Antitrust, a Novel

By Jeffrey Ochrach

Al Isla is a small group of Islamist terrorists in the midst of rolling out an intricate attack on the United States. No car bombs or suicide packs. These terrorists run a California corporation called al Minia that makes carbon fiber. Al Minia invented nano-sized robots, called nanobots, that, when activated, can instantly transform at a molecular level the diamond-hard carbon fiber into a gel substance. Through bribes to a United States senator, murder and other evil cunning, the terrorists manipulated the US government to mandate massive use of carbon fiber in the manufacturer of thousands of airplanes, support cables in bridges, and as reinforcing materials in public buildings. After years of selling tons of the carbon fiber into these industries, the last step of the scheme is to trigger the attack from a space satellite orbiting the earth, which would destabilize the carbon fiber and cause thousands of planes, bridges and buildings to crash to the ground all in a single moment.

The attack would kill millions of Americans while crippling the American economy. If these men calculated correctly, the time was fast approaching when Islam would declare victory in the most epic war of all time, a war most of America didn’t even recognize was being waged. For the megalomaniac terrorists’ leader, Siraj Omar, this plan would make him the supreme and dictatorial leader of the United States – and the rest of the world would follow.

However, the United States files antitrust charges against al Minia claiming it was illegally conspiring to raise prices of its carbon fiber. The Saudi Arabian carbon fiber company retains Josiah Howard to defend it. He is a world-class trial lawyer with an almost unbeaten record who lives in a small, Sacramento suburb. Howard’s litigation genius creates a compelling defense to the conspiracy charges, despite the government’s ostensible slam-dunk case – which includes a smoking-gun memo in the defendant’s files chronicling price fixing meetings; indeed, in bold and capitals at the top of the first page it reads, “Destroy after reading.” Yet, no one had.

During the antitrust trial, Howard discovers the terrorists’ plot. What happens next? Will Howard win the trial? Will the terrorists win their war?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jeffrey Ochrach
• Release date: Jun 18, 2012
• ISBN: 9780985769604

Jeffrey Ochrach

I am a business trial attorney. I spend my work-life writing briefs and cross-examining the bad guys. Though trying cases is my passion, crafting this thriller has been a blast – and I hope you enjoy reading Antitrust as much as I loved writing it.

Book preview

Antitrust

A Novel

Copyright © 2012 Jeffrey H. Ochrach

Smashwords Edition

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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

ISBN : 978-0-9857696-0-4

Chapter 1

Nine FBI agents stood in the middle of Reynolds Street in Newport Beach, gathering their forces and preparing to launch. It was an overcast fall day. The wind was blowing the clouds across the sky. The scant leaves occasionally found different resting spots.

Special Agent Al Dover was in charge. At six-four and 220 pounds with short black hair and a mustache, Dover was an imposing figure. He was wearing dark pants and a navy blue windbreaker with FBI boldly plastered to his back. So were all of the agents. Those three letters – FBI – were a badge of strength, smarts and integrity.

Dover had surveyed the building and surrounding property the day before. Their target was al Minia Adhesives Corporation, who operated out of the two-story white building located in an industrial area, not far from the John Wayne airport. Individual offices lined the perimeter, and the remaining 80,000 square feet was a single-story factory and warehouse with very high ceilings. Small parking lots guarded the north and west sides of the building. Similar looking office buildings filled the entire block.

Dover huddled with his team down the street, two buildings away from the target, out of sight.

Chang, Joses, Johnson, Cutbeck and Wall, you five will enter through the front doors. Dover barked. I don’t expect any confrontation, he added matter-of-factly. Shifting his attention to the two men in the back row, Harris and Adams, he started but waited for their full attention, go around back and stand by the large warehouse door.

Joses chimed in, I’ll open the warehouse door for you once we have the interior secured.

Tempa, stay here to be our look-out until I call for you, Dover added and then patted him on the shoulder. Dover would go with the first group.

Dover called for everyone to leave their firearms holstered, as he expected things to go smoothly and without incident. Nevertheless, the warrant outlined a serious and high level conspiracy involving this and other Arab companies, so all FBI agents were on high alert.

It was lunchtime; many of the employees of al Minia were gone. That was precisely why Dover planned his mission for the lunch hour.

Is everyone ready to go? Dover asked in a tone that sounded more rhetorical.

Johnson wondered aloud, I’m ready, but are we going to be long because I’m picturing a half-naked blonde eating a juicy burger, and I’m hungry.

Dover ignored the weak joke. Okay, let’s roll. The group of FBI agents headed off to raid the factory like a football team leaving the huddle.

Dover had quickly risen to a level of recognized superiority at the FBI. He served six years in the Army, with most of his time spent in Iraq. He demonstrated a unique ability to plan and execute difficult assignments, such as assaults in residential areas of Iraq where al Qaeda stationed terrorists to use the innocent Iraqi citizens as shields. When Dover returned home after serving his time in the military, he went to college. His determined attitude as a soldier carried over to his studies. He earned his Bachelor’s Degree in Mechanical Engineering at Rice University in three years. At age twenty seven, Dover became a special agent for the FBI. Now, seven years later, he had catapulted past anyone his age into a leadership position and, according to everyone’s unwavering expectations, he was on track to hold the post of assistant FBI director in charge of the Bureau's criminal investigative division in the near future.

Johnson opened the front door to the building and held it while the four other agents and then Dover entered the building; he followed. The lobby was on the smaller side; it had commercial grade blue carpet and white walls. At the small reception desk on the back wall sat an attractive, twenty-two year old, brunette and slightly plump secretary, Mindy. Her normal day involved greeting beer-belly salesmen and delivery men wearing plumber’s pants. She used her sweet voice and perfect smile to land this receptionist job right out of high school. It was high paying and sophisticated work for an eighteen year old. Four years later, she was always broke and bored stiff.

FBI – we’re here to execute on a warrant which authorizes us to seize all of your computers, file cabinets and files, Dover said in a powerful voice.

Mindy was taking a sip of coffee when the FBI agents burst in. She was startled and spilled a few drops down her chin and neck. In her world, FBI agents were on television, not in her office building. She searched for something to say, some response that would be appropriate. None came. There was nothing she could say. Mindy had no authority to tell the FBI to leave, or to welcome them in, or to show them what they wanted to see. And, this wasn’t something she prepared for. What to do when the FBI comes knocking on the door was not in her Employee’s Manual. She just sat still and stared, not thinking to wipe the coffee off of her face and neck.

Miss, Dover said standing directly in front of her. We need to execute on our warrant.

Uh, I’ll get my boss -- okay? Mindy said as she started absently chewing on her fingernails.

Dover nodded.

Mindy immediately hurried down the hallway to Fouad Rahman, the president of al Minia. Rahman was brought to the United States from Saudi Arabia two years earlier to replace the former head of the company. This was a normal process utilized by Arab corporations. Al Minia was a United States subsidiary of a larger Saudi-based conglomerate. The Saudi parent company regularly sent its management to U.S. subsidiaries for two or three year stints. The purpose was to assure that no one corporate officer became Americanized by spending too much time in the States. Though al Minia’s CFO and Chief Science Officer were American and its Director of Engineering was from the UK, all other management was Arab.

FBI agents are in the lobby. They want to take all of our computers and files, Mindy blurted out as soon as she entered Rahman’s office. What should we do? Mindy screamed in a hushed tone.

Rahman thought for a few seconds. He had a vacant look in his dark, brown eyes, like he was trapped in a large corn field maze and didn’t know which direction to go. What do they want with us? Rahman asked Mindy.

I don’t know, sir. The Arab echelon had taught all of the women at al Minia to show utmost respect to the men – whether they deserved it or not.

Rahman decided that he should speak with the FBI. He was certain that, whatever the problem, he could straighten things out. Rahman’s belief in his abilities was far grander than the reality. He perceived himself as commanding, insightful and just shy of brilliant. After all, he was the one to whom all others went for approval; he was the decider. Those who worked with him, however, viewed Rahman as a useless obstacle – verging on dim-witted. He generally stayed in his office all day, leaving others to run the company – though Rahman was always busy in his office doing something but producing nothing. As far as the others were concerned, Rahman’s only function was to report daily to his higher-ups in Riyadh, Saudi Arabia.

I’ll handle this, he told Mindy with the misplaced assurance of a pet groomer stepping into the cage to tame an angry lion.

Rahman slowly walked up the hallway to the lobby. When he arrived, Rahman greeted the FBI agents with a big, insincere smile. Hello gentlemen, I’m Fouad Rahman. I’m the president of this company. Why are you here?

Dover stepped forward, I’m Special Agent Dover with the FBI. Extending his hand to give Rahman a piece of paper, he added, Here is a warrant authorizing us to seize property located at this address.

Rahman looked at it with a furrow in his thick, black and almost unibrow, unconvincingly studying the warrant. Yet, all he saw was a white image with blurred black markings. Despite the strong, capable image he tried to project – the one he envisioned of himself -- Rahman was completely out of his league trying to handle a visit by the FBI. He suddenly felt claustrophobic, smothered – the feeling one gets when first stepping to the podium in front of an audience, starring at a prepared speech, opening his mouth to utter the first lines but hearing silence, his mind then racing to try to fill the void but seized by ever more panic. Trying to mask his impotence, Rahman looked up at the much taller and wider Dover and said in an unnatural casual tone, Why don’t we go into my conference room and talk about this?

Dover replied, Sure, let’s do that. Guys, looking at Chang and Joses, survey the premises and then start taking inventory and removing the property. Dover was willing to chat with Rahman as a courtesy, out of a sense of politeness his parents inculcated long ago. But he was not ready to compromise or slow down the purpose of his visit – gathering evidence.

As they walked down the hallway, Rahman stared at the floor and thought about what he should do next. Nothing came.

When everyone had left the reception area, Mindy quickly picked up the phone and called her closest girlfriend to brag about FBI agents storming her offices and to breathe hard over the FBI hunk with dreamy deep blue eyes Dover.

Once they were seated next to each other in the conference room, Dover began questioning Rahman.

I know you manufacture carbon fiber, Mr. Rahman, but we’re not so interested in the manufacturing process. I would like to know about your sales process, customers and how you set pricing.

Well, I certainly can help you with that, said Rahman abruptly. He didn’t know why he spoke so quickly. He still didn’t know what to do, but he felt that acting unafraid would be better than the opposite.

Which files will contain al Minia’s invoicing to customers? Dover asked.

I don’t handle such menial things like that, but our bookkeeper knows that information. In fact, our CFO would know everything there is to know about such accounting matters.

Who is that?

Don Cramer.

How does your company set the prices at which you sell your carbon fiber to customers, Mr. Rahman?

Rahman felt his armpits growing damp. He knew this wasn’t such a simple area. Men above him made those decisions. He knew that some of the highest levels of the corporation, including the leaders of the Saudi parent corporation, were involved in pricing products. When he was transferred from Saudi Arabia to Newport Beach, Rahman’s predecessor spent the better part of a week bringing him up to speed. That included discussing customer pricing. Not all customers paid the same prices. Actually, very few customers paid the same prices. And those prices were set, apparently, according to complex formulas implemented by Saudi Arabia. Rahman never thought much about it, really. It was always handled back home. But now that America’s FBI was asking him directly about his company’s pricing, an inner voice told Rahman he had better be careful. His brow became moist.

Well, that’s very complicated, Mr. Dover. Let me see if I can give you the simple version. Keep talking, he thought, they will know we haven’t done anything wrong if they see me cooperating. Carbon fiber is made in strands of fiber that are bundled together. We sell bundles of either 12,000 strands or 24,000 strands. We call it 12K and 24K carbon fiber. We also have different qualities of fiber, which we describe in terms of, quote, modulus. The higher the modulus, the higher the strength of the fiber and, of course, the higher the price.

Despite his very strong Arab accent, Dover was surprised how fluent and articulate Rahman sounded speaking English. Dover had already studied some of the basics of carbon fiber in preparing for this mission. So, he didn’t learn anything new just now. But, he was pleased to have a talker on his hands. Dover knew that talkers almost always revealed valuable nuggets in their zeal to look good, to look cooperative and, mostly, to look innocent. Dover tried to capitalize on his good luck by getting straight to the heart of the matter before the talker realized he would be better off silent.

Don’t you coordinate your prices with the other major producers of carbon fiber? Dover asked in a tone assuming that everyone does that – hoping to coax Rahman to let his guard down.

Rahman took the bait. I know we need to maintain an orderly market, and sometimes we have meetings to do that. Wait. Is that a secret? Clearing his throat, Rahman shifted gears. Uh, what I mean is, I’m not sure about that. Like, um, like I said, management in Saudi Arabia handles setting the policy for pricing our products. Rahman had a bad feeling that he may have said the wrong thing – something that might get him into big trouble in Riyadh. His confidence was waning.

Orderly market, Dover thought. That fit just with what his investigation showed so far. That’s exactly what’s happening. The reason for the FBI’s raid was the Justice Department had been tipped off by an al Minia customer that the few Arab companies that sold the majority of carbon fiber worldwide were conspiring to fix prices using their nearly complete oligopolistic power. The customer said that an Arab exec from al Minia told him he couldn’t give a price for a new order until after we have our meeting with the other companies next month because we’re working to maintain an orderly market. That sounded strange and suspicious to the customer, who contacted the FBI to inquire what was in it for him as the whistle blower?

In a fleeting glance at the inner corner of his subconscious, a painful place he rarely visited, Rahman recognized his perceived mental strength was contrived – large and strong on the outside yet masking an empty vessel. He relied on others to think, adopting their conclusions and regurgitating their ideas as his own. The feeling was crushing. Fortunately for him, that inward look was evanescent, leaving as quickly as it came, allowing him to return to his self-portrait of decisive, commanding leader who smartly culled insights from his lieutenants and then made the difficult decisions.

Will you excuse me, Mr. Dover? I’ll get our CFO for you. I’ll be right back.

Rahman left the conference room without waiting for a response from Dover and headed straight to his CFO’s office. Don Cramer was six foot, an athletic 210 pounds and had gray-blonde hair. It used to be all blonde, but at age fifty-four, the gray was monopolizing the real estate. He was the only American in upper management.

Cramer was quite literally the complete opposite of Rahman. He was smart and insightful – yet, humble to a fault. He took credit for almost none of his accomplishments, always finding someone else to praise. If there was no one else involved, Cramer stayed silent rather than boast. He was confident in his acumen and abilities, but he always downplayed his talents. This handicapped him when it came time for year-end bonuses because he simply couldn’t tout his strengths – and his boss, Rahman, was too busy claiming credit for everything Cramer did. His humility was admirable for sure, yet it was the only trait holding him back from rising to CEO of a Fortune 500 corporation.

Cramer had been with the company from the days before al Minia acquired it. Ten years earlier, a United Kingdom company owned the carbon fiber manufacturer, and it was known by a different name, Carbonphite. Cramer lived in a suburb of Sacramento, and he worked half-time at a small Sacramento office established just for him and half-time at the Newport factory of Carbonphite. This was a compromise Cramer reached with Carbonphite when he told them he was leaving the company to take a job closer to home. When al Minia acquired the company, Cramer was kept on because he had detailed knowledge of the company’s history, customers and operations, and because he was an accounting genius.

Cramer was at his desk, staring at his computer while he worked the 10-key pad on his keyboard inputting data into financial statements. His fingers worked the 10-key so fast one would expect steam to rise from the keyboard.

Rahman knocked on the door and quickly opened it without waiting for a reply. Don, did you know there are ten or twenty FBI agents here right now? Rahman asked, apparently not realizing that there were only eight.

No, I’ve been on a conference call the last forty-five minutes, Cramer said without looking up while he continued working on the financials.

There are, and one of them has just been questioning me. Rahman stood at the edge of Cramer’s desk waiting for him to look up. When he did, Rahman added, I don’t know what to do.

Whoa, hold on. The import of Rahman’s statement just hit Cramer, and he pulled back from his desk and focused his attention on his boss. FBI agents. Here? What the hell. Did they tell you why they’re here?

Sort of. They’re going to take all of our computers and files. This has something to do with our sales processes – pricing. I tried to explain that we do everything just right, and we follow directions from Saudi Arabia. But, the more I talked, the more I realized that I’m not the one who should talk to them. Pointing at Cramer, he added, You are.

Cramer’s eyes widened as he stared blankly at Rahman. He liked being the go-to guy. He didn’t mind occasionally doing grunt work. They sent him on last minute trips to the Middle East, and he could live with that. They sent him around the country and the world to soothe disgruntled customers. That was fine, too. But, this seemed to be going too far. People who talk to the FBI go to jail. He’d seen it on television. He’d read about it in the papers. No good can come from talking to the FBI or CIA or, for that matter, the local police.

Cramer blinked a couple times and then, snapping back to the moment, said, Wait a minute. I’m not doing anything until I speak with our lawyer. Anything legal, I call Josiah Howard.

Cramer picked up the phone and dialed while Rahman stood at the foot of his desk looking out the window.

Howard Law Group. Denise speaking.

Cramer asked for Howard, but he wasn’t in. Howard left the office early, and Denise did not know his whereabouts. Cramer called Howard’s home. He wasn’t there either. But, Howard’s wife, Kathryn, said he was golfing at his country club. I really need to speak with Josiah right now, Cramer said. Kathryn said she’d call the country club and try to reach him. She did, and the Club sent a golf pro out on the course to find Howard and give him the message.

Howard was on the seventh hole, a six iron in his hand after hitting a 310 yard drive. Howard’s country club was the most exclusive in the area, set in the foothills below the Sierra Nevada Mountains, about two hours east of San Francisco. Not Pebble Beach or Augusta. But, in the Sacramento area, this was the most beautiful, challenging and desired golf club. Some of the area’s most accomplished businessmen and women and professionals were members of this Club. Not only was the course perfectly manicured and challenging, but the service was impeccable and the restaurant was outstanding.

It was sixty-two degrees and breezy. Enormous white clouds, spotted with dark fringes, raced across the sky, allowing gapes of Tahoe blue sky to peer through every once in a while, followed again by blankets of billowing whiteness. The fairway was deep green, lined by big, old Oak trees. Many of the fairways at Howard’s club were spotted with only occasional trees; sand traps and ponds created the dangers. But the seventh hole was encased in Oak trees, leaving a narrow fairway where pin-point accuracy was key.

Howard’s back was still stiff. Earlier in the week, he was playing racquetball and cranked his back diving for a shot. Stupid, he thought. I’m too old to do that stuff, and what was there to gain? He was just playing for fun and exercise. As happened regularly every year, Howard vowed to stick with his regular workouts and to stay away from racquetball. Howard worked out every day. He had a routine: Running on the StairMasters or Elliptical machine for forty-five to sixty minutes. Then, thirty to forty-five minutes of weight lifting. The older he got, the more his shoulders and back ached, but no real injuries when he stuck with his regular routine. Surprisingly, at 46 years old, Howard had actually put on about five pounds of muscle in the last year. He was tipping the scales at 190 pounds. But, despite his hard work, Kathryn and his kids felt his six-two frame could handle 10 more pounds. You’re too skinny, they told him far too often.

Howard was getting ready to shoot for the green in two on this 495 yard par-5. He was only two over par after six holes and, for Howard, that was an impressive round. Could he make eagle? He was feeling good.

The day was perfectly unfolding for Howard. The day before, the jury reached a verdict in his five-week long securities fraud case. Howard represented the plaintiff against a gold mining corporation in Nevada City, California. The CEO had made insider trades in Switzerland, and the Swiss brokerage had refused to reveal any of the details based on the country’s infamous secrecy laws. Whether Switzerland actually had laws that protected disclosure of financial transactions was irrelevant because, unless one could afford the battle – halfway across the planet – the brokerage’s assertion that such laws existed became self-fulfilling, as a practical matter. Nevertheless, Howard was known for his cross-examination techniques. Very few lawyers could impeach witnesses as effectively as Howard. It was his innate talent raised to the highest level by intense, hard work. And Howard reinforced his reputation when he cross-examined the CEO. As the sixty-eight year old jury forewoman told him after the verdict was read, When you were done with him, I knew that guy was a blue-suede shoe salesman. I didn’t believe a word he said. Neither did anyone else. The jury awarded Howard’s client $8.23 million in actual and lost profit damages, and another $3.5 million in punitive damages.

Howard lived for those victories. They drove him to prepare early and to prepare long. During the course of litigation, Howard spent hundreds and thousands of hours on a case. He spent many hours directly with his clients. But even more than that, through reading mountains of documents and taking depositions of people involved in his clients’ lives, Howard grew familiar and even intimate with his clients. He became attached to them. Their causes became his own. And those were high-stakes cases. Typically, no less than the client’s very financial survival was at stake. In every case he had taken to trial, Howard’s clients saw his devotion to them and, naturally, they became more appreciative of his efforts and of him. It became symbiotic in many unusual ways. As a result, Howard’s victories became more than simply his own personal achievements. Howard also vindicated his clients’ rights, integrity, character and financial underpinnings. A victory was a win for Howard. It was a win for justice. And it was a win for a client who had become Howard’s close friend.

During trial, Howard springs out of bed at three in the morning to ensure that he has studied every word the day’s witnesses have testified to in deposition and every document that could possibly be relevant to the day’s witnesses. Though he generally doesn’t remember much of anything else, like what his wife said to him the day before, he walks into the courtroom each day with complete recall of thousands of pages of materials he’ll use to tear the witnesses to pieces, and he outlines everything so he can quickly pull it out to impeach. And when his preparation pays off – as it almost always does – Howard relishes the feeling. It wouldn’t matter whether he was paid a penny for his work; Howard’s reward is the victory.

Here, Howard’s reward was a little sweeter. He represented the plaintiff on a contingency fee basis where he and the client shared the litigation proceeds 50:50. So, in addition to the sheer exuberance he felt from the win, Howard earned just shy of $6 million. So today was a celebration.

His day started with a treat from his wife. She awoke before him. Made coffee. Turned on the fireplace in their bedroom. And then she gently woke him up. Kathryn knew Howard loved recounting the most effective cross-examination scenes from the trial. All she had to do was ask once and he’d happily describe the details, seemingly reliving the experience as he told the story. As they drank coffee in bed, Howard did just that. Then, Kathryn softly kissed her way down his body, delivering a passionate reward for a job well done.

Howard’s second most favorite treat was Kathryn’s cooking. She promised Howard a celebratory dinner that night: Her lasagna, followed by her homemade lemon cream pie -- his favorite meal. He planned to open a bottle of 1994 Pahlmeyer meritage, an amazing wine that they were holding for a very special occasion.

Though he did not find enough time for it, golf was Howard’s favorite pastime. When he was on the golf course, the outside world simply didn’t exist. His country club was his oasis. After five or ten minutes swinging golf clubs, Howard literally erased all work and life worries.

Howard’s ball was on the right side of the fairway, lined up perfectly for his second shot.

Tom, if I land the ball on the left side of the green, will the slope bring the ball to the hole?

Geez, Josiah, my ball’s in the trees and you’re asking me how the green slopes? Just aim for the center of the green.

Howard lined up his shot. He swung smoothly, as he had been doing all morning.

Tom, am I on the green? I can’t see it very well.

On the green? Josiah, you’re ten feet from the pin. Great shot.

Now Howard was excited. Ten feet away from an eagle. If he made it, this would be only his third eagle ever. More than that, an eagle would drop his score to even par after seven holes. For a guy who normally shot in the high 80s and low 90s, even par after seven holes would be remarkable. Howard never scored like this. As he walked closer to the green, Howard could see his ball. It really was only eight or ten feet from the hole. Here came the fist pump, just like Tiger.

Tom was one of Howard’s closest buddies. They met fifteen years earlier when they each lived in small tract homes in a little Sacramento suburb. Tom was six-one and slim, with short dark hair and a mustache. He was a runner in his spare time and real estate syndicator by day. He put investors together and they invested in commercial buildings and apartment complexes. Over the last ten years, Tom grew his business from about five employees to over one hundred. He had a magnetic Italian personality. Though most of his friends and acquaintances were highly successful business people, they looked to Tom for leadership. While Tom had moved up in the business world, earning millions each year from his investment syndicates, he stayed the same jovial and fun guy he always was. About ten years earlier, before Tom and Howard had become very close, Howard moved to a house in one of the neighborhoods. Six months later, coincidentally, Tom moved into the same neighborhood, about a ninety second walk away. This led to them spending much more time together, lots of family time, and growing into close friends.

Tom’s ball was sitting in the middle of a cluster of Oak trees, lodged on dirt about two feet from a tree trunk. He tried to take some practice swings, but the trees got in the way. He could move his club back only about a quarter of the way. Hunched over with his back against a tree, Tom punched his ball out, pretty far down the fairway. It was very well played given the difficulty of the shot. Tom then hit a four iron just short of the green and chipped to fourteen feet from the pin. He was putting for par, and he was pretty happy about that. Tom was a 16 or 17 handicap, so par on this difficult hole would be awesome.

Want a beer? Tom asked.

At 11:15?

It’s nighttime in Europe, he said with a smile. You know I’ve really been struggling lately keeping all of the balls in the air. We’re going to lose nine of our properties. Vacancies are running at forty to sixty percent. We’ve stopped paying on some mortgages. The lenders aren’t working with us at all. Tom dramatically shrugged his shoulders in feigned despair – though Howard knew it wasn’t really much of an act.

I didn’t realize things were so bad, Howard said empathetically.

Two years ago, I was worth about $95 million; today, I don’t know if I’ll be able to keep my home. So, I find myself drinking way too much. That was straight from the heart.

This was not the normal Tom playing a round of golf. All the years Howard knew Tom, he was upbeat and positive. Tom never let on any more than a passing reference to tough times, and he always followed them up with some joke or cynical comment. That day, things were different.

Tom, I’m sorry. This is not your fault. You’re a real estate wizard. You’ve done everything anyone could do to stave off trouble. And, if nine properties are in trouble, that means you have about 40 others that are at least making it. In this market, that’s fantastic.

Well, thanks. I’m just worried.

With good reason. Realizing that sometimes one did things because the other guy needed it, Howard added, Any way, why don’t we get a beer with lunch when we make the turn after the ninth hole?

All right. With a transparent yet appreciated effort to bury his sadness, Tom cheerfully said, And let’s get back to enjoying ourselves. After all, we’re celebrating your crushing victory, right? Tom added with a big smile, though his eyes hadn’t caught up, yet.

Tom lined up his putt. It was slightly downhill, and he read a two inch break to the left. He gently swung his Scotty Cameron putter. The ball rolled quickly down the slope and . . . in the cup.

Great putt. You the man, Howard exclaimed.

Now it was Howard’s turn. His putt was a little easier because he was closer, but he was feeling a bit of pressure: making this putt would drop Howard to even par, somewhere he’d never been after more than the first two holes. We’re not even betting, but I’m shaking as if I was putting to win the Masters. What’s up with me? He stroked the ball and caught the right edge of the hole – it lipped out. Ahh shit. I really thought I had that one. He then tapped in for birdie, bringing his score to one over par. Oh well, not bad when you can tap in for birdie. And I still have the best score I’ve ever had after seven holes. This is fun. Tom and Howard high-fived each other.

They walked to the eighth tee box. Howard was up first. He took a few warm up swings.

Josiah, your wife called, Stuart, the golf pro, yelled as he approached, trying to get Howard’s attention before he swung his club. When he reached the tee box, Stuart added, She said one of your clients, Don Cramer, called with an urgent problem.

As Stuart reached the tee box, Howard walked up to him and shook his hand while Stuart was still seated in the golf cart. Stuart added, Kathryn specifically told me that you’ll want to stop everything and call him.

Shit, Howard screamed under his breath. What on earth could be so urgent?

Tom, I have to take a break for a minute and call Don Cramer. I hope you don’t mind.

Howard never played golf with his cell phone turned on. He didn’t want distractions. This was his time – away from everything. He put his driver back in the bag, bent over and pulled his cell phone