Friendly Enterprise

By Harold D. Anderson

Friendly Enterprise , a fast paced novel about the efforts of a Black, neophyte US Attorney in the RICO Division of the Department of Justice in Washington D. C. who has been assigned a case investigating and ultimately indicting some of Chicagos elite in a massive insurance scam involving the local transit district.

Never having been the first chair in any prosecution, he is selected because his superiors believe that the case is a powder keg and could explode, embarrassing all involved. Dispatched to Chicago, he quickly realizes that the cursory investigation that has taken place so far is woefully inadequate. In seeking help from the local US Attorney in Cook County, he runs into a stonewall because, unbeknownst to him, the US Attorney is close to the alleged principals of the multi-million dollar insurance scam.

His efforts are further hampered not only due to his complete inexperience, but he now has to cope with an Assistant US Attorney who has been assigned to him (really at the behest of her boss to spy and report back on any progress) in lieu of investigative help.

Meanwhile, on the other side of town, the criminal principals are concerned that Washington has taken an interest in their friendly enterprise. The US Attorney has briefed them on what Washington is doing and what they can expect from David Jason, the name of the newly arrived attorney, who coincidentally grew up in the Windy City. All are satisfied except the most nefarious of the group and he sets out to further hinder the investigation by hiring murderous thugs to silence the lone inside man at the transit agency, who could identify him.

Jason gains an unexpected ally in the Assistant US Attorney who is not only beautiful, but also very eager to cash in her ticket for professional upward mobility. Together they begin to piece together sketches of the principals, which only further antagonize the murderous member of the elite group. Again, enlisting the support of his murder-for-hire henchmen, he orders the assassination of David Jason during a staged street mugging. Unfortunately the killers mistakenly shoot the young Assistant, killing her instantly and leaving David Jason gravely wounded.

This high profiled mugging was reported throughout the news and caught the attention of David Schoolboy Benson, a young, up and coming member of Chicagos Mau-Maus street gang. Benson had been a friend of the inside contact at the transit agency and his killing infuriated the young gangster. In reading the article about the US Attorneys getting mugged and shot, he noted that David Jason was in town investigating an insurance fraud scam involving the municipal transit agency.

He attempts to make contact with Jason as he recuperates in the hospital. His clandestine overtures pique Jasons interest when he mentions that he was a friend of the murdered insider, which David suspected had some involvement in the insurance fraud.

Upon his release from the hospital, Jason and Schoolboy agree to meet at Davids hotel room, where he discovers it had been ransacked while he was hospitalized. During the meeting, Schoolboy reveals that the dead underling gave him a computer printout for safekeeping. This printout is a record of all the false claims that had been processed by the agency. Realizing its value and that it was no longer safe to stay at the hotel, David needed alternative living quarters to safely continue the investigation. Schoolboy volunteers his apartment building located deep on Chicagos Southside where no one could ever find the recovering lawyer.

After agreeing and traveling from Downtown to the Southside slums, David Jason is introduced to Miz Cheryl Benson, Schoolboys mother and the caretaker for the run down two-flat. To their mutual astonishment the two adults immediately recognize each other from days in high school where Cheryl Benson, nee Hicks, was Davids one-time almost love interest. Would a re-kindl

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jul 7, 2009
• ISBN: 9781462801237

Harold D. Anderson

Harold D. Anderson has been writing most of his adult life. Friendly Enterprise is his first foray into the world of fiction. Combining his familiarity with urban life while growing up in Chicago, with over thirty years of insurance executive experience, he provides a unique insight in world of insurance related crime. A graduate of the University of Illinois in Champaign, he resides in Los Angeles with his wife and son. He is currently working on a follow-up novel, Dirty Lies in the Name of God, another imposing challenge for David Jason.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

Larry Allenson placed the phone back in its cradle when he realized that he was in big trouble. The caller, who spoke nonchalantly, had just delivered a bombshell, and the reality that he might wind up in prison had caused his complexion, normally the color of rich coffee with a dab of non-diary creamer, to turn a sickening gray, matching the weather just outside his third floor office cubicle window. He re-played the conversation in his head.

Listen Larry, we just got word that the Feds are going to try and bring indictments regarding our little enterprise, the voice said just as easily as if discussing where to go for lunch.

What the hell are you talking about? screamed Larry, a claims adjuster for the Municipal Transit Agency. The MTA had an in-house claims unit responsible for adjusting the losses arising from traffic accidents with their fleet of buses, as well as incidents involving the elevated train system that snaked the city.

Calm down you fool; you want everyone to know of our little problem? Listen, I’ll call you at your place tonight and I’ll explain everything. In the meantime go on about your business as if nothing has happened. And don’t worry; I’ll explain everything to you. This voice, one that was familiar to Allenson because of the many previous conversations, was smooth and handled words and pressure in the same evenhanded fashion. Over the almost two years, Allenson had never seen or heard him ruffled. This conversation was no exception. But the message was ominous. "The Feds?? Goddammit, what have I gotten myself into" wondered Larry.

It started about 22 months ago. Allenson was working in the unit that handled bus accidents, exclusively. One day, while picking up his mail from the wall of bronze colored mailboxes at his Westside apartment complex, he received an envelope with 25 twenty dollar bills wrapped inside a sheet of paper that merely said "from one friend to another." Nothing else except a typed written closing indicating again, from a friend. Strange, but $500 is $500, and with no one to return the money to, Larry did what any $28,000 a year person who was one month behind in his credit card payments and staring down the barrel of another notice from his landlord regarding his continual lateness of his $450.00 per month rent. He kept it and didn’t say a word to anyone. Not even his mother. Even though she knew of his troubles, she was so goody two shoes, she would have forced him to tell somebody . . . the pastor at the church, the police . . . somebody or anybody. No one sends you five hundred dollars in the mail, Larry, without expecting something in return. God, how he regrets that he didn’t tell her. Maybe now he wouldn’t have his ass in what undoubtedly was going to be a hell of a mess.

The letters continued to come for the next three months, one every other week, with the same cryptic message: From one friend to another. All told he had received $3,000 from some Santa Claus figure, and he wasn’t about to tell. His only real scary thought was that someday the letters may stop coming. He looked forward to the mail just like the welfare mothers in the tenement across the street from his apartment. Seeing them sitting out on the stoop, even in the bitter cold, had given him a new appreciation for getting up at 7:00am and trudging to his job down at the MTA. No way could he have been satisfied with waiting for the Aid to Dependent Children check that these mothers, who were as addicted to the manila envelopes the same way as a junkie living on Roosevelt Road was hooked on the rock. He had grown to hate everything that ADC represented, from the food stamps to the demeaning visits from the Nazi-like caseworkers who paid surprise visits to his home when he was young and living with his mother. Their constant accusations of a man living with them, which would have disqualified them for aid, were enough to cause him to hate everything that the City and its agencies represented.

Now he was chasing the mail just like one of these mothers, but he didn’t give a second thought to his new found recreation of watching and waiting for the good old U.S. Mail. An extra $1,000 a month, tax free, had bailed him out of debt and even caused him to incur more, as sometimes extra cash flow will do. When the checks suddenly stopped, he didn’t know what to make of it, but counted his blessings just as well. Exactly one month after the last envelope had arrived, he received a letter that was even more puzzling. The short message said If you want to know more about the money and where to get lots of it, be at home at 10:45pm tonight. Well, Larry Allenson was no fool and he certainly was curious about the money, especially about the possibility of getting more. So he would be at home all night, not wanting to miss whatever was going to happen.

At exactly 10:45pm a horn was blowing outside of his window in staccato blasts. When he looked out of the window, he saw a white face in a shiny new car and what appeared to be a hand waving at him.

Who are you blowing for? called out Larry from the raised window.

You, came the reply.

Larry quickly ducked back inside, went to his closet, and slipped on his new suede jacket purchased with the second installment of the cash. He looked in the mirror and ran his hand over his face to wipe away any remnants of sleep in his eyes, since he had dozed off waiting for the answer to the recent puzzling letter.

He raced down the stairs and got outside just as the car was returning to the front of his apartment, having gone down the block to turn around. Larry cautiously walked over to the passenger side window and peered in where he saw not one person, but three people, the driver and two passengers in the rear seat.

Who are you people and what the fuck are you blowing that damn horn this late at night? Larry wanted to sound tough, but he really was scared shitless, because this whole thing was so weird.

We’ve been sending you letters, friend, the driver spoke first.

Larry, do you want to know more about the money? We’re not going to hurt you or anything like that, we’re your friends. This came from the back seat and the voice was female. Get in the car, Larry, you must be freezing in that short jacket. The female again.

Where are we going? asked a thoroughly confused and cold Larry Allenson.

We’d like to invite you into an exclusive group, one whose only purpose is to make money, lots of it, but you’re going to have to trust us first. Now get in Larry. There was an edge to the driver’s tone, but not from animosity. He was probably cold with the window down and the wind starting to churn just a little faster.

Larry opened the door simultaneously repeating his last question. Where are we going?

Just for a drive, the female in the back spoke again. Bob, are you sure this is going to work?

Bob, apparently the name of the driver, said, Of course it’s going to work. Larry’s a good man. A little cautious, but that’s good, too.

Larry slid into the plush leather seat of the warm cocoon-like car and closed the door. The engine purred as the man identified as Bob eased into gear and slowly drove Larry and his friends towards the lake. No one said a word and that troubled Larry, but he didn’t know where to start and most importantly, who were these people. That they were white was no surprise, but the silence was deafening. Suddenly Bob broke ranks with his fellow mutes and said, Larry, my boy, you are about to become a rich man. You were chosen because we have researched your background and know that in this sensitive enterprise you’re a man that can be trusted to not blab about things that are no one’s business but yours. We’re going to cruise the Drive and discuss our business proposition. If you want in fine, but if you refuse . . . well no harm, no foul. He turned and smiled; and for the first time Larry felt a bit more comfortable.

Just what is this sensitive enterprise? asked Larry.

Well now that you’ve asked, Bob continued, it involves a lot of very influential people in this town. You were selected because your role is very important in making it work. For your efforts, these very important people want to reward you with envelopes mailed to your home every other week for as long as our little enterprise is happening. In those envelopes, you will find not $500 as before, that was just a sampling, but $1,000, all in cash with no way of tracing the money. You’ll just have to learn to be careful in how you spread it around. No sudden purchases of cars or diamonds and shit like that. As soon as he said it he regretted using the word shit because for the first time Larry looked directly at him and his expression said don’t trust these people.

Our influential friends have been working to try and exact a harmless revenge on the bureaucrats in this city for all the neglect they have heaped on the thousands of trusting souls who have to rely on the city working. Unjust police, crooked politicians, non-caring social workers, all of them must be made to pay for substandard delivery of services that we, the people, have had to put up with over the years. What we are going to do is establish an anonymous trust fund that will select special citizens who have been slighted, in some form or another, and try to make their life a little easier. We want to become the benefactor of the people . . . to do for the people what they can’t do for themselves. Of course, because of our mission and the number of powerful people in this town who would like to see us fail, we must do this in an anonymous fashion. Secrecy is the top priority. That’s why we have chosen you to help us. Since we can never go public with this effort, you won’t be able to tell anyone about your role in what we are trying to do. To make up for this secrecy, we are willing to pay you, very handsomely, for your part.

How am I going to be able to help? I don’t have any way of getting back at the bureaucracy. Larry was now clearly interested in which way the conversation was going, not so much about the benevolence but about the $2,000 per month he was to receive.

In your job at the MTA, Larry, you are one of the adjusters who handles bus accidents, right? The other person in the backseat, who had not uttered a word before, spoke up. Larry nodded, yeah, so what?

When there is an incident on one of the buses, the drivers hands out courtesy slips for every passenger on the bus. They are supposed to fill out the information, which will allow the MTA to contact them as witnesses and eventually use their versions to establish if the driver was at fault, correct? But they have a second purpose and that is to determine who was actually on the bus in case of injuries.

That’s right, agreed Larry, but sometimes not all of the passengers return the slips or the slips get lost.

Precisely, Bob had rejoined the conversation. When not all of the slips are returned, then the MTA has no real way of knowing who was or was not on the bus. In the drivers’ report, he has listed the number of passengers, but his actual count of collected slips many times is at odds with his actual count. For example, suppose the driver has an accident with another car. He passes out the slips and counts the passengers. Say he has counted 35 passengers on the bus, but only gets 28 slips returned. Many people don’t want to be contacted later on or are in too big of a hurry to fill in the information and mistakenly just keeps the slip. That means that of the 35 passengers only 28 are accounted for and 7 passengers are unidentified. What our little group wants to do is identify those seven passengers, and through our own network of medical clinics and doctors, make sure that these people are adequately protected in case of injury.

Whoa, wait a minute, Larry finally thought he knew why he was being picked out of the blue. How do you propose to identify these seven people when not even the MTA knows who they are? It was more of a statement than a question posed to the three friends.

The big car was now traveling a smooth 55mph on the sinuous Lake Shore Drive. The passing lights gave the impression of strobe lights at a disco, and Larry Allenson was clearly on stage with all eyes and ears on him. This was the crowning moment of truth for the three friends, the moment where they had to spring just the right trap on their unsuspecting foil, so as not to have him bolt and capsize this well thought out enterprise.

The beauty of our enterprise, Larry, is that we don’t have to identify the actual people on the bus, we have scores of good people, people who have lost their jobs, their homes and their self respect. We propose to give them a boost and try and recapture their rightful place in society. We will use those people as the unidentified persons that were on the bus. They’ll be paid for their time with any settlement we receive from the MTA, and the remaining money collected will go into the trust fund to be given out to others in need as we see fit.

What you’re talking about is capping accident claims, a wide-awake Larry muttered.

Not exactly, the female again. What we are talking about is helping some well deserving, but down on their luck citizens of this city. What we are talking about is getting back at a system that has betrayed its people for years. Certainly some may look on our enterprise as being edgy, but no one can say that it is immoral. We are proposing a Robin Hood-like solution to some of the ills of our society. We’d like you to join us.

Bob spoke up again. All that we are asking you to do is review the accident reports and give us the number of potential claims that can be added to the bus accident. We’ll give you a telephone number to call and just say the number, along with the bus identification number, time and date of the accident, nothing else. For that we’ll send you $2,000 per month, tax free, untraceable and all in cash. The car had smoothly turned around and was now easing onto Larry’s street. As it pulled to a stop in front of his apartment, Bob continued. Don’t give us your answer now, but we must have it soon. You think about it tonight and tomorrow. If you have any questions, I’ll be calling you tomorrow night. Just remember two things, if you don’t want in, no harm, no foul, and regardless of whether you’re in or not, don’t breathe a word of this to anybody. Good night, Larry and sweet dreams.

CHAPTER 2

Hearing the deadbolt slide out of its chamber reminded him of the day’s events. Had his future and ticket for greatness just been unlocked? Entering his apartment, he could hardly contain himself as he threw his briefcase near the bookcase that dominated the smallish, but reasonably well furnished living room.

He was going back to Chicago, his boyhood home. A place where, since leaving for college in the mid 1970’s, he’d only visited once: for his father’s funeral. Going to Chicago on business. The prodigal son returns. He’d look up a number of neighborhood and high school friends, those who could be found. Maybe some old college chums might be easier to locate, he mused.

He is David Jason, a forty-year old, stylishly overweight (his description) Assistant U. S. Attorney, assigned to the Justice Department Organized Crime Division in Washington. That day at the office had seen a flurry of events and announcements that left David both euphoric and somewhat cautious about his prominent involvement. The Justice Department had just made an announcement to a large, usually bored, gathering of the minions of the press assigned to monitor such announcements. The announcement came from the Division Head, Dominic Andolina, a no nonsense career government appointee.

Today, the United States Department of Justice, Organized Crime Division, is preparing to launch an investigation that will lead to indictments against a network of medical facilities in Chicago, for violations of the RICO Act in connection with their activities in a multi-million dollar fraud associated with phony accident and medical claims.

Andolina always seemed to be long winded, especially in front of the press. Perhaps, that was how he managed to keep coming up with various appointments regardless of which administration was controlling Washington. His current title, Special Prosecutor for the Organized Crime Division, was a job that usually went to a senior person within the Department. Not this time; shortly after the last presidential election, Andolina was immediately appointed by the new Attorney General.

Because of the unique application of RICO standards in this matter, we have chosen one of our brightest young attorneys, David Jason, to head up the Chicago prosecution team. He will coordinate with the local U.S. Attorney’s Office in bringing to trial the participants in this lucrative criminal activity, with the intent of throwing the full weight of the United States Department of Justice behind recommendations for the most severe punishment, including incarceration.

There he goes again, thought Jason. Always using the entire name of the department, when everyone else simply says Dee-jay.

What was interesting is that Andolina hadn’t mentioned any names of the participants of this lucrative criminal activity.

Who are some of the people to be indicted? called out a reporter from the middle of the crowd.

Their names are being kept secret until the conclusion of this investigation, snarled Andolina. He didn’t like losing control of a press conference, and was clearly on the defensive now because he hadn’t wanted to answer questions about the accused persons.

Getting back to the efforts of this Department, I can assure you that we are undertaking this investigation with every intention of prosecuting to the fullest.

Why is he making such a big deal out of Dee-jay’s efforts in this one? Jason was feeling uneasy. In the year and a half he’d worked with Andolina, he noted that this was a man tenaciously bent on success in any case we went after. It was standard op for us to approach a case in that manner. Why then was he persistently driving home the message that we were going after this with unusual zest?

Even though David Jason had never been lead attorney in a RICO prosecution, he felt he had put in his time and his patience was finally paying off. In reality, he had been a default choice, since none of the other senior prosecutors wanted to come within an interrogatory of this bombshell. After conferring with his special assistants and the U. S. Attorney in Illinois, Andolina had reluctantly made Jason his choice. In truth, he was the only attorney available to be a scapegoat if this thing blew up in their faces.

Given the power politics in Chicago, the prosecution of this case had the explosive content of a Molotov cocktail. What Jason had not been told about this case was that not only was there a medical corporation involved in the case, but also that the owners were influential contributors to a number of city politicos, including the mayor. Further, it appeared that a leading law firm, the mayor’s former employer, was also involved in bilking millions from an unsuspecting insurance agency by representing some of the bogus accident victims in their claims against that agency.

Jason had not been involved in the preliminary investigation that would lead up to the issuance of the indictments. In fact, he’d only been made aware of the on-going investigation, and his role in it, this very morning when he was called into a meeting with Andolina and Paul Young, David’s supervisor. They told him of the impending indictments, the arrests and that they wanted him to head up the prosecution team.

Congratulations, offered Paul. I know this is your first opportunity, but both Dominic and I believe that you’re ready to take on the big boys.

Paul Young—49 years old, graduate of Trinity School of Law in Tallahassee, had never been especially warm towards Jason. Jason always thought it was because of the Southern roots Paul had brought with him from the District Office in Florida, where no attorney of color had his own private office and secretary as Jason had here in Washington, Dee Cee, as Paul always drawled it.

Paul didn’t fit the stereotypical image of a good ol’boy, though. He wore very expensively tailored suits; braces that sometimes matched his always outrageous ties and didn’t own a shirt without French cuffs. Still, hard as he tried, he couldn’t completely divorce himself from sidebar snickers with Andolina and his other senior peers. Always quick with an ethnic joke (the character was never black around Jason), Young was accepted by the department as a non-threat to all who wanted to remain upwardly mobile within the department. The joke was that he would become Paul Old before he got promoted again.

Andolina, who was not much for mixing with the junior lawyers in the office, didn’t really know David Jason on a personal basis. His style was to never get close to any of the minority attorneys to avoid being perceived as too involved in that Affirmative Action nonsense. He would rely on Young’s evaluation in making this assignment to so green an attorney. In completing a performance review less than a year ago, Young had written David Jason is an attorney who, though not brilliant by a long shot, is somewhat reliable but tends to gloss over details.

This passage was contained in a private Supervisor to Department Head memo that David Jason never saw. If he had, he would have been furious, not so much because it wasn’t true, but because he felt he’d never been given a chance to display his brilliance. After all, hadn’t he gone to the University of Illinois on a scholarship and completed his law studies at Georgetown? What did it matter that he’d only been a C student at Georgetown. He still graduated, didn’t he? He had been just an average student, but not because he didn’t possess the promising brilliance that had carried him through his undergraduate work. No, David Jason had been caught up in the times, the revolution as it came to be known in middle-class yuppie reminiscing. David was an activist who wrote fiery poetry and marched in every protest he could find. Free Love held a higher priority than classes on torts and contracts.

Dominic, Paul, I don’t understand. Why am I being selected to head up this prosecution without ever having been involved in the investigation? Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate this opportunity, but this is rather strange, isn’t it? David knew that usually the team leader is the attorney most involved in directing the investigation. Dominic leaned back in his buttery leather executive chair and cracked his knuckles.

David, Paul and I have thought about this for sometime. Frankly, your being from Chicago and this being a case that really just took off, we felt that we wouldn’t get hurt if we deviated from our standard procedures on this one. Besides, I know how much you’ve wanted to take the first chair on a prosecution. So this seemed like a natural. You can go to Chicago, win the case, and come back as a conquering hero. Who knows where this could lead? Dominic was a smoothie alright. He knew what buttons to push in dealing with any young career-minded attorney who one day envisioned greater things happening to him.

We have scheduled a small press conference to announce the coming indictments and we will announce your involvement publicly for the first time. Afterwards, you’ll be given the complete file on the investigation and you can review it tonight. Start making plans to leave for Chicago in forty-eight hours. The finality of the tone suggested a waste of time for David to protest. The decision had been made, he was going to Chicago.

The startling peel of the phone cuffed Jason back to reality.

Good evening, he always answered the phone in what he believed was a chic, but professional manner.

Hi Babe, whatya doin? It was Sydney, his full time model, part-time love interest. "Let’s go to a movie tonight. I feel like relaxing and being with you this whole evening . . . and night. She said it in a manner that he could see the sly smile that made her naughtily appealing.

Syd, I’d love to, but something’s happened today that we need to seriously discuss.

Oh, and what could have happened that we can’t discuss at a movie and later on at your place?

He could tell that she had wiped that smile from her face and replaced it with a scowl that suggested a rapid mood change.

Slow down baby, it’s not a bad thing . . . well not much, but it will affect our relationship somewhat.

What at your job could possibly affect our relationship?

I got handed the number one chair in a big federal prosecution, that’s what. His euphoria was returning as he listened to what he had just said.

David, that’s great, Sydney was beginning to bubble up again, "but why would that affect our relationship? We can celebrate together . . . tonight. And we don’t have to go to the movies. I can bring some Thai food over and we can pop the cork on some champagne . . ."

Wait, wait, Syd you need to hear the rest. First, the case is in Chicago, and second I’ve got to be there in two days.

What?? What the hell do you mean you’ve got to leave in two days, what kinda shit is that?

"It’s no shit, I mean I’m just as shocked as you. Andolina gave me the news this morning right before he announced it to the press. Even though I have to be in Chicago in two days, the Thai food and champagne still sounds nice. Come on over and I’ll explain it all to you while we eat. Then we can relax . . . all night.

CHAPTER 3

As he boarded the plane and walked through the first class section, David wondered what it would be like to be pampered while flying. Traveling as a government employee, he would never know, but he had heard tales of champagne and customized menus of food fare. Not the airline plastic meals he had grown accustomed to in coach. What would you like Italian Combo Surprise or a sandwich? Always said with a smile, probably to minimize the possibility of hijacking by some totally fed up passenger who had paid full fare and expected more for his money. After all, weren’t stewardesses just flying waitresses? He finally came upon 16C, his seat, always an aisle just in case there had to be a hasty exit, for he truly hated flying. He settled in and immediately began reading the file that he should have reviewed prior to leaving Washington, but when Sydney arrived, they were so caught up in it being their last chance for a long and undetermined period of time, they ate Thai and stayed in bed for close to 36 hours. He was going to miss her.

The investigation had started several months ago based upon a tip from an anonymous source who said in a letter that a lot of money was being made by doctors and lawyers from phony accident claims. After reading some of the names involved in ownership of the Christiana Medical Group, David realized that this routine investigation had potentially an explosive ending.

Bernard Eisner, 57 years. Former Cook County Medical Advisory Board President. Retired after serving 16 years as the principal figure on the board that regulates medical practices in Cook County.

Seymour Rosenblatt, 62 years. Currently principal owner of Rosenblatt Associates, a high powered public relations firm that specializes in managing campaigns of candidates for political offices throughout the state. Most recently his firm had won the Mayoral election, but had lost the campaign for U.S. Senator to a minority candidate who, though unorganized, had nevertheless prevailed when the white vote was badly divided over two, more traditional, candidates.

Elizabeth Gerard, 45 years. Wife of a prominent businessman in the City. She has been active in a number of charitable projects for the past 18 years. Independently wealthy, she’d never said no to a good cause.

Richard Vaney, 51 years. Former Alderman in the 23rd Ward on the Westside. Retired three years ago due to failing health.

Robert Finnegan, 47 years. Businessman. No apparent political history, except he threw lavish fund raising bashes for both parties. Speculated that his initial wealth came from an early bootleg business run by his father, Bob Finnegan, Sr., now deceased.

These people were some of Chicago’s most public figures. David couldn’t understand why they would become involved in something as slimy as accident scams. The money was small potatoes compared to what they were accustomed to . . . or was it?

He continued to read about the allegedly involved law firm, Kent, Jones and McMahon, a well known firm that specializes in accident victims. They did quite a good job in growing from the original three attorneys to a firm of 42 practitioners. Largest buyer of television advertising in the Midwest. Really no surprise that they were suspected.

Seeberg, Stein and Saldano on the other hand, was a noted defense law firm that specialized in civil defense work on behalf of the insurance industry. What in the hell was their role?

There were a couple of names of suspected accomplices working inside the Municipal Transit Agency. Claims adjusters who were primarily responsible for providing information about potential accident victims or claims. How much could this be worth? How long had it gone on? These questions bothered David, because the investigation had suddenly stopped and none of these important, at least to David, questions had been answered. Apparently the Department was proceeding on the basis of an anonymous tip and an incomplete investigation. David knew that based on what he had reviewed they’d never get a conviction, and the possibility of tremendous embarrassment to the Department and himself loomed large. Was this the reason he had been chosen? Did Andolina and Young know in advance that Dee Jay had no possible chance of success? Why pursue it then? Why not just let this case die a natural death like so many others that had come across the Special Prosecutor’s desk? He was beginning to feel uneasy and not because of the turbulence that they had unexpectedly run into either. The pilot’s voice boomed over the PA system warning to buckle the seat belts due to a sudden storm they were flying through. Shouldn’t take long for us to rise above it, he said confidently. Yeah right, thought David. My first trip home in years and we won’t even make it to O’Hare. God, how he hated flying.

CHAPTER 4

The music blasted from the too large speakers in the cavernous basement where the Mau-Maus called home. They were one of Chicago’s infamous street gangs, though in truth they were small time when compared with some of the nation’s more storied youth gangsters. It was rap music, some west coast rap artist spewing rhymes about killing cops or slapping bitches. They all said the same thing only used different non-sensical rhymes to a throbbing, repetitive beat.

The Mau-Maus were gathering for their ritual partying of getting high on crack, weed or eight ball. Some of their hos were there to provide the climatic culmination of this tribal rite. The Mau-Maus had taken their name from the revolutionary group led by some African dude in the fifties. Originally called the Saints, they had changed their name during the period of Afro-centric awareness, thanks in part to Schoolboy Benson, one of their more widely read homeys. Schoolboy had gotten his handle because of his refusal to drop out of school and hang full time. He still hung with the boys, but he was always in school and making decent enough grades. His insatiable desire to learn as much as he could stemmed not from some unidentified force inside of him, but more from his mother, Miz Cheryl, as the other homeboys called her. Cheryl Benson was a church going, no nonsense fearless lady who had raised her only son all alone. A story repeated many times in the ghetto. There were many single mothers. Most lost their sons and daughters to the streets, and Cheryl Benson was no different except that she commanded and demanded respect from David (Schoolboy) Benson, her son seventeen years her junior. She had become pregnant shortly after graduating from high school, had moved away from her family and taken her mother’s maiden name because her father, The Reverend Isadore Hicks, had disowned her. She’d had the baby, named him David, and worked at various clerical jobs in and around the City’s Southside. Because she had failed in her dream to go on to college, she was determined that her son would continue his education and escape the life that was all too commonplace for inner city black people. She had been 50% successful. Schoolboy was still a student, but he was also a rising member of the Mau-Mau street gang.

CHAPTER 5

Larry Allenson waited for the phone to ring. He hoped the caller would tell him that all was cool and he was not in any danger of being hauled ass down to the Federal Building to cop to his role in the lucrative money making scheme. And it had been lucrative, too. Not only had he parlayed his $44,000 into a nice little duplex on Chicago’s Southside, but he was driving a new sporty two seater, American made. No one had suspected that his sudden largess was the result of illegal activity. Hell, Larry didn’t even think of the consequences after a while. The result of almost two years of receiving envelopes containing $1,000 every other week had dulled his sense of right and wrong. In the beginning, however, he had to admit that he was concerned about his role in this enterprise and where it might lead. He even went so far as to keep a record of how many times he had dialed the phone number and given information to the caller on the other end of the line. It went smoothly, too. No one was getting hurt and he was pocketing big cash. It didn’t even dawn on him that if he was getting $2,000 every other week, that someone, somewhere was making, maybe ten times that much. Little did he know. Now the shit had hit the fan.

The phone had barely rang when he snatched it from its cradle.

Hello? Gone was that cockiness that usually signaled a man living on top of the world, a world that was quickly overheating and likely to crash and burn like the satellites from a Chinese launch.

Larry, my boy, how are you doin? It was the call he had been waiting for. Bob Finnegan had regained the salesman-like smoothness that Larry remembered from their first meeting.

"Listen, Larry, I know I said some things this morning that might have shaken you up, but not to worry. We have a friend in the U. S. Attorney’s office that will keep us informed of this sham investigation. Nobody is going to be indicted and no one is going to jail, . . . if we all stay