since the opening bell. Tex was an active trader and often traded on margin. I had advised him against it more than once, but he often ignored my advice.
The press quickly dubbed October 19, 1987 as Black Monday. The market collapse shouldn't have been such a shock as many experts had warned that, after five consecutive years of economic growth, stocks were way overpriced. Unfortunately, most investors were caught up in the glitter and euphoria of the long bull market and didn't think it would ever end. Tex Weller was one of them. Fortunately, I wasn't a stock trader. Not that I wouldn't have liked to invest in the market, but with four kids I spent ever nickel I earned.
If the stock crash wasn't bad enough, banks and savings and loans were failing left and right — 184 banks and 17 savings and loans nationwide. Of course, Texas had the most failures of any state in the union. I blamed President Ronald Reagan for the derailed economy. During his campaign he had promised big tax cuts and an overhaul of the tax system. A year earlier he had finally delivered on his promise and pushed a tax relief package through congress. The new law lowered individual tax rates dramatically but it also eliminated most tax deductions. In theory it made sense and, in the long run, probably made our tax laws more equitable, but in the short run it totally upset the economy and nearly destroyed the banking and savings and loan industry.
"Can you believe it, 508 points?" Tex moaned. "Jesus Christ, what a disaster!"
"How much did you lose?"
"I don't know–a hundred grand easy."
"Well, the market will come back," I said, trying to sound upbeat. "Don't panic."
"Yeah, but the problem is, I pledged that stock on the Metroplex note. Tomorrow morning I'm going to be getting a call from Fred, my loan officer. He's gonna want some more collateral."
Metroplex Savings and Loan was a local thrift owned by millionaire Donald T. Baker. Baker owned a large construction company that managed to land almost every state highway project in North Texas. Baker was known to have close connections with Congressman Horace Manning and John Potts, Speaker of the Texas House. Several years earlier he had purchased Metroplex Savings and Loan, a local thrift with several branch offices. Speaker Potts and Congressman Manning were rumored to be part owners.
When Tex decided to invest in a string of nutrition centers, he went to Metroplex Savings & Loan for the funding. They agreed to give him the loan but insisted on some rather onerous conditions. Above and beyond the loan at 3.5% above prime, they wanted a consulting contract whereby Tex's company would pay $3,000 a month to a vice-president at Metroplex Savings and Loan. This was a way around Texas' stringent usury laws, although I doubted it would stand up in court. I advised Tex against the deal but he really wanted the loan and, once again, ignored my advice.
"Wonderful," I said. "Do you have anything to give him?"
"Not really. Everything's tied up."
"Maybe they'll give you some time to come up with some more collateral."
"I hope so. If not, I'm screwed. The assholes will probably call my note. You know what a bunch of greedy bastards they are."
"Maybe not. Why don't you take a few days off and get away from here? That should buy you some time. Hell, the market may bounce back in a couple days."
"Oh God, Stan. What if it doesn't? I curse the day I met Donald T. Baker."
Tex told me how they had met at Baker's daughter's wedding. During casual conversation Baker invited Tex to come visit him if he ever needed a loan. Tex figured he'd get a good deal since he knew Baker, but that's not exactly what happened.
"Well, if you know him, don't you think if you talked to him he might cut you some slack?"
He shrugged, "Maybe."
Although I tried to be optimistic with Tex, I was sick inside. I didn't have any ready solution for his problem. If the savings and loan called his note, he would be expected to pay the full balance within thirty days. That would be pretty much impossible and mean he'd lose everything. The only other option he'd have would be a chapter 11, but that would be a monumental undertaking with only a slim chance of success.
While I was contemplating Tex's predicament, Jodie buzzed in and said that Derek Donner was there to see me. Derek Donner was my casualty insurance agent. We referred each other business from time to time. Derek was Pakistani but had grown up in South Africa. Consequently he had developed a slight British accent which the ladies loved. When he called to make the appointment, he had mentioned something about a probate case. I asked Jodie to send him in. She did, and we exchanged greetings and talked a bit before getting down to business.
"I think I'm going to be needing your services," he began. "Remember doing that will for Lottie West?"
"Lottie West? It kinda rings a bell."
"She's the one who was afraid to leave her house. You had to meet me out at her place so she could sign the bloody thing."
"Oh, right. The lady with all the dogs."
"Yes. Why anyone needs thirteen dogs, I'll never understand."
I shook my head. "That wasn't a pleasant afternoon as I recall."
Lottie West lived in an old rundown house on Cole Avenue in Dallas. Even though I loved dogs I felt very uncomfortable at her house. She seemed to be living with a pack of wolves. The place stunk and the dogs leered at us as we walked through the living room to the kitchen table where we were going to execute the will. One of the dogs barked incessantly making it nearly impossible to think, let alone explain the complexities of a last will and testament.
Derek continued, "I went out to collect her premium on a health insurance policy the other day but when I knocked on her door she didn't answer. That concerned me because, as you know, she never leaves her house."
"So, I walked around the back yard and it was awfully quiet. I couldn't understand why the dogs weren't barking. When I looked in her back window, I noticed the place was a mess — furniture knocked over, lamps broken, and debris everywhere. I didn't know what to do, so I went next door and asked the lady who lives there if she had seen Lottie lately. She said no and that it had been unusually quiet over there for a couple of days, so we decided to call the police."
"When the police got there, they forced open the front door and went in. The place was in shambles — drawers pulled out and the contents dumped, cupboards emptied onto the floor, and the place had a god awful smell. They found Lottie in the hall amongst a dozen dead canines — apparently all victims of a natural gas leak. The coroner said they'd been dead for twelve hours or more."
"Oh, my God," I said. "She was such a nice old lady."
Derek shrugged. "I know. I was really fond of her too."
"Where was the gas leak?"
"I don't know. They hadn't found its source by the time I left. They said it was a wonder the whole place hadn't blown up."
"So, who's the executor of the will?" I asked.
I frowned. "I am?"
"Yes, don't you remember she didn't have anyone to be her executor, so she asked you to do it?"
I took a deep breath. "Gee. She must have caught me in a weak moment. I don't usually take fiduciary assignments."
Some attorneys loved to be appointed the executor of their clients' estates. That meant they could charge both an executor fee and attorney's fees. Sometimes estates were literally plundered by these attorneys. I considered it unethical, a conflict of interest, and would only agree to it if there was no other alternative. And if I did agree to it, it would be understood that I would only charge for my time spent and expenses incurred. Even under these circumstances it was still a bad idea. I had no particular expertise in business or finance nor the time to give it the attention that would be expected.
"As I recall you weren't thrilled with the idea and suggested a relative or bank, but Lottie said she didn't trust banks and had no relatives, so you agreed to do it."
"Wonderful," I said. "So, did she have any property other than her home?"
"There's fifty thousand dollars in insurance proceeds, so you won't have to work for nothing," Derek replied. "I don't know if she had any other assets."
"Thank God for small favors. ... Well, the first thing we need to do is get some security on the house. There are a lot of thieves who work the obituaries. While the family is at the funeral, they clean out the house."
"Speaking of funerals, where do you want them to take the body after the autopsy?" Derek asked.
"What? Doesn't the family take care of that?" I asked.
"Usually, but in this case there is no family."
"You gotta be kidding. I can't believe she doesn't have a single relative," I said.
"Apparently not. She made the SPCA the sole beneficiary of her estate and made you put in all those provisions to provide for the care of her dogs if she died?"
"Right. I vaguely remember that now. Who would have figured they'd all die together?"
"I know. What were the odds of that?"
"Will you help me inventory the place after the funeral?" I asked.
"Sure. No problem."
After Derek had left, I looked at my calendar and saw I had one last appointment for the day. It was with a Robert Huntington and was scheduled for later in the day at 4:00 p.m. I buzzed Jodie and asked her who he was. She said she didn't know but that Mo had referred him. That aroused my curiosity as Mo was with the CIA. Several years earlier he had disclosed that startling information to me after I had completed his bankruptcy. He indicated the Agency would be sending me other agents who needed their credit card debt discharged, but that I wouldn't know who they were. I wondered why this time he had alerted me to the fact that he had referred Mr. Huntington to me. It had to mean that this was a special case.
At 4:00 p.m. Jodie brought Mr. Huntington into my office. He was a tall, lean, somber-looking man, with wire-rimmed glasses, and a short military type haircut. Jodie offered him a cup of coffee but he looked like he needed a drink.
"So how do you know Mo?" I asked.
"Mo? Oh, well, my company does a lot of exporting, so you've got to have connections in the government to be successful."
"Oh, really? I didn't know that."
"Yes," he nodded, "to export to some countries you have to ... you know ... pay off certain people. The Agency helps us out in that regard."
I frowned. "Really? How do ... I mean, what do they do, tell you who to pay off?"
"Right. Who, how much, delivery — that sort of thing."
I shook my head. "That's amazing. I never realized our government provided that kind of service."
Huntington shrugged and gazed out the window. There was an awkward moment while we sized each other up. Finally, I took a deep breath and said, "So, what can I do for you?"
"I need to retain you to deal with a little situation I have."
"Really. What's that?"
"The IRS has garnished one of my bank accounts. I've got to have the money released by Friday so I can wire transfer $150,000 to our ... our Beijing office. If I don't wire transfer it by Friday, my partner —" Huntington swallowed hard, then looked away again apparently struggling to control his emotions.
"Your partner will what?"
"Be arrested — maybe killed."
I just looked at him for a brief moment bewildered at what I was hearing. His hands were shaking.
"Why would he be arrested?"
"I can't be more specific ... you know ... for security reasons. The less you know the better."
"I see. ... Okay, why will — what's your partner's name?"
"Why will Mr. Palmer be arrested? And why would you be sending money if you're the one selling — what do you sell anyway?"
"I can't tell you anymore, unless you agree to represent me and I can depend on the attorney-client privilege."
He was right. Unless he retained me there was no attorney-client privilege. I assumed by the remark that I had passed his scrutiny and he was prepared to hire me. The question was, did I want to represent him? It would definitely be an intriguing case, but I had no idea if I could even help him. I needed more information. I wasn't good at turning down work anyway, since I was by nature an optimistic person and wanted to help whoever walked through my door. But this attitude had got me in trouble in the past and I had vowed to be more careful. In the end I succumbed to my inherent weakness and said, "Okay, but you'll have to sign a fee agreement. I guess you know lawyers are expensive."
"Yes, I know. You're not the first lawyer I've had to hire."
"Good. I charge $150 an hour and I usually require a retainer. Is that agreeable?"
"Sure, but with all my money being tied up in this garnishment, I can't give you a retainer right now."
I took a deep breath and replied, "Well, okay. You can write me a check for the retainer and I'll cash it when we get your money freed up — although I can't guarantee that we will be able to do that. If we're unsuccessful, you'll have to figure out another way to pay me. I don't do contingencies."
"I understand. I'll pay you somehow. Don't worry. But I have to try to get the account released. I don't have any other choice."
I pulled out my standard fee agreement, filled in the blanks and handed it to Huntington. He signed it immediately without reading it and handed it back to me. Then he wrote out a check and gave it to me.
"Okay. It would be a lot easier if I knew more about your business. I don't do much international law, so I'm not sure exactly how the export business works."
"Like I said, I'm not at liberty to go into any details. It's not relevant anyway."
"But now I'm your attorney. You can tell me everything."
"Not really. This is a matter of national security. You don't have the proper clearance."
I just stared at Huntington. I hated working in the dark but I figured it was too late to back out now. Huntington's rigid expression didn't change. He looked like a man you didn't want to cross. I wondered what had I got myself into?
"Right. Well, I'll talk to the Revenue Officer and see if I can convince him to drop the garnishment. What kind of taxes do you owe?"
"They say my corporation owes $1.5 million in income taxes."
"Whoa! That's a lot."
"They sent me a bill for $1.5 million but it's not right. The company didn't make any money. In fact, we lost money on the deal."
Huntington looked around suspiciously. "Okay, I'll tell you this much. The money I have to wire is off the radar. I've been paid for the grapefruit and now I have to wire $150,000 back to a certain government official. If I don't, he will have Luther arrested and probably kill him. I had to leave Luther back at our offices as collateral."
A chill darted through me. This was some serious business Mr. Huntington had gotten himself into. Although it was a fascinating case, I felt a little overwhelmed and didn't really know what to do. Reversing an IRS garnishment wouldn't be easy and there was so little time — not to mention the whole question as to the legality of what Mr. Huntington was doing.
"It's not easy to get a garnishment released. It normally takes weeks or months to even get a hearing. I'm not sure I can help you."
"The IRS thinks I'm evading taxes. If we can somehow let them know that I'm working for the CIA this whole thing might go away."
"Why can't you talk to your friends at the CIA and have them get the word to the IRS?"
"The CIA has disavowed any knowledge of what I'm doing?"
"I don't understand," I said. "Why would they do that?"
"There were other things besides grapefruit in the shipment."
I just stared again at Huntington. "Listen. This may be out of my league. I don't practice international law and I can't be involved in anything illegal."
"Listen, Mr. Turner. You're my last hope. I don't have time to get another attorney. Mo said you could handle this. Just contact David Barton, the Revenue Officer responsible for the garnishment, and tell him he's interfering with a CIA operation."
"I'll do that," I replied, "but he's not going to take my word for it, nor would that necessarily make any difference anyway."(Continues…)
Excerpted from "Black Monday"
Copyright © 2009 William Manchee.
Excerpted by permission of Top Publications, Ltd..
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