Chapter 6 - The Strategy of Leverage
The defense didn't see the federal indictment coming until the marshals arrived at the Cook County Jail at four in the morning on a Tuesday.
Paul Hale was transferred from the county tier to the federal wing of the Metropolitan Correctional Center, the triangular concrete tower that rose like a prison ship in the middle of the Loop. There were no white-collar privileges in the MCC. The windows were five inches wide, and the wind off the lake rattled the steel frames until the rooms sounded like a factory floor.
Vance Geller sat in the small attorney-client conference room, his leather briefcase looking ridiculous against the scratched formica table. Paul sat opposite him, his hands cuffed to a chain around his waist.
"They have the insulin logs, Paul," Geller said. His voice was low, stripped of the theatrical confidence he had used in the state court. "Your wife gave them the cloud backups from the primary router. They have the lot numbers, the delivery manifests, and the clinical reports from the South Chicago facility."
Paul’s mouth twitched. "She didn't have access to that drive. I changed the password in October."
"She didn't need the password," Geller said, leaning forward. "She had the physical hardware address of the router because she bought it on her personal credit card three years ago. She called the manufacturer, proved ownership, and had the forensic log pulled from the internal flash memory. She didn't break into your system, Paul. She just asked the machine who bought it."
Paul looked down at the table. His knuckles were raw from the cheap soap in the federal showers. "What's the offer?"
"There isn't one," Geller said simply. "Thomas Miller is handling the prosecution. He doesn't offer plea bargains to people who freeze their pregnant wives for a tax dodge. They're going for thirty years. No parole."
"What about the state case?"
"The state is going to defer to the federal prosecution," Geller said. "It saves the county the cost of a trial, and the federal guidelines are mandatory. You'll serve eighty-five percent of whatever the judge gives you. If you get thirty years, you'll be seventy-one when you see a sidewalk again."
Paul stood up, the chain clanking against the chair. "She won't go through with it. She’s too fragile. She couldn't even handle the inventory discrepancies without getting a migraine."
Geller looked up at him with a cold sort of pity. "Your wife isn't fragile, Paul. She’s the person who spent twenty minutes walking in circles at minus fifty degrees so her children would have enough oxygen to live. The only person in this room who is fragile is you, because you thought the world was small enough to fit inside your balance sheet."
The door opened, and a guard stepped in to take Paul back to his cell. Paul turned before he reached the hall.
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"Who is Whitmore?" he demanded. "Why is he helping her? What does he get out of this?"
Geller closed his briefcase. "He gets the building, Paul. He bought the foreclosure note from the bank yesterday morning for eighty-two thousand dollars. He’s already got the demolition permits."
