The Jacket to Hell

I heaved a sigh of relief. It was the first time I had seen my boss since well before the accident and I noted with some satisfaction that he was shaking with rage at being forced into this position, and also that he was not able to look me in the eye.

With the legal fees out of the way, I paid a visit to the depot one final time to bid goodbye to my workmates. George, whose fastidious records had proved the company's negligence, and Jock, who had pushed relentlessly for my fair treatment.

It was time for me to regroup and plan for the future. I decided to relocate to my parents' home town, where I had studied some years before, and to resume my studies in the hope of getting work in an administrative position. I bought a two-bedroom apartment near the university and a small hatchback to get around. Going "back to school" was an interesting experience. For a start, I was a decade older than most of the students in my group. I was also much better motivated. I really wanted to succeed.

My parents loved the new arrangement. I visited every weekend, took Dad to the football games or to the Bay for fishing, occasionally, and the three of us regularly enjoyed a restaurant meal together.

Dianne had not signed the divorce papers but seemed to be paying the mortgage and the utilities, so I let it slide, not wanting any disharmony in my life. On the advice of Tim Delaney, I let him organise a security agency to place several security cameras in our house. Until our divorce, he felt it was wise to keep an eye on the premises without the need to physically keep calling there.

A couple of years later, I graduated with honours. The hunt for a good long term job took me to an accounting firm in the city centre, which specialised in the management of corporate bankruptcies. Their work was largely creative: their primary objective was not to force a struggling business into bankruptcy but to review its operations to try and return them to profitability. Sometimes, this was achieved by creditors making a sacrifice.

It was work I loved. I was part of a small team of experienced operators, doing forensic examinations of a variety of companies to find out where they had gone wrong and then to try to work with their key people to figure out the best way to turn things around. It was quickly recognised that I had a real talent for spotting a leak in a corporation's business and then designing a fix to plug it effectively. At the end of year staff function, my work was recognised by both the partners and my peers, and I was given my own group to lead, together with a substantial increase in salary.

When a new assignment landed on my desk one morning, I nearly choked. The company facing bankruptcy proceedings was none other than my old employer. Recognising the possible conflict of interest, I immediately phoned the senior partner and asked him to excuse me from the case. He was blunt.

"Steve, we are well aware of your previous association with this company, which makes you the perfect fit. No doubt you have former workmates who still rely on the business for their livelihood, which give you an extra incentive to pull them out of the mire. Furthermore, I trust your professionalism."

The first job was to phone my old boss and let him know that my firm had been appointed and that I would be leading the management team. He raved on for a while about the unfairness of it all, that there was no real problem, just a minor cashflow issue that had already been overcome, and that our intervention would be a total waste of time.

I delicately pointed out that the intervention was ordered by the courts, that our team had been appointed to investigate and that I would arrive with my team at 9 o'clock the next morning. I thanked him in anticipation of his cooperation and hung up.

It was blindingly obvious only minutes after our arrival that the staff had been briefed to tell my team as little as possible, for they obstructed us at every possible opportunity. This was not an unusual reaction from management; after all, we represented the symbol of their failure to run their own business.

I met briefly with Jock and George over a cup of coffee during the morning and came to a decision at lunchtime, after a group discussion with my own people. Knocking on the boss's door, I let myself in and suggested that things might be less uncomfortable if he vacated the premises to leave me and my team to do our work. He rejected the notion outright, at first, but when I pointed out that I could ask for his forcible removal, he relented and skulked off like a spoiled schoolboy.

I took two days to find the problem. The youngest member of the team, a tiny blonde in pigtails who looked no more than sixteen years of age and was fresh out of commercial school, came to me with a creditor's ledger.

"This operator works for the company and is paid regularly for long haul trips around the State. I've looked, but I can't find the same truck on any of the freight manifests, so what work is it doing and who is being charged for it?"

After thanking her for her powers of observation, I asked for copies of the invoices. Phantom operators are one of the oldest tricks in the book for transport operators who use sub-contract vehicles, and they are usually spotted when a particular member of the accounting staff goes for years without taking any leave as they try desperately to keep covering their tracks.

There was no such situation here. Leafing through the invoices, it quickly became obvious that every one, without exception, was authorised by the boss himself.

Calling in the administration manager, I asked him whether the company supplied the boss with a laptop.

"Of course," he beamed, happy to be able to contribute. "We bought four Dell laptops about a year ago, and the boss has the top of the range of those. I have the invoice if you would like to see it."

I smiled inwardly and noted the serial number of the computer held by the boss. My next move was to phone the local sheriff and ask for some help.

"I need to collect a piece of company equipment held by a manager at his residence and I have a feeling he will be reluctant to part with it. I believe that the laptop contains information that is vital to our investigation into his company."

He was far from enthusiastic, but agreed to pick me up from the depot office in fifteen minutes. On our drive there, his interrogation began.

"You used to work for this mob, didn't you?"

"Uh-huh." I agreed.

"Had a bad accident, as I recall. I had to arrange the recovery of the wreck. You were lucky to survive it, Son."

"Yes, indeed I was, but things have a habit of turning out right in the end."

"Left your wife behind when you moved out."

"Yes," I murmured reflectively.

"Is that bastard still banging her?"

"Wouldn't know, Sheriff. I filed for divorce when I left. It's never been finalised, but I have no love interest right now and I really don't care who she sleeps with at night."

"Oh, I think she sleeps alone at night. Her company arrives during the day. He is married with kids and is home every night. His poor wife is probably the only person in town who doesn't know what's going on."

"Well, that would make two of us," I observed acidly. "I had no idea either, until I stumbled in on the pair of them in the act. That was the day I had the crash."

We agreed that the sheriff would let me make the request for the laptop and that he would intervene only if necessary. It was necessary, of course. At first, he tried to palm off a laptop which was older and a different make, but when he realised that I had the make and serial number of the unit we sought and saw the sheriff emerge from the squad car, he reluctantly handed it over, promising me that it would be back in his possession within twenty four hours.

Knowing he was probably right, I asked the sheriff to drop me back at the office and I pulled my team together. One was delegated to begin to download the entire contents of the laptop onto our secure server. This way, if the boss's lawyers arrived with a court order for the return of the unit, we could hand it back, complete with a hidden auto forward function to allow us to monitor any further traffic that might be sent after its return.

As predicted, a fresh-faced lawyer, probably in his first year, arrived to demand the immediate return of his client's laptop. We blustered a little to point out that the laptop in question was, in fact, the property of the company and not his client, but then begrudgingly acknowledged that he was fully authorised to retain possession. The laptop had been returned to its carry case before the lawyer's arrival, so that to a casual observer it appeared not to have been touched by me or my people. The kid triumphantly took possession and literally skipped back to his car.

My IT people, meanwhile, were assessing the downloaded contents of the laptop. Their job was made considerably easier by the fact that there were very few passwords used and access to all areas proved remarkably simple. We zeroed in on bank records and found a trail of transactions dating back several years, but slowly escalating in both amount and frequency. It was clear that our target was siphoning off large sums of money using bogus invoices which cleared the system only because he approved them.

Our next task was to follow the money trail. Payments initially went to a bank account in the name of the phantom contractor, controlled of course, by the company boss. The account only held a small balance, making it obvious that funds were being transferred elsewhere to avoid detection. By following codes from the downloaded files, we were able to find some of the accounts into which money had been hidden. They were scattered in various countries around the world in a variety of names.

It was time to call in Tim Delaney, the lawyer who had won me my compensation case. He was still working in the same firm and had made partner status since our last meeting. He seemed pleased to see me and was almost salivating at the prospect of taking on a case against my old boss.

Several days of intense meetings with the corporate affairs regulator and police agencies led us to the decision to have police lay embezzlement charges immediately, and to apply for immediate incarceration without bail to avoid the possibility of the defendant fleeing from the country.

The day James Seaward was arrested, I had a visitor at the transport company office.

"There's a Mrs Seaward at the reception desk to see you, Steve," the young receptionist announced.

"Fine, send her in."

This was going to be interesting, I thought. The woman who entered my temporary office (actually the boss's office which I had commandeered in his absence) was a stunner. Blonde, built, beautifully dressed and sensuously elegant. She offered me her hand and after a surprisingly firm handshake, gracefully reclined in a visitor's chair in front of the desk.

"Mr Hammond, I'm James Seaward's wife."

"Yes, I rather gathered that. What can I do for you, Mrs. Seaward?"

"I understand that you are responsible for putting my husband in prison."

"That might be a bit strong, Mrs. Seaward. We have proof that your husband has siphoned huge sums of money out of his own company, illegally, placing its future in jeopardy. The law considers him a flight risk and has placed him in detention pending his trial. So, effectively, Mrs. Seaward, it is your husband who has put himself in prison, not me."

"What do you know about the company's ownership, Mr Hammond?"

"Only what is contained in the corporate register. There are two shares, only, held separately by you and your husband. But you know this. Why ask the question?"

"Mr Hammond, I'm sure if I mentioned my maiden name you would recognise my family immediately. We bought this company in its infancy and have invested heavily in equipment to allow it to grow. There are, as you have observed, two shares, but the entire financing of the company has been through my family, secured by a series of loans. If the company fails, my husband loses one share that was initially gifted to him. He showed early in the company's growth that he was a capable manager, and I believe that he still is."

The waters were being muddied. We were aware from our initial examination of the company's structure that a large number of loans had originated from a single investor, but had not made the connection to Seaward's wife.

"Mrs. Seaward," I sighed. "Without wanting to disrespect your husband, I can tell you that our research suggests that he has been less than forthright with you, a fact which the court will consider in the next couple of weeks. We have taken legal action, already, to prevent him from accessing any area of the company's activities, and have also worked with the staff to give them confidence that in all likelihood, the organisation will trade its way out of its current financial position. All of our investigation leads us to the conclusion that it should be operating profitably and that its parlous state is the direct result of some illegal activities which I am not at liberty to discuss with you. I can give my assurance, though, that we will not leave this place until we are satisfied that either its future is secure or that we have to close the doors and sell off the assets."

The elegant lady nodded, stood up and smoothing down her pencil skirt, thanked me and with a sway of her hips, left the office, leaving behind a trace of the smell of her perfume.

By the time the court case was convened, we had all our ducks in a row. We knew not only how Seaward had been able to move funds with a phantom contractor, but precisely where those funds were transferred, and when. We were curious about his motivation, for none of the embezzled funds appeared to have been spent.

Our lawyer, Tim Delaney, cut him to pieces in the courtroom. Seaward began with a strategy of evading direct questions, clearly unaware of just how much information had been gathered. He was also unaware of another piece of information: Tim Delaney's security cameras. Tim had not mentioned them since they were installed.

When Seaward was placed on the witness stand again, he was reeling from trying to answer a barrage of financial questions when Delaney suddenly changed tack.

"Mr. Seaward," he began innocently. "Do you know a Mrs. Dianne Hammond?"

"Yes." He paled visibly.

"Can you describe your relationship with Mrs. Hammond please?"

"Certainly. She is the wife of one of my former drivers. We met occasionally at company parties."

"Is there anything further you would like to tell the court about your relationship with Mrs. Hammond?"

He was unsettled and becoming exasperated as Tim Delaney continued to push him off balance.

"I have no relationship with Mrs. Hammond. I told you, she is the wife of an ex driver and he is also leading the team investigating my company at the moment."

"Have you ever had sexual relations with Mrs Hammond?"

"Good Lord, NO." he responded immediately.

"Your honour, I would like to release this witness for recall later, and call Mr. Brian Smith to the stand."

"Granted."

A beefy character about forty years of age, and carrying a little more weight than he should, sauntered to the witness stand and was duly sworn in.

"Mr Smith, would you tell the court your full name and occupation please."

"Brian James Smith, and I am a security consultant with ABC Security."

"Would you tell the court, please, what I instructed you to do on the 19th April two years ago?"

"I installed five security cameras in the residence owned by Mr. and Mrs. Steve Hammond."

"Are those cameras still active, Mr Smith."

"Yes sir, their content is transferred to our servers automatically every 24 hours."

"Who monitors those surveillance files, Mr. Smith."

"Why until yesterday when you asked to see them, nobody ever looked at them."

"I'm going to show you five photographs, with the court's permission. Is permission granted?"

The judge nodded his approval, and Delaney theatrically handed the first photo to the witness, who perused it but maintained a stony façade.

"Would you please identify the people in this photograph, and if you can, the location where the photograph was taken?"

"Certainly. The man in the photo is the defendant, James Seaward. I do not know the woman in the photograph, but she is sitting over there in the gallery." He pointed out Dianne, who by now was trying to shrink under her seat.

"Would you describe to the court what the people in the photograph were doing at the time."

"Ahhh, how do I say this? They were having sex."

"They were engaged in sexual intercourse?"

"Yes, sir, they were."

"Your honour, I have a further four photographs, taken separately over several recent weeks via the security cameras in the home, which I now submit to the court as evidence. I also have an affidavit sworn by Mr. Smith, confirming the legitimacy of the photos and the placement of security cameras.

"Your honour I would like to recall Mr. Seaward to the stand."

The bastard was beaten and he knew it. He looked down at the floor during further questions and was forced to admit perjury. When Seaward was finally stood down, the court was adjourned to the following day.

The judge got straight down to business when the court opened next day, finding Seaward guilty on embezzlement charges totalling millions of dollars, and perjury, noting that he could also have faced charges for his inappropriate relationship with an employee's wife. His sentencing was deferred for several weeks, leaving us well satisfied with the result of our endeavours. Most of the funds were recoverable, now that we had information on the overseas financial institutions and account numbers.

It was a true delight to meet with Phil, George, Jock and all the senior staff at the transport terminal and give them an assurance that the missing funds had been located, overdue debts settled and a release from the courts to allow them to trade normally again. Phil was a shoo-in for the CEO's job, and with his loyal staff behind him, would have the company humming again in no time. Ownership was now firmly held by Seaward's wife, who as it turned out, had been most supportive while they were struggling.

It was at a dinner with Tim Delaney a few days later that we were approached at our table by Dianne. I stood as she approached and invited her to join us. Since we had barely finished placing our order, I flagged a waiter and invited Dianne to order a drink and a meal.

She was clearly embarrassed to be with us. Tim Delaney seemed less than pleased with her presence, too.

"I'm sorry to invade your privacy like this," she began. "But when I discovered that you had booked a dinner here, I decided that the opportunity to speak was well overdue and, well, here I am."

"What's on your mind, Dianne?"

"You must know by now that James and I intended to leave the country together and live together overseas. James kept hinting that he would soon be in a position to finance our life together, but never revealed how. I was shocked when the company was put into receivership, because I thought it was doing so well, and even more shocked in the courtroom to discover that my lover—I'm sorry Steve, but he has been my lover for many years—was planning to finance our life together by stealing from his own company."

"This is hardly the time or place for us to have a heart to heart chat about things," I started, gesturing towards an embarrassed Tim Delaney. "Perhaps we could have this conversation at another time."

"No conversation necessary, Steve. I was a fool to throw your love away so carelessly, and an even bigger fool to think it was serious when I knew all along that James was still sleeping with his wife. I doubt that in his mind I was ever anything more than a dirty secret when we first started getting together when you were out of town, but little by little I let him get to me and I convinced myself that I was in love with him. Clearly, given the amount of money he managed to stash away over the last couple of years, he felt something for me, too, but that's not why I'm here. You served me with divorce papers some years ago, Steve, and I finally have to accept that there is no chance of our marriage surviving."