Markoff’s attention was diverted by a loud two-handed ovation by Marsha Cooper. She hated pontificators, and enjoyed bringing them down to size by cutting them off at the knees. “That’s all very impressive, Henry, but I don’t think my client is interested. We’re here for a reason. I think you know what that is.”
“All right, we’ll get right to it… In view of the large amount of money involved in this case, we have expedited our review, and as a result, we plan to assess substantial penalties.” Markoff lifted three sheets of paper from his desk and handed one to each of Kerri and Marsha. He removed his spectacles from his vest pocket, scanned the third, then looked up. “Thanks to the cooperation of the Geneva division of Iacardi & Sons, and the folks at Liechtensteinische Comco, we have assembled accurate records of your trading and banking activities over the past ten years. Miss King, the amounts you gave Niel were indeed accurate. As you can see on the sheet I’ve just given you, we intend to assess monetary penalties to Miss King for the following: failure to file, failure to pay, intentional disregard, failure to provide a tax shelter registration number, and compound interest on all unpaid taxes and penalties, all for a period of ten years. The amount owing as of the date of this writing is two hundred and thirty-eight million, five hundred and ninety-one thousand, two hundred and six dollars.”
“I have questions,” Marsha said, her expression a clear indication that she was not happy with Markoff’s number.
“Sure,” Markoff said.
“Did you treat Miss King’s starting balance as tax paid capital?”
“No, we did not. We treated it as the fruits of crime. By her own admission, Miss King has acknowledged that the late Jim Servito stole the money from the Governments of Canada and the United States.”
“We will be filing a Notice of Objection on that issue. If you check your records, you’ll find that the Feds of both countries signed off on the fruits of Jim Servito’s crimes. They did that in January of nineteen ninety-one when Kerri’s father paid them five hundred million dollars… Next question. Did you take into consideration the fact that my client made a charitable donation of one hundred percent of her foreign holdings?”
“We did not. Until we have official and written confirmation that she has done that, we must assume that the money remains in the Swiss account.”
“That item will also appear in our Notice of Objection. My client has indeed made that donation, and our submission will verify that fact. Furthermore, our submission will verify that the donation was a two thousand and one event, in which case her claim for a charitable deduction in the relevant year should be allowed.”
“Very eloquent, Marsha. You get tougher every time we meet. Any more questions?”
“Sure there is. I was hoping I wouldn’t have to ask it… My client walked into your office last month and bared her soul. She fed you a monumental tax liability on a silver platter, voluntarily. I presume you’re planing to take a pass on criminal prosecution.”
Markoff nodded. “You have my assurance. There will be no criminal prosecution.”
Marsha tucked her sheet of paper into her briefcase, then stood. “Fine, then that should do it.” She nodded to Markoff and Johnstone. “You’ll hear from me very soon.”
Markoff raised both of his hands. “Don’t go yet. I have a question to ask Miss King.” He frowned a Kerri. “Who, other than you and your attorney, knows about your foreign bank account?”
“My father, his wife, my father’s lawyer in Toronto, and the officers at Liechtensteinische Comco. Why are you asking?”
“We received an anonymous telephone call recently. The caller, who refused to identify himself, told us that you have an account at the Geneva branch of Liechtensteinische Comco. He also told us the exact amount of money you have in that account. We drew two conclusions from that call: the first was that your secret bank account was no longer secret, the second was that someone wanted to hurt you by providing us with that information.”
Markoff’s revelation induced a simultaneous surge revulsion and hatred inside Kerri. It was obvious that Jeffrey Wheeler had delivered on his promise to inform the Feds of her Swiss account. She was relieved that she had nullified his ploy by stepping forward and volunteering the information, but frustrated that she could do nothing more about it. What worried her most was that she had distributed all of the money in the account and had nothing left with which to pay the taxes and penalties Markoff had just outlined. “I have reason to believe I know who was behind the call,” she said.
“Who?” Markoff asked.
“Enerco Inc., a large company in Houston, has recently made an offer to purchase Iacardi. Because I’m the only shareholder refusing to sign the offer, I stand between acceptance and rejection. Jeffrey Wheeler, Enerco’s vice-president, met me in New York recently. In that meeting he told me he knew I had a Swiss bank account, which bank it was in, and how much was in the account. He threatened to tell the Feds if I didn’t sign their offer by the end of December. I can’t prove it, but I think he obtained the information from Wilhelm Lentz, the Liechtensteinische officer with whom I made the arrangement to distribute the funds in my account. Lentz disappeared the same day of our meeting. He hasn’t been seen since.”
Markoff, a hardened veteran of the taxation wars, had a deep and abiding contempt for people who willfully deceive the I.R.S. He didn’t see Kerri King as one of them. She was different, did not fit the mould. He wanted to pursue the subject of Enerco, but knew it was none of his business. His expression had changed as Kerri told her story. He smiled, something he rarely did in the presence of tax cheats. “Miss King, you are a unique individual. I have been with the I.R.S. for thirty-two years and have never seen a case or a taxpayer like you. Off the record and aside from your tax case, I want you to know that me and my entire family have been following your story ever since September eleventh. We applaud you. You are an inspiration to anyone who cares about people. Were it my decision, I would forgive you of all of your tax and penalty liabilities. Unfortunately, it’s not my decision, and the law is the law.” He turned to face Marsha and nodded. “File your Notice as quickly as you can. I’ll do everything in my power to make sure your client is treated fairly.”
Kerri and Marsha shared a taxi after leaving the I.R.S. building. Neither had discussed anything related to the meeting until Kerri turned to face her attorney. “That ended well, but it leaves me with a problem. I’m a little short of cash these days.”
Marsha reached for Kerri’s hand. “Leave that problem to me. I’m just getting started.”
CHAPTER 45
Toronto. Tuesday, January 2, 2002.
Helen Monteith, joined by her two sons, Ian and Michael, parked their car, then trudged through six inches of fresh snow and entered St. Michael’s Hospital via the Queen Street entrance. After removing their winter footwear and leaving them in the vestibule, they proceeded to the reception office.
Ian stepped up to the window. “My name is Ian Monteith, I’m Steve Monteith’s brother. He was admitted to this hospital this afternoon. Doctor Graham, his neurosurgeon, is expecting me.”
The receptionist gave Ian the directions to the Trauma Center reception area and told him that she would arrange for Doctor Graham to meet him there.
Doctor Graham, six foot two with an athletic frame and well groomed salt and pepper hair, approached the Monteiths within minutes of their arrival in the Trauma Center. He appeared to be in his mid fifties. Dressed in his blue scrubs he inspired confidence. He was not smiling as he extended his hand to Michael. “Hi, I’m Paul Graham. It’s an honor to meet such a great hockey player.”
“Thank you,” Michael said, then shook Graham’s hand. He introduced his mother and Ian. “How’s Steve?” he asked with a worried expression.
Graham compressed his lips and frowned, accentuating the creases in his forehead. “He’s alive, but barely. We operated on him
this afternoon and managed to stabilize him… He sustained a powerful blow to the left side of his head causing severe trauma to the left temporal lobe of his brain. The extent of the damage is yet to be determined. In cases like Steve’s it takes time to determine the extent of a brain injury. Each injury is different and depends on where the brain is injured and the extent of swelling that occurs. The good news is that we got him on the operating table within hours of his accident. The bad news is that he had severe swelling.”
“Is he going to be alright?” Helen asked.
“It’s far too early to give you any prognosis at all. We’ve done a CT scan and an EEG on his brain in an attempt to determine the extent of the damage, but these tests alone can’t tell us about the prospects of long term recovery. We’ve scheduled a number of other tests and we’ll be monitoring him around the clock. More I cannot tell you.”
“Is he conscious?” Helen asked, wiping her tears with a tissue.
Graham shook his head. “He’s comatose. We have no way of knowing how long he’ll be in that state.” He paused, then made eye contact with each of his visitors. “There is no way to sugar coat this. Steve received a terrible blow to his head. He’s in serious trouble. All of you should prepare yourselves for the possibility that he may never recover from his coma. In fact, he might die. If he does recover, there is a strong possibility that he will be challenged.”
Graham’s comments hurt the Monteiths as surely as he knew they would. While Ian and Michael lowered their heads in thought, Helen covered her face with her hands and cried. “I want to see him,” she said. “Is that possible?”
“I’ll show you the way,” the doctor said.
CHAPTER 46
Wednesday, January 3, 2002. 8:30 A.M.
Kerri had received a telephone call from Helen Monteith late on Tuesday evening. She had told Kerri the entire story of her son’s accident, leaving nothing out. She treasured the bond the two shared, and knew that Kerri would want to know. Helen added that Doctor Graham had told her and Steve’s brothers that Steve’s condition is grave, that he may not recover from his comatose state, and that if he does recover, there is a strong possibility that he will be challenged. From the tone of Steve’s mother’s voice it was obvious to Kerri that she was deeply upset, and that she was in tears for the entire conversation. In spite of Steve’s condition and the time and aggravation of making the trip to Toronto, Kerri had to see him. Something in the deepest region of her soul told her that she might make a difference.
Kerri took a cab to Newark Liberty International Airport, then boarded a Porter Airlines, Bombardier Q400, a stretched short takeoff and landing turboprop aircraft. Her flight took her to Toronto Island Airport. After disembarking, she collected her luggage, cleared Customs, then took the ferry to the Ferry Pier at Hanlan’s Point. From there, she took a taxi to St. Michael’s Hospital. The receptionist gave her directions to the hospital’s Trauma Center, and she hurried there to announce her arrival. She approached a frowning middle aged woman in street clothing. “My name is Kerri King. I’m here to see Steve Monteith, a friend of mine. He was admitted yesterday.”
“Have you spoken to Doctor Graham?” the woman asked, still frowning, but staring at Kerri as if she knew her.
“No. Why?”
“He would have told you that Steve Monteith is still comatose.”
“I’m aware of that. I spoke to Steve’s mother last night. I still want to see him. I hope that’s possible. Please don’t disappoint me. I’ve travelled a long way to be here. ”
The woman scanned Kerri as if she was a felon. “It’s possible, but it would be appreciated if you didn’t stay long,” she said, then squinted. “You look familiar. Do I know you?” she asked.
“You might have seen me on television.”
The woman smiled. “Of course. You’re Kerri King, the president of that company that lost…”
“Yes, I am,” Kerri interrupted. “Could you tell me where Steve is?”
The woman pointed to the corridor to her right. “He’s in number four. Second door on your left… Before you go, I just want you to know that I think what your doing is amazing. And by the way, stay as long as you want.”
“Thank you,” Kerri said with a big smile, then turned and headed for Steve’s room. She entered to find the man she had not seen since he cancelled and stormed out of his wedding to Christine Stewart. The man with whom she had formed a friendship was lying on his back, his eyes closed, a myriad of wires and tubes connected to his head and body. To her, he was still the ten she had met at The Health Club in September of the previous year. She sat on the white wooden chair on the window side of his bed. “Hi, stranger,” she said, a small part of her expecting his eyes to open and his wonderful smile to appear.
No response.
She reached for his hand, immediately feeling its cold limpness. She stared at him, wishing he could see her, hear her, respond to her. For so long she had thought about, dreamed about what it would be like to see him again, alone, just like it was on their one and only date in New York. It saddened her to see such a vital man in his current condition. It worried her to think of the mountain he had to climb. “You’re a wonderful man, Steve Monteith, too nice a guy to end it like this,” she said with tears flooding her eyes, then stood and kissed his forehead. “I’m praying for you, and I’m going to keep praying for you until you come back to this world, back to your family, back to me.”
CHAPTER 47
New York. Friday, January 5, 2002.
The story had gone viral, striking a sentimental note in the hearts of millions of people. The media were all over the news of the, as yet unidentified anonymous benefactor to the estates of the Iacardi & Sons employees who lost their lives on September eleventh. Relentless investigative journalism had succeeded in confirming that the estates of all three hundred and thirty-eight of the deceased Iacardi employees were recipients of checks, each for more than one million, four hundred thousand dollars. Commentators and talking heads speculated as to who might be the generous individual. Whoever it was had to have the wherewithal, the motive, and quite likely, some connection with Iacardi. The failure to identify the philanthropist became progressively frustrating. Of the thousands of leads offered, each was dead ended. Kerri and her secretary were now being besieged with telephone calls from all forms of the media, each asking the same questions. Two candidates most frequently mentioned were Sally Ricci-Iacardi, Charles Iacardi’s wife, and Rose Iacardi, Mario Iacardi’s wife. Both had flatly, and truthfully denied the honor.
Only a small group of people legitimately knew who was responsible, but none had the motive or anything to gain by talking. A smaller group: Ken Layton, Jeffrey Wheeler, Peter Tavaris, and Walter Deaks illegitimately knew that Kerri was the Iacardi Santa Claus, but they had nothing to gain and much to lose by exposing her. They knew they would incriminate themselves by going public with that knowledge. Worse, to expose Kerri, directly or indirectly, would only serve only to elevate her public status, a development more repugnant than declaring a loss on a financial report. Reluctantly, they concluded that their best option was to remain silent and do nothing, a course of action which was repugnant to all four.
There was nowhere to hide. Wherever Kerri went she was tormented by journalists, stared at by pedestrians, and pestered by thrill seekers and paparazzi. First it was the worldwide notoriety of being the president of Iacardi & Sons, the company virtually decimated by the terrorist attacks on New York’s World Trade Center. Next it was the mystery of The Iacardi Santa Claus, sparking a media frenzy over the identity of the donor. Now the class action lawsuit, featuring a billion dollar clash between the Iacardi shareholders and Kerri King, had become public information. While some of the media cheered her for her unselfish reason for refusing to sign the Enerco Offer to Purchase Iacardi, others criticized her by speculating that her real reason was to keep her job.
&nb
sp; The frequency and amplitude of her mood swings were increasing, vacillating between gritty resolve and abject despair. Often she thought of Steve Monteith, his inner strength and his contempt for greed, corruption and dishonesty. She silently applauded his ability to turn his back on all three and choose a different course. The fallout from the awful events of the past half year of her life were now giving her cause to envy his ability. She dreamed of a simpler less complicated life, one in which there was a measure of reward for caring for other people. That measure did not exist in Kerri’s world. Each time she had attempted to do the right thing, she had been thwarted by the human behavior for which Steve had such contempt.There were times she wished she could extract herself, but to do so at this time was impossible. She was well past the point of no return. Too many people depended on her to continue. Too many of her promises would be broken if she did not.
CHAPTER 48
New York. Friday, January 12, 2002. 1:30 P.M.
Kerri, exhausted from a week of long hours and very hard work, entered Marsha Cooper’s office, responding to her invitation. The reason for the invitation made her entry like walking into a torture chamber. She removed her long black winter coat, placed it on the couch nearest Marsha’s desk, then sat.
Marsha smiled at her client and shook her head. “I don’t know how you do it. The whole world is falling on your head and you still manage to look like you just stepped off the cover of Vogue. You continue to amaze me.”
Marsha’s compliment succeeded in coaxing a grin from Kerri. “Maybe the outside looks alright, but you should see it from the inside. It looks like hell.”