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Chapter One
They call me Billy Strobe, but not for long, thank you. Soon as I becomea lawyer, I plan to go by William, mainly because it's got amore professional ring to it. I can't expect to help folks if they don'ttake me seriously.
I realize people don't think much of the law profession these days,and I reckon I can't blame them. But it's the system—a machine designedby the rich to chew up the poor—that folks should be down on,not the law. The system is religion, the law is spirituality. Take yourpick.
Anyways, I'm set on becoming a lawyer, and not just because that'swhat my daddy was, but more in spite of what he was—what peopleback home thought he was—which I'll get to later on.
Lucky for me, I've never put much stock in what people think. Hell,those same people back in Enid, Oklahoma, were all the time tellingme I was setting my sights too high. But take a look: I've already madeit two-thirds the way through UCLA Law School and finished in thetop 10 percent both years. My piece in the law review on injustices inthe California Penal Code made the Metro section of the L.A. Times ayear ago.
I don't mean to be bragging. The truth is, I had a head start on myclassmates, being as how I grew up in the law, nursed at the titty of theblindfolded Lady of Justice, you might say. When other dads wereteaching their kids how to shoot a basket or bat a ball, I was readingwrits of habeas corpus and memorizing the Bill of Rights. I think evenMa knew Dad's first love was the law.
Dad was a courtroommovie buff, too, and he was always quotingthings about the law from books and films, like what Paul Scofield saidin A Man for All Seasons: "I'd give even the devil benefit of law, formy own safety's sake." Dad also liked that letter Dana Andrews wrotebefore they lynched him in The Ox-Bow Incident, where he said,"Law is the very conscience of humanity." Words like these stuck tome like money in a rich man's pocket.
So between my upbringing with Dad and seeing nearly every courtroommovie ever made, no big surprise that the law was in my bones,and when I got a shot at a scholarship out West, I took to law schoolas natural as a tick to a cat's ass. For me, the law was not a living; itwas life. All my heroes were lawyers, my dad of course, but also guyslike Atticus Finch in To Kill a Mockingbird and Henry Fonda in thefirst Twelve Angry Men. (Jack Lemmon was good, too, but I preferredthe original version.)
Anyways, law school was just another movie for me, and I lovedevery minute. Being realistic, however, I knew that my last year of lawschool was going to be tougher than the first two, seeing as how I'dhave to finish by correspondence.
Once I'd started serving my three- to five-year sentence at SoledadMaximum Security Prison for grand larceny.
Maybe I should explain this last thing, a piece of bad luck thatlanded on me a few months ago—July 26, at 3:30 in the afternoon, tobe exact about it.
I was hoeing up weeds outside the Westwood rooming house I managedfor free rent and ten dollars a day when these four UCLA fratrats—popular guys who had never paid me any mind when we wereall in undergraduate school together—showed up in Harmon Alexander'scherry-red Jaguar, all smiling and shouting Hey, Billy, and What'sup, Billy, like I was their best friend.
It was hot that day, too damn hot to be outside hoeing up weeds.Looking back, I should have been suspicious right off because it wasalso too hot to be driving around in an open convertible shoutingWhat's up, Billy, to an outsider like me.
Mr. Dog, my brown-and-white mini-mutt, got to his feet andhauled in his tongue long enough to growl at them. I should have donethe same.
You're wondering how I could testify at my trial as to the exacttime of day and the place where I was standing when the four of themapproached me with their harebrained idea. I guess it was like the waymy dad, Joe Strobe, knew right where he was when President John F.Kennedy was killed. And like the way I can remember exactly what Iwas doing when I heard the shot that killed my dad. Twelve years old,coming out of the kitchen, carrying a Coke and a hot dog with meltedcheddar and grilled onions that Dad always claimed was as good asNathan's at Coney Island, where he took Ma on their honeymoon.Anyways, that's where I stood when the gun went off and Ma let outa scream that has lasted fourteen years so far.
Back to those four frat rats approaching me. As the Jag's tires settledinto the curb, I spotted the Alexander brothers sitting up front butcouldn't make out who was in the back. I shielded my eyes with thehand not holding the hoe because the late afternoon sun, unchecked byso much as a puff of a cloud, was ricocheting off that Jag's windshieldand flying at me like splinters of burning glass.
Harmon Alexander—he's the fat brother—cut the engine, whichkept on popping and crackling over the awkward silence as they all satthere for a minute. I began to feel silly standing there leaning on myhoe and squinting at them through the shimmering waves of heatdancing off the Jag's hood. I could hear them talking among themselvesand could smell oil burning on the engine's manifold, smell thesoftening asphalt out on the street.
L.A. was having a bad air day.
"What's shakin, Billy?" said Steve Alexander, Harmon's youngerbrother, teeth white and perfect as piano keys and holding out his handas he unwound himself from the passenger side of the car. "How 'boutyou taking a break and having a beer with us?"
As Steve approached, Mr. Dog commenced to barking, so I had toask him to sit and be still. Still shielding my eyes, I'd run out of hands,so I dropped the hoe and shook with Steve and said hey back, thenmade mistake number one and said sure I could use a beer. Lookingback, I reckon the idea that these hotshots wanted me to hang withthem threw me off balance. Truth be told, I didn't even feel like a beerright then, but off we went to the Rose Queen, me squashed in theback between two blond surfer types. The hot wind blew cold on mydamp skin, and I worried I had dark rings showing under the armpitsof my denim tank top. I doubt any of these white-shoes had ever sweatmuch in their whole damn silver-spooned lives except maybe for MiltonJanson—the guy squashing me from my left—who had madethird-string all-American defensive cornerback his senior year.
The Rose Queen was a throwback to the college hangouts of anothertime, reeking of sawdust, testosterone, and old beer, shin-bangingdark despite a hanging garden of fake Tiffany lights. Seriousconversation was discouraged by the booming bass sound of heavymetal music, waves of window-rattling laughter, and earsplittingshouts of Yesss followed by high fives that pierced your brain likecracks off a bat, followed by the obligatory clanging together of beermugs. I never could abide this undergraduate bonding ritual, which Iguess was modern kin to the sharing of blood, but considerably lesspainful, at least until the next morning.
The waitresses at the Rose were all hot young ladies in minis andhalter tops who made peanuts for hopping their assigned pockmarkedwooden tables, dreaming about getting "discovered," Westwood beingonly a few miles outside Hollywood. A minority of them were localgirls also known to be willing to stir up something with a college boythat might lead to security and wedded bliss. I felt sorriest for thesetownies, who fantasized that all roads led to Rome but were morelikely to end up on a beach blanket in Venice—the one in California—luckyto be spared the clap.
Anyways, there we were, me still feeling uneasy and ready for thatbeer though I never hankered much for drinking, despite being 100percent Irish. There was some more What-you-been-up-to-Billy bullshit—asif they gave a rat's ass—then toasting to "success" with mugsof beer delivered by a semi-cute girl with a round, grown-up face, whoreminded me of Bonnie Bedelia in Presumed Innocent. She also had anice rear end that Steve patted without repercussions other than a dirtylook. Then the boys got to the point, which was a plan to make a lotof money without having to kill anybody.
The idea was that these four rich kids would steal confidential corporateinformation from their dads' briefcases and desk drawers—legalopinions about proposed mergers and acquisitions—and thenbuy up a bunch of stock in anticipation of big run-ups when the newsbecame public. Since the guys were going to provide the secret stuffand the capital, I was wondering what they expected me to contributeother than guilt and anxiety, which as an Irish Catholic I had plenty ofto spare, or my corporate legal knowledge, which was in short supplysince I hadn't taken the third-year trade regulation seminar yet. Theywere all staring at me now, even Steve, waiting for my reaction, my sophisticatedexpert opinion, which I told them was that they were allcrazier than a pack of rats in a coffee can. I guess I was already feelingmy beer and remembering how much I disliked privileged punks likethese guys.
"We didn't bring you here to insult us, Strobe," said Steve Alexander,turning to stare at a waitress's fine legs as she walked by.
"Shut up, Steve," said Fat Harmon, "we brought him here to listento him. Go on, Billy. What's the problem?"
I glared at Steve, but his eyes—half-closed, like a snake eyeballinga field mouse—were still busy trailing the waitress while his headbobbed to a deafening Pearl Jam tune. Fat Harmon saw my disgustedlook and shrugged in tacit agreement, plainly wishing he had beenborn an only child. I guess I liked Fat best of the four of them, thoughthat wasn't saying much. He had the same curly blond hair and darkblue eyes as Steve and would have been as good-looking but for an accidentof metabolism leading to an extra hundred pounds or so.
"It's called illegal insider trading," I told Fat, and laid out the basicsof Securities and Exchange Rule 16b, a law that makes it both astate and federal felony to use insider tips in buying stock. The fourthkid, named Oliver Sutton, piped up and said so what, nobody wasgoing to get hurt and there's no way we could get caught anyway.
I tried to explain how the market did get hurt by insider manipulation,but my arguments sounded hollow even to me, the "market"being a pretty impersonal thing to get all worked up about. So I endedup focusing on the getting caught part.
"That's where you come in, Billy," said Steve Alexander. "Yourname can't be traced to any of our fathers' names, plus everybodyknows you're some kind of ace on criminal law, and that could comein handy. We'll cut you in for a full twenty-five percent share."
I must have raised my eyebrows at that, there being five of us at thetable, so Milt Janson—he was the all-American cornerback—explainedthat the Alexander brothers were splitting a twenty-five percentshare because they had only one father to steal secrets from.
Steve Alexander quit looking at the waitresses long enough to giveMilt a hard look, but Fat Harmon and Oliver Sutton kept smilingagreeably. I could tell Steve and Milt seemed at odds, but the semi-cutewaitress arrived with our second round of beers and Steve was allsmiles again, laying on a tip that could have paid for my dinner.
After the waitress left, they all sat there staring at me again, and it'sstupid, but I guess I was still a little flattered at being hustled by thesecampus celebs, plus they hadn't even used their best argument forsucking me in, which was that I was about to lose my scholarship becauseof cost-cutting at UCLA. I was working a short night shift as awarehouse security guard to help support my kid sister and a motherwho had picked up in the alcoholic department right where Dad hadleft off when he died. Joe's suicide had left me head of the household,aided only by food stamps and ANC—Aid to Needy Children—as inme and Lisa. But that gets into a whole 'nother story that concernswhat happened to my father, the most notorious trial lawyer in the historyof Enid, Oklahoma. Like I said, I'll get more into that later, exceptto say now that he got set up and framed by a shiftless partnerand an evil client and that clearing my dad's name would be my firstproject when I became a lawyer. Anyways, the point is, these fat catshad got me to thinking what it would be like to have my family set forlife and for me to be able to stay in school and follow my dream.
Cutting to the chase, get this: During the four-week trial, the LosAngeles Times dubbed yours truly, Billy Strobe, the "brains" behindthe Billionaire Boys Club II, which is what the press began calling uswhen the story broke. I thought that was a bit much, since we werenever accused of killing anybody like the original Billionaire Boys Clubwas, plus which we never got past $1,300,000, though we had highhopes. At least we'd made it well over the $500,000 minimum forqualifying as an aggravated white collar crime under Penal Code Section186.11 (2), thus entitling each of us to up to five years in stateprison and a fine of up to ten million dollars if we got caught, whichof course we did.
As for me being the brains, hell, if I'd had any brains, I would havelistened to Mr. Dog and not gone for beers that day in the first placeand—here's mistake number two—wouldn't have been the only onewhose name the Club's trading account was registered in. Of course ithad to be that way, and I'll admit it had made me feel good to see myname—William Joseph Strobe—right there on the monthly broker'saccount reports, and doing pretty damn well, too, until the roof fell in.
Milton Janson's father turned us in. His own goddamn father! Mydad wouldn't have done that with a loaded gun to his head. Loyaltywas everything to him. He understood loyalty, and say what you wantabout Joe Strobe, he always put his mouth where his money wasn't—neveronce denying a person in need—and winning nearly every casehe took on except, unfortunately, his own.
Anyways, my problem with the Billionaire Boys Club II was thatthough I may have been the smartest, I was also the least connected,and when the scam went south, my four new best friends quickly cavedand confirmed the press's notion that I was the big dog with the brasscollar, the architect of the whole damn scheme. Their parents paidhuge fines and each of them pulled a year of misdemeanor county time,which they only served four months of. But the judge made an exampleout of Billy Strobe, Boy Master Mind, and hit me with a felony.Guess I shouldn't have been surprised. Dad taught me a long time agothat the system will beat you six ways to Sunday if you're short onmoney and long on guilt.
Excerpted from BILLY STROBE by JOHN MARTEL. Copyright © 2001 by John Martel. Excerpted by permission. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
