Two weeks before the end of the regular season I received a disturbing phone call from Chris Lewis, the wife of my best friend Ken Reed. Ken also is my right-hand man and had basically been running my construction company in my absence.
“Jim, it’s Chris Lewis,” she said as I answered my cell phone. I noticed she still went by her maiden name.
“Hi, Chris, to what do I owe this pleasure?”
“I need to talk with you; got a minute?” Chris was a former employee of mine who unbeknownst to me at the time, was also working undercover for the DEA. She had been instrumental in breaking up the drug ring that was seeking control of our Mexico Casino and Resort project. She then took a job with the CIA and was helped prevent terrorists from blowing up Roland Garros tennis stadium which my construction company had just rebuilt. She married Ken five years ago and two years ago retired to stay home with Ken Jr.
“Sure, fire away.”
“My former employers asked me to set up a meeting with you Monday morning and I was hoping Ken and I could come up this weekend to talk about it. Are you and Rosann doing anything this weekend?”
“You and Ken are always welcome, but what does the CIA want to talk to me about? Is this related to my construction company?”
“No, nothing like that, and you’re not in any trouble. They just want to ask you a few questions.”
“About what?”
“Let’s wait to talk about it when we get there. It’s not something I want to talk about over the phone.”
“Okay, see you Saturday.”
I admit I was more than a little curious and was relieved when Ken and Chris arrived.
“Chris, what’s this all about?” I asked, as the four of us sat in the family room and nursed a before-dinner cocktail.
“What do you know about Matthew Wilson?” she asked, getting right to the point.
“Just that he is the best basketball player and the nicest person you would ever want to meet,” I replied defensively. “Why, what’s he done?”
Chris ignored my question. “I meant, what do you really know about him before he came to Milwaukee three months ago.”
I felt myself getting angry, but checked myself. These were my friends. “Not much, I guess. His former teachers and basketball coach think he’s God, but other than that, not much. I did try to Google him once, but didn’t get any hits.”
“He never told you anything about his past, like where he grew up, about his family, anything?”
“No, nothing. I asked a couple of times but he just changed the subject. Why, what’s this about?”
“Two months ago I received a call from my old boss who knew that Ken worked for you and had seen your name pop up in an open case file. He was doing me a favor by giving me a heads up.”
“Two months ago?” I repeated, letting Chris know I didn’t appreciate the time lapse.
Chris wasn’t buying it. “Jim, it doesn’t work that way, and the only reason you are talking with me, rather than two CIA agents, is that I convinced them you would be more willing to open up to your friends. They know about this meeting.”
“Okay, I get it. Go on.”
“Matthew Wilson’s real name is Randy Wolkson.”
“No wonder I couldn’t find anything about Matthew on the internet.”
“Ken typed the name into google search bar on his laptop, and turned the screen so we could see. Wolkson was obviously a popular fellow.”
“What’s this about him being a magician?” Rosann asked.
“Randy’s aunt and uncle had a nightclub act for twenty years before they hit the jackpot with Matthew, or should we say Randy. He was like the Donnie Osmond of magic, and even at the age of seven he was a gifted magician and showman.”
Well, that explains why he always seems so poised and in control, I thought.
“Furthermore, by the time he was ten he became known for reading minds and predicting the future.”
“You mean he claimed to be a psychic?” Rosann asked thinking of Kreskin and others that claimed to have ESP.
“Why, have you seen it?” Chris asked.
“Many times,” Rosann replied. “It’s almost like he can complete a sentence for you.”
“Rosann’s right,” I said. “Sometimes when I’m talking to the team he will start doing what I ask before the words are out of my mouth. It’s uncanny.”
“To my knowledge he never claimed to be a psychic, but other people did,” Chris continued. “There was an incident in Paris when he was only ten that made headlines all across Europe.”
“Is there someone in the audience with a question for Randy?” his uncle asked at the end of a show.
“I do,” a woman shouted from the back row. “Can your boy tell me if my daughter, Amber, is alive? She was taken from our home four years ago. She would be eight years old tomorrow.”
The kidnapping case had been in the newspapers and on television, but gradually the publicity died out although the family kept circulating posters and making appeals. The police never had any clues to follow-up.
The boy stared intently at the woman for several minutes before he answered; “Amber is alive and well, …”
Whatever the boy was about to say next was lost in the mother’s shriek and the applause from the crowd. Randy stood on stage waiting for silence.
“Oh thank you,” the mother shouted, “you don’t know how good it feels to know she is alive.”
“Was it a scam?” Rosann asked. “Is that what got him in trouble?”
“Listen to the rest of the story, it only gets better.”
“Your daughter is living ten miles from here and is in the third grade at Washington elementary school. Her name is Frances Buvoy.”
“Oh my God,” the parents gasped, as cell phones were dialed from around the room.
“An hour later police converged on a small, two-bedroom home and found Amber asleep in her bed, and the woman that had taken her to replace a child that had died in a car accident, asleep in the next room. The next morning Amber was reintroduced to her parents after being missing for four years.”
“What a great story, Chris, I love happy endings,” Rosann sobbed, wiping tears from her eyes.
“Did it end happily for the Wolksons?” I asked.”
“This part of the story did, but not for long. Randy’s uncle couldn’t resist cashing in on Randy’s gift and soon was demanding six-figure donations before Randy would foretell the future. This led to a lot of dissatisfied clients, if you know what I mean.”
“Why, couldn’t Matthew, I mean Randy, repeat what he had done for Amber’s parents?”
“That’s when the records become a little convoluted. Apparently, Randy chose to use his gift when he wanted to. He found three more missing children, but refused to look for buried treasure or anything else that was a money maker. For example, his uncle took $100,000 from a mobster to predict a horse race, but Matthew’s horse lost by a nose.”
“What happened to the Wolksons and the magic show?”
“The government was closing in as well as several unhappy clients looking for a refund, when the Wolksons packed up in the middle of the night and disappeared. Five years later Matthew Wilson turns up in California as a sophomore in high school.”
“So why are the CIA and FBI involved? Was Randy ever charged with anything?”
“Not in Europe, Jim, but there was a problem in California.”
“Go on,” I asked Chris, refusing to believe what I was hearing.
“The Wolkson’s set up a ministry and a non-profit organization which grossed about five million dollars a year; apparently Matthew is quite a speaker.”
“Yes he is,” I agreed. “I assume that the government is interested in how the money was spent?”
“Yes, and they concluded that the Wolkson’s were taking million dollar salaries, plus expenses, and the IRS was about to crack down on them. They were looking at jail time if the charges were proven.”
“So what happened?
” Rosann asked. “I hate stories with unhappy endings.”
“They struck a plea bargain. The IRS agreed to drop all charges and agree to a gag order that would keep the charges under seal; in return, they seized all the assets of the ministry. The aunt and uncle headed back to Europe and Matthew and his family left California for Wisconsin.”
“And here we are,” Rosann summarized.
“So that’s why they moved here in the middle of the school year. But what does this have to do with what’s going on here?” I asked, before I realized the answer. “It’s the ‘We Kick Ass,’ revenue, isn’t it?”
Chris nodded. “Are you aware that more than ten million dollars has been raised with no end in sight, and that Matthew Wilson has complete control to spend the money as he wishes?”
I nodded yes, but I’m not sure that I had ever really thought about it. “Does anyone else need another drink?”
“Let me start dinner,” Rosann said. “Chris, do you mind giving me a hand?”She knew that I needed some time to digest what I heard. Ken and I turned on the TV and watched Tiger Woods do his thing, which he did better than anyone else.
“There’s nothing I can tell the FBI,” I finally said to Ken. “Can’t Chris just tell them that?”
“They’ll still want to meet with you, Jim. They will want to put you on the record. You are pretty close to him and are on the Board of Directors of his non-profit organization.”
“Whoa, are you saying what I think you’re saying?”
“Yep, since Enron, not knowing is no longer an acceptable excuse. I think it would be a good idea for you to take a lawyer along Monday.”
“I might, and I also want to look at setting up an audit committee. You know, I haven’t even seen a P&L or a use of funds statement.”
We just sat down to dinner when the doorbell rang. “I’ll get it,” Rosann said as she headed to the front door. Moments later she reappeared; “Guess who’s coming to dinner?”
“It isn’t Sidney Poitier,” Matthew said as he entered the dining room. “These must be your good friends, Ken and Chris,” he said shaking hands with Ken and kissing Chris on the cheek. “Did you bring Ken, Jr. along?” Matthew asked. “Coach has talked about you all so much that I feel like we’re old friends,” he said as he sat down next to Ken.
You would think there had to be some awkward moments, but there were none. Chris later commented that she had never met a more charming and delightful person, which maybe under the circumstances wasn’t necessarily a good thing.
“Mrs. Simpson, the dinner was absolutely fabulous.”
“Can’t you stay for awhile Matthew?” I asked.
“No thanks, Coach. I have two exams tomorrow and need to study. Can you walk me to the car?”
I returned a few minutes later with a large briefcase which I opened in front of Ken. “Matthew said he just received the auditor’s three-month interim report for the non-profit organization.”
The four of us looked at each other in amazement before Chris finally said. “Either Matthew Wilson is very, very good or very, very bad.”
Ken and Chris slept late Sunday morning because they had spent most of the evening looking for hidden microphones or anything else to explain Matthew’s surprise appearance. They found nothing.
Monday I met with the CIA and local FBI liaison. I didn’t take an attorney and simply repeated what I told Chris Saturday and shared some of the information that Matthew had provided.
“$10,000,000 is a lot of money, Mr. Simpson. We had no idea it was that much. That’s a lot of temptation for someone with his track record.”
“Are the aunt and uncle involved in this?” I asked. “Aren’t they the ones that you should be looking at?”
“Mr. Simpson, you know Matthew pretty well. Do you really believe someone with a 190 IQ, who speaks ten languages fluently, can be manipulated?” I didn’t answer, but I could see his point. Even at the age of ten I doubted if anyone could make Matthew do anything he didn’t want to.
“How do his parents fit into this?” I asked, changing the subject.
“We’re not sure, but it’s something we’re looking into. Ray Wilson seems to be a straight-up guy, but we don’t know why he let his brother have such a dominant role in raising his son.”
“If that’s all your questions, I need to get back to school. We have a three PM practice.”
“We’ll be in touch.”
Chapter 15 - State Championship Tournament