23

CONNOR HIT THE “SAVE” BUTTON AND GLANCED AT THE CLOCK ON HIS computer’s task bar. 1:46 a.m. He yawned, leaned back in his desk chair, and stretched until he heard cracks from his neck and both elbows. He picked up one of the open Red Bull cans on his desk and shook it to make sure it wasn’t an empty.

He drained the can in one long swig and steeled himself for one more read through the two documents on the screen. The first was a qui tam complaint consisting of numbered paragraphs that recited a bare bones description of Allie’s story about Deep Seven’s fraud. It ended with three boilerplate causes of action for breach of the California False Claims Act and a ritual demand for “damages in an amount to be proven at trial.”

The second document was a disclosure statement. This was where the action was. In the disclosure statement, Connor laid out everything he and Allie knew about the case: names, dates, dollar amounts, invoice numbers, estimates of recoverable damages—anything that might make DOJ like the case.

And they would like it. Connor had no doubt about that. This was as close to a perfect false claims case as he had ever seen. It had obvious fraud, lots of government money, and an in-state defendant with deep pockets. It would have been nice if Allie had been able to copy some more documents, but Connor could live without them and he suspected DOJ could too. The disclosure statement told a good story, and DOJ had learned to trust Devil to Pay’s stories.

By 3:00, he had the documents in final. Filing them with the superior court could wait, but he needed to get these to the Attorney General’s office by first thing tomorrow morning.

This morning. He sighed and closed his eyes.

He PDFed the complaint and disclosure statement and sent them to Max Volusca with a red-flagged covering e-mail that said, “Max, call me on my cell as soon as you get this. We may have a spoliation problem.”

Then he went home, where he fell asleep on the sofa with the cell phone next to his head.

Connor was more or less awake when his phone rang a few minutes before 8:30. “Morning, Connor,” Max’s voice boomed. “So, what was so urgent that you were sending me high-priority e-mails in the middle of the night? What’s the spoliation issue?”

“Hey, Max.” Connor rubbed gummy eyes and held the phone away from his ear. “Big new case. About twenty million in fraud, and that’s before trebling or penalties. Allie thinks the defendant may destroy documents as soon as they catch wind of your investigation. She heard someone from their legal department talk about having a shred first, ask questions later policy.”

Max snorted. “Yeah? Well, it’s tough to run a shredder when you’re wearing handcuffs. I’ll tell that to their president when we serve him with a subpoena.”

Connor chuckled and walked into the kitchen to start the coffeemaker as he talked. “I’m sure that’ll get his attention, but what about the account executives who are going to have their careers destroyed when this comes out? One of them may try to shred himself out of trouble or start wiping hard drives. Also, that person from legal who Allie overheard was saying they’d done it before to kill a case.”

“Hmmm. Yeah, that’s a problem.” Max was silent for a moment. The coffeemaker gurgled and the blessed aroma of fresh espresso curled around Connor. “I’ve got an idea. Can you get Allie to swear out a declaration repeating what you just told me?”

Connor smiled and poured himself a cup of thick black coffee. “I’ll have it to you by noon. Mind telling me what your idea is?”

“Can’t—this is a sealed investigation. Just watch the evening news tomorrow and find out with everyone else.”

Allie’s home phone (which Connor had had swept for bugs) rang and the computerized caller ID voice announced that “Norman, Connor” was calling. She popped up from the kitchen table, where she was busy on her laptop, and grabbed a handset. “Hi, Connor. What’s up?”

“Lots. I put together a complaint and disclosure statement yesterday and sent them to Max Volusca early this morning.”

Her heart skipped a beat. “Wow, that’s fast. What’s the rush?”

“You kidding? This is a big case and the target has a history of document destruction. We had to get this into Max’s hands as fast as possible.”

She wiped sweaty palms on her jeans. “Okay, I was just a little surprised is all. I like to see the papers and sleep on them before we file.”

“Sorry about that. I’ll get you a copy ASAP and we can file an amended set if we need to.” His voice was distracted and she could tell he wanted to get to something else. “But anyway, I just got off the phone with Max. He sounds ready to jump in with both feet, but he’s going to need a little help from us. He wants a sworn declaration repeating the story you told me about shredding at Deep Seven.”

She stiffened. “Why?”

“Max wouldn’t say and I’d rather not speculate, but he hinted that whatever he’s up to will probably make the local evening news tomorrow.”

She winced. This just kept getting better and better. “I don’t know. Isn’t the idea to keep my name out of these cases?”

“It is, but this will stay under seal. Forever. Besides, Max will get suspicious if you say no.”

She said nothing. This was all moving too far too fast. She felt like she was in a driverless car that was picking up speed. She desperately wanted to get out, but didn’t see how she could.

“Allie?”

She closed her eyes. “Okay, send it over with a messenger and I’ll sign it.”

Allie switched on the TV at five the next day and perched on the edge of the wide leather sofa facing her television, sipping from a can of Diet Coke. She’d been as high-strung as a caffeinated cat ever since she talked to Connor yesterday morning.

The lead story on the local Fox station was about two baboons that had escaped from the Oakland Zoo. She clicked over to CBS. They were also covering the baboon story. ABC—more baboons. Apparently their names were Gavin and Arnold. When she found their hairy faces on NBC too, she jumped up and started pacing. “Come on! If I want to see baboons, I’ll go to a nightclub!”

Click. “… Forty-Niners quarterback controversy flared up again, which…”

Click. “… plan was endorsed by heavyweight political groups like the Harvey Milk Gay, Lesbian, and Transgender Club…”

Click. “… elderly woman reported having feces thrown at her by Gavin and Arnold…”

Click. “… raid carried out by the California Bureau of Investigation, acting on a warrant obtained by the Attorney General.” The screen showed the main entrance to Deep Seven’s headquarters. Half a dozen men in blue jackets emblazoned on the back with “CBI” were carting boxes out through the glass and steel doors. “A company representative denied any wrongdoing,” intoned a female newscaster over the video clip “and insisted that the company would be completely vindicated.”

The scene switched to a photo of two familiar simian faces. “Now for an update on the search for the Oakland Zoo’s escaped baboons.”

Allie turned off the TV and dropped the remote onto the teak coffee table. It clattered loudly, making her jump. She took a deep breath and ran her fingers through her hair. “Okay,” she said to the empty room.

The air in her apartment suddenly felt thick, stale, and unwholesome, like the atmosphere inside a long neglected attic in summer. She walked outside, but once on the balcony she felt eyes watching her.

She went back in, but left the sliding glass door to the balcony open. A fresh breeze flowed in, and that helped. A little. “Okay,” she repeated. She took another deep breath. “Okay, this is working.” Now came the hard part.