| "THE COMPTROLLER" CONTINUED |
Sitting in his office, Bob Ogilvy accesses a number stored in his cellular telephone and presses the
call button. The number connects and a recorded message says only, "At the sound of the tone
leave a message." Beep.
"This is a message for Bernie Skrivanos," he says. "Bernie, this is Bob Ogilvy. I may have a lead
for some business that could be very worthwhile. This one'll expire in forty-eight hours though.
Get back to me before Friday if you're interested. I'm still with Crown Counsel downtown. Don't
call me here. Contact me at this number." Ogilvy leaves his cell phone number and hangs up.
Then he gathers some documents from his desk and leaves his office for court.
Cavanagh is lying on a bench in a cell trying to sleep. The morning jail activity - prisoners eating
breakfast, prisoners making court appearances - makes it difficult. He holds an arm over his face to
block out the light. There are three other men in the cell with him. The floor is strewn with
discarded brown lunch bags that had contained breakfast of a bran muffin and orange juice. He
hears a guard walking down the corridor, his keys jangling. The guard unlocks the cell door and
barks, "Cavanagh, time for court!"
Cavanagh pulls himself up of the bench and walks into the corridor.
"Raise your hands," the guard orders. The guard locks a set of cuffs around Cavanagh's wrists.
"Turn around and raise your right foot." The guard shackles his ankle. "Now the other one." He
shackles Cavanagh's left ankle.
"Follow me." The guard takes Cavanagh down the corridor to a courtroom entrance vestibule.
"Wait here."
After about fifteen minutes the courtroom door opens. A guard asks, "Cavanagh?"
"That's me."
"Let's go," says the guard.
Cavanagh slowly walks into the open court, the shackles around his ankles allowing only short
steps. There is one spectator in the audience - Audrey. He says "Hello" to her and nods at his
lawyer, Vince Everett. The Crown prosecutor addresses an indifferent-looking Judge Henry Graff.
"This is a bail hearing, your honour," Bob Ogilvy tells the judge. "The accused in this case is a Mr.
Jeffrey Cavanagh. The Crown opposes bail. He was arrested last night for uttering threats to cause
death or bodily harm to Wade Latimer of Wheeler, Hill."
Judge Graff's bored expression disappears. He suddenly seems to have taken an interest in what
the prosecutor is saying to him.
"He was also found to have marijuana on his person," Ogilvy says.
The marijuana he had was a half-smoked joint. That fucking drunk lawyer in the bar last night
couldn't let it go, Cavanagh thinks to himself angrily. Pride had to rear its head.
Ogilvy continues, "There are extenuating circumstances here in that there are further, much more
serious charges pending, charges surrounding a home invasion incident of five days ago."
The mention of additional charges wakes Cavanagh up. He gives his lawyer a perplexed look.
There's some kind of mistake here, he thinks.
Ogilvy goes on, "The Crown is of the mind that it would be imprudent to release Mr. Cavanagh into
the community at this time. The violent nature he displayed last night and the disturbing nature of
the home invasion means there is a very real threat of further criminal activity from this man. The
Crown is requesting Mr. Cavanagh be sent for a thirty-day fitness assessment, in custody, to
determine his mental state." Ogilvy sits down.
Judge Graff looks at Cavanagh's lawyer. Everett stands and says, "Your honour, this is my client's
first experience with a criminal matter. He has no record. As far as this home invasion is
concerned, this is the first I've heard of it. Is there any evidence that links Mr. Cavanagh to it?"
"How do you respond to that?" the judge asks Ogilvy.
Ogilvy rises halfway up from his chair and says to the provincial court judge, "A suspect description
matches that of Mr. Cavanagh. We have fingerprints on a package of cigarettes found at the scene.
We expect to have the results back from forensics any time now." Ogilvy settles back into his chair.
I had a package of cigarettes on me when I was arrested, Cavanagh thinks to himself. They've put
my cigarettes in with the evidence of another case. I'm being set up here.
Judge Graff says decisively, "Okay. We'll hold him while those prints are being processed. I'm
denying bail and granting the order for a psychiatric assessment."
The speed of the proceeding and the decision to keep him locked up has Cavanagh in a daze. He
has a chance to say "I love you" to Audrey before the guard leads him out of the courtroom.
Ogilvy is walking down the courthouse corridor back to his office when his cell phone begins to
vibrate. He answers the call.
"Ogilvy here," he says.
"Bob, it's Bernie Skrivanos. How are you?"
"I'm good," Ogilvy tells him as he approaches his office. "You still practicing law in Vancouver?"
"I'm semi-retired from law now. I'm quietly promoting a company with equity issued on the
Venture Exchange. However, I will take on a legal file if I consider the cause a worthy one."
Ogilvy closes his office door behind him and sits down at his desk. "I just might have a worthy
cause for you, Bernie."
"I'm listening."
"We're holding a man in custody. His name is Jeffrey Cavanagh. Ever heard of him?"
"Never."
"Me neither. Turns out he may have money. A lot of it."
"What makes you think that?"
"He had a brokerage statement on his person when he was picked up."
"How much?"
"Approximately one million dollars. The money isn't in his name, though. It's a company account
under the name MC 80 Inc."
"A corporation. Who's his counsel?" Skrivanos inquires of Ogilvy.
"Duty counsel. Vince Everett."
"Vince Everett," Skrivanos replies with a knowing sigh. "How's Vince doing?"
"Same as usual."
"Does Cavanagh have a record?"
"No record. Nothing. It's his first offence, he's never been in the system before. He's forty-two."
"What's he doing in jail?" Skrivanos asks, surprised. It's unusual for a forty-two year old with no
criminal record to wind up in the criminal courts.
"He was picked up for uttering threats against Wade Latimer."
"Wade Latimer of Wheeler, Hill?"
"Yeah, that Wade Latimer. He had some pot on him too. I'm putting a package together. There
was a break and enter a couple of weeks ago. We can attach him to that."
"Fax me the brokerage statement and everything else that was in his wallet when you picked him
up. I'll check him out and get back to you."
"Will do," Ogilvy says to Skrivanos.
The information Skrivanos asked for is in the police file. Ogilvy compiles it and faxes it to the
number Skrivanos gave him. In his Gastown office Bernard D. Skrivanos looks over the material.
He references MC 80 Inc. on a government website containing a database of the province's
registered companies. It tells him that the president and sole director of the company is Jeffrey A.
Cavanagh. Then he calls the stock trading number for Paramount Bank and Trust.
"I'd like to do a trade in my account," Skrivanos tells the representative.
"Name and account number please," says the trader.
"336 733. It's a corporate account in the name of MC 80 Inc. My name is Jeffrey Cavanagh."
"I'll need to verify your birth date as a security precaution, sir," says the trader.
Skrivanos finds Cavanagh's birth date on a photocopy of his driver's license. "June 21st, 1963," he
says.
"Thank you Mr. Cavanagh. How can I help you today?" asks the trader.
"I'd like to sell one hundred shares of TransCanada Corporation."
"At what price, sir?"
"Market."
"One hundred shares of TransCanada Corporation at market price." Skrivanos hears the trader
type the transaction into his terminal. Then the trader says, "That transaction has been executed.
You sold one hundred shares of TransCanada Corp., ticker TRP on the Toronto Stock Exchange,
at market value. Any other trades, sir?"
"No, that's it. Can you tell me where the total portfolio market value is today?"
"One million one hundred and six thousand and three hundred dollars."
"That's all thank you."
"Thank you for trading with Paramount Bank and Trust sir."
"Vancouver police have been granted a search warrant extension allowing them to begin
excavating the Richmond slaughterhouse. Police refuse to confirm a report that body parts,
including the heads of three women, were found in a fridge on the Pfister property. A police
spokesperson would only say that the investigation is on-going. And now for CWNU News Radio
630 AM traffic and weather together. A heavy rainfall warning has been issued for the lower
mainland..."
Ogilvy sits in his motionless car listening to the news station on the radio. An accident has him
stuck in a traffic jam in rush hour in the middle of the Lions Gate Bridge. Traffic obstructions are
routine if you commute to Vancouver from North Van for work. The relentless rain pounding the
city makes the drive even more tedious. It's the price of living in the lower mainland's most
civilized community, he thinks to himself smugly. Ogilvy's cell phone goes off. He flips it open
and answers the call.
"Bob Ogilvy here."
"You were right," Skrivanos confirms. "The guy's got money. And he's liquid. He's the president
and sole signing officer of MC 80 Inc. He is MC 80 Inc. Just him. The money's all in the stock
market, consolidated and easy to move. All blue-chip Canada."
"How much?"
"Adjusted to today's market close...eight hundred thousand," Skrivanos lies.
"How long do you need us to hold him?"
"We'll need a little time to set up shop. What's my window here? When do you sentence him?"
"Whenever you want. He's ours. We own him. We can continue to put his case over until you tell
me everything's in place."
"I'll need at least ninety days to bleed him out."
"That can be done."
"What's your fee?"
"We want thirty per cent. Half up front."
"A thirty per cent finders fee? Seems rich," Skrivanos says calmly, feigning surprise. "Isn't the
going rate more in the vicinity of ten per cent for these deals?"
"It's not a finders fee, Bernie, it's an administration fee." Traffic starts moving on the bridge again.
"Making Cavanagh invisible requires paperwork and court time. I'm making the government's
incarceration services available to you. You're retaining the Province of British Columbia here.
You tell me that isn't worth thirty per cent."
"What's thirty per cent of eight hundred thousand? Two hundred and forty?"
"Yeah, a quarter." Ogilvy changes into the bridge's middle lane. "We need one twenty-five in
advance. That way all the parties involved in this project understand the depth of its weight."
"We can probably do that."
"This is a very attractive catch, Bernie. Cavanagh's loaded and he won't be missed by anyone who
matters. He's just some working class punk who probably came into the cash through an
inheritance or an insurance settlement. You'll never get a call from me again with anything like
what I'm holding in the tank right now because I'll never come across another Jeffrey Cavanagh."
"I'll talk to my Winnipeg and Toronto partners. We'll have a cheque for you next week."
"By Wednesday or the deal's off and I release him," Ogilvy says firmly, nudging Skrivanos to
commit to the agreement.
"You'll have a cheque by Wednesday."
After the bail hearing Cavanagh is transported from Vancouver Jail to the Forensic Psychiatric
Hospital. He goes through the intake process and at six-thirty that evening he's assigned a cell.
He's missed dinner so a guard gives him a bagged lunch to eat - a ham and cheese sandwich, an
orange and an apple juice. He takes his food with him to the telephone and calls Audrey.
"Where are you? I've been waiting for you to call," she tells him anxiously.
"I'm in Port Coquitlam." He takes a bite of his sandwich. "They've got me in the fuckin' loony bin
with the freaks."
"I have to go. I'm with a client right now," Audrey says in a hushed tone.
"You are?" Cavanagh says, surprised. Audrey always turns her phone off when she's in a session
at Superstar.
"Yes. Call me back in half an hour."
"Deal."
Cavanagh goes to the TV room. He finishes his food while watching the news with the other
inmates. All they seem to be talking about on TV is the discovery of bodies in a slaughterhouse in
Richmond. Thirty minutes later he calls Audrey again.
"How're you doing?" he asks her.
"I'm okay. I got fired from the department store. I told you I was going to get fired."
"Fuck 'em. You're too good for them anyway."
"They said it was because I was late for work today but they were just looking for an excuse to let
me go. It means I have to work full-time at Superstar. I might move in with Sherelle."
"You do what you have to do, baby. I just have to endure this place. Hopefully for not much
longer."
"What's it like in there?"
"I can handle it. They're going to have a psychiatrist check me out to see if I'm crazy or whatever.
I'll get through it."
"When do you think you'll be coming home?"
"If we go to trial I'll be found innocent. The charge for the home invasion is complete rubbish.
This threatening thing against your friend Mr. Latimer is being blown way out of proportion. It's
like they had it in for me in court this morning. There's something going on here."
"The only court I like is the food court at the mall," Audrey jokes, lightening the mood. That's the
Audrey Cavanagh loves. "How's the food in jail?" she asks.
"Could be worse. Audrey?"
"Yeah?"
"You being a part of this crap-" A swell of sadness causes him to stumble. "I'm sorry," he
manages to say.
"Me too. It's not your fault Wade's a prick."
"I've never run across people like this before. They're a cold bunch. When this shitstorm passes
we'll put it behind us and move on."
"Be careful, Jeff. Don't get into any trouble in there," Audrey says to him. "I want you in one
piece when you get out."
Cavanagh tells Audrey he loves her then says goodbye.
The next day Cavanagh sees a psychiatrist at the Forensic Psychiatric Hospital as they begin his
psychological assessment. Although Cavanagh insists he has no psychological problems to speak
of, the psychiatrist is of a different opinion. Everyone has problems, the psychiatrist tells him, and
you're no exception. He diagnoses Cavanagh as mentally ill, suffering from bi-polar disorder, and
prescribes him a heavy dosage of an anti-psychotic drug called Seroquel. Twice daily, once in the
morning and once in the evening, a nurse and a guard come to his unit with a cart of drugs. All the
inmates line up eagerly for their meds. To make sure the drugs are consumed and not thrown out
or horded, the inmates must wash their pills down with a paper cup of water in front of the nurse
and the guard. The Seroquel makes Cavanagh feel drowsy and lazy. He decides that sleeping
through this ordeal probably isn't such a bad thing.
Two days later Cavanagh is playing a game of table tennis in the yard during gym when he's
approached by two inmates, Dosanjh and Baines. Baines does all the talking.
"Cavanagh, come take a walk with us," Baines says.
"I'll give you this game," Cavanagh says amiably to his ping pong partner. He puts down the bat.
The three men walk the perimeter of the yard.
"You got court tomorrow, right?" Baines asks Cavanagh.
"Yeah," Cavanagh answers, wondering how Baines could know this. It's Cavanagh's intention to
plead not guilty to the charges against him in court in the morning and take the case to trial.
"We've been asked to give you a message," Baines says.
"By who?"
"Doesn't matter."
"What message?"
"Plead out your charges. Don't take your case to trial. You'll get a year. Do the time and, voila,
eight months from now you're back on the street."
"Eight months?" Cavanagh says, taken aback by the notion of spending that much time in jail.
"Who asked you to tell me this?"
"It doesn't matter who asked us to talk to you. What matters is that we have an understanding.
Roll over and play dead."
"What if I say no?"
"You say 'no' you sure as fuck better have a rich old lady waiting for you outside because you
won't be physically able to work no more. Taking a piss'll be more than you can handle. We'll
make you're life inside hell long before your case ever gets to trial. Maybe you'll leave here in a
wheelchair. Maybe you won't leave here at all."
Cavanagh stops in his tracks. "Fuck you," he shoots back.
"Fuck me? No, fuck you." Baines takes a quick glance around the yard then smashes Cavanagh in
the head with an electron-fast hit. He pushes him face down to the ground then, with a knee in his
spine, he pulls Cavanagh's left arm behind his back, easing off when it feels like he's about to snap
his collarbone.
"Kiss the earth muthafucker," Baines says.
Holding the back of Cavanagh's head with a fist of his hair, Baines scrapes Cavanagh's face along
the concrete, back and forth, dirt and stones grinding into the skin of his cheeks, his chin and his
lips. Baines kneels down and whispers in his ear, "You disrespect me like that, fool? Plead out the
charges or next time I break your neck." Baines rises and boots Cavanagh in the ribs. Dosanjh and
Baines walk away, leaving Cavanagh lying there, moaning in pain and shock.
Cavanagh did as he was told. He came to the quick conclusion - no one ever said Jeff Cavanagh
wasn't quick - that he had no power within B.C.'s justice system. His lawyer advised that accepting
the Crown's offer of a year in prison would see him released faster than waiting months for a trial
where he would probably be sentenced to at least two years in the can. There was little doubt he
would be found guilty.
He couldn't reach Audrey to tell her what was happening so she was absent from his final two court
appearances - one where he pleaded guilty to the charges and another, a sentencing hearing, where
he was sentenced by Judge Henry Graff to twelve months in jail.
He can hack the time. Dosanjh and Baines don't bother him now. They're all smiles. And
knowing he's got a million bucks in stock quietly accumulating dividends and interest doesn't hurt
either. A paid vacation. Twelve months in British Columbia's judicial jungle.
Eight months with good behaviour.
So as to make the transaction of separating Jeff Cavanagh from MC 80 Inc., and all the capital it
holds, appear legitimate and legal, Bernie Skrivanos set up a store-front operation that looked like
the offices of a small law firm. His two out of town partners-slash-investors, also lawyers licensed
to practice law in B.C., moved to Vancouver and conducted business out of those offices too.
Together they called themselves Skrivanos Associates. Now all Skrivanos needed was B.C.
Supreme Court paper. He puts a call in to his old chum Matthew Hamilton at his office in The Law
Courts on Smithe Street.
"Matt, it's Bernie Skrivanos. How's the golf swing?"
"With this weather? I haven't been on a golf course since July."
"I have a favour to ask of you. Well, it's not exactly a favour, you'll be compensated of course. I
need some paper. I need you to ratify an order. When can I see you?"
"What kind of order?"
"A very simple matter really. I need to transfer some dormant money."
"I'm in my office this afternoon. Does after lunch work for you?"
"Can we do one-thirty?"
"I'll see you at one-thirty."
Although it never occurred to him to use a fake document, it would have been exceptionally easy
for Skrivanos to have a counterfeit court order forged that included the terms necessary to hijack
MC 80 Inc. By using an actual order that contained the authentic signature of Mr. Justice Matthew
Hamilton of the Supreme Court of British Columbia, an order that had been given the seal of
approval of the judiciary, Skrivanos and his partners would have it made in the shade nonetheless.
The legitimacy of the order would never be questioned. It would be as much legal tender as a crisp
twenty dollar bill fresh out of the Royal Canadian Mint. Yes, thinks Skrivanos, Justice Hamilton
could shit on a legitimate B.C. Supreme Court order and sign it and it would be up to the recipient
to interpret what it meant legally.
Skrivanos didn't expect any opposition from Hamilton. Gossip flows just as rapidly in Vancouver
as it does in any other Canadian city. Not only does he have a reputation for being a sloppy and
lazy judge, it's also widely known that Matthew Hamilton is up to his neck in gambling debt to the
American mob. And Bernie Skrivanos has no qualms about using Hamilton's weakness against
him. In fact he enjoyed having the opportunity to use such unique leverage.
"Before we get too deep here give me some background on this matter," Judge Hamilton, a glass of
scotch in hand, says to Skrivanos sitting across from him in his office at the law courts. "Is there
anything I should know?"
"I agree, some due diligence is in order, Matt. You want to know if this is something that can come
back and bite you in the ass. The answer is 'no.' The long and short of it is we're removing a man
named Jeffrey Cavanagh from a holding company that has assets," Skrivanos explains to the judge.
"Well I need you to tell me why I don't have to be concerned about this Mr. Cavanagh attempting
to appeal the order. Does he own the company?"
"No, Jeffrey Cavanagh does not own the company," Skrivanos lies to the judge. "He's just a
director. And he's a convicted criminal currently behind bars."
The judge lets out a relieved sigh. "Well that in itself may preclude him from being a corporate
director," he says, referring to law within the British Columbia Company Act. "What crime did he
commit? Was it fraud?"
"No. It was a brutal and heinous home invasion. And threatening to murder one of ours, Wade
Latimer of Wheeler, Hill."
"My god," Hamilton says with a gasp.
"It's appalling. I've been in close contact with the Crown, Bob Ogilvy. Bob ordered a psychiatric
assessment and it turns out this guy's mentally ill, a paranoid schizophrenic. They've got him on
heavy medication. He's a nutcase. The Company Act prohibits the mentally infirm from serving as
corporate directors, am I correct?"
"Yes you are."
"Then you have got nothing to worry about, Matt."
"You're sure?"
"I'm sure."
"I ran into some regulatory compliance difficulties two years ago. I thought they were going to do a
conduct review."
"Matt, for all intents and purposes this guy is dead."
"What's the dollar value of the assets?"
"Four hundred and fifty thousand. Ten per cent off the top is yours. How does forty-five
thousand tax-free sound?"
"It sounds good. It sounds very good," the judge says nervously. "I just hope you're careful,
Bernie. If this boomerangs back on me I've got a lot to lose."
"Still playing the high roller rooms in Reno?"
"I haven't travelled across the line for quite some time."
"How much do you owe?"
Hamilton, not accustomed to being questioned by anyone in such a manner, grows irritated with
Skrivanos.
"I have no intention of discussing my finances with you, Bernie," an annoyed Hamilton says.
"When will I see the money?"
Skrivanos hands a sheet of paper to the judge. "Here's a draft of the order. Sign it; process it. I'll
need it within ninety days. Then you'll get your cheque."
call button. The number connects and a recorded message says only, "At the sound of the tone
leave a message." Beep.
"This is a message for Bernie Skrivanos," he says. "Bernie, this is Bob Ogilvy. I may have a lead
for some business that could be very worthwhile. This one'll expire in forty-eight hours though.
Get back to me before Friday if you're interested. I'm still with Crown Counsel downtown. Don't
call me here. Contact me at this number." Ogilvy leaves his cell phone number and hangs up.
Then he gathers some documents from his desk and leaves his office for court.
Cavanagh is lying on a bench in a cell trying to sleep. The morning jail activity - prisoners eating
breakfast, prisoners making court appearances - makes it difficult. He holds an arm over his face to
block out the light. There are three other men in the cell with him. The floor is strewn with
discarded brown lunch bags that had contained breakfast of a bran muffin and orange juice. He
hears a guard walking down the corridor, his keys jangling. The guard unlocks the cell door and
barks, "Cavanagh, time for court!"
Cavanagh pulls himself up of the bench and walks into the corridor.
"Raise your hands," the guard orders. The guard locks a set of cuffs around Cavanagh's wrists.
"Turn around and raise your right foot." The guard shackles his ankle. "Now the other one." He
shackles Cavanagh's left ankle.
"Follow me." The guard takes Cavanagh down the corridor to a courtroom entrance vestibule.
"Wait here."
After about fifteen minutes the courtroom door opens. A guard asks, "Cavanagh?"
"That's me."
"Let's go," says the guard.
Cavanagh slowly walks into the open court, the shackles around his ankles allowing only short
steps. There is one spectator in the audience - Audrey. He says "Hello" to her and nods at his
lawyer, Vince Everett. The Crown prosecutor addresses an indifferent-looking Judge Henry Graff.
"This is a bail hearing, your honour," Bob Ogilvy tells the judge. "The accused in this case is a Mr.
Jeffrey Cavanagh. The Crown opposes bail. He was arrested last night for uttering threats to cause
death or bodily harm to Wade Latimer of Wheeler, Hill."
Judge Graff's bored expression disappears. He suddenly seems to have taken an interest in what
the prosecutor is saying to him.
"He was also found to have marijuana on his person," Ogilvy says.
The marijuana he had was a half-smoked joint. That fucking drunk lawyer in the bar last night
couldn't let it go, Cavanagh thinks to himself angrily. Pride had to rear its head.
Ogilvy continues, "There are extenuating circumstances here in that there are further, much more
serious charges pending, charges surrounding a home invasion incident of five days ago."
The mention of additional charges wakes Cavanagh up. He gives his lawyer a perplexed look.
There's some kind of mistake here, he thinks.
Ogilvy goes on, "The Crown is of the mind that it would be imprudent to release Mr. Cavanagh into
the community at this time. The violent nature he displayed last night and the disturbing nature of
the home invasion means there is a very real threat of further criminal activity from this man. The
Crown is requesting Mr. Cavanagh be sent for a thirty-day fitness assessment, in custody, to
determine his mental state." Ogilvy sits down.
Judge Graff looks at Cavanagh's lawyer. Everett stands and says, "Your honour, this is my client's
first experience with a criminal matter. He has no record. As far as this home invasion is
concerned, this is the first I've heard of it. Is there any evidence that links Mr. Cavanagh to it?"
"How do you respond to that?" the judge asks Ogilvy.
Ogilvy rises halfway up from his chair and says to the provincial court judge, "A suspect description
matches that of Mr. Cavanagh. We have fingerprints on a package of cigarettes found at the scene.
We expect to have the results back from forensics any time now." Ogilvy settles back into his chair.
I had a package of cigarettes on me when I was arrested, Cavanagh thinks to himself. They've put
my cigarettes in with the evidence of another case. I'm being set up here.
Judge Graff says decisively, "Okay. We'll hold him while those prints are being processed. I'm
denying bail and granting the order for a psychiatric assessment."
The speed of the proceeding and the decision to keep him locked up has Cavanagh in a daze. He
has a chance to say "I love you" to Audrey before the guard leads him out of the courtroom.
Ogilvy is walking down the courthouse corridor back to his office when his cell phone begins to
vibrate. He answers the call.
"Ogilvy here," he says.
"Bob, it's Bernie Skrivanos. How are you?"
"I'm good," Ogilvy tells him as he approaches his office. "You still practicing law in Vancouver?"
"I'm semi-retired from law now. I'm quietly promoting a company with equity issued on the
Venture Exchange. However, I will take on a legal file if I consider the cause a worthy one."
Ogilvy closes his office door behind him and sits down at his desk. "I just might have a worthy
cause for you, Bernie."
"I'm listening."
"We're holding a man in custody. His name is Jeffrey Cavanagh. Ever heard of him?"
"Never."
"Me neither. Turns out he may have money. A lot of it."
"What makes you think that?"
"He had a brokerage statement on his person when he was picked up."
"How much?"
"Approximately one million dollars. The money isn't in his name, though. It's a company account
under the name MC 80 Inc."
"A corporation. Who's his counsel?" Skrivanos inquires of Ogilvy.
"Duty counsel. Vince Everett."
"Vince Everett," Skrivanos replies with a knowing sigh. "How's Vince doing?"
"Same as usual."
"Does Cavanagh have a record?"
"No record. Nothing. It's his first offence, he's never been in the system before. He's forty-two."
"What's he doing in jail?" Skrivanos asks, surprised. It's unusual for a forty-two year old with no
criminal record to wind up in the criminal courts.
"He was picked up for uttering threats against Wade Latimer."
"Wade Latimer of Wheeler, Hill?"
"Yeah, that Wade Latimer. He had some pot on him too. I'm putting a package together. There
was a break and enter a couple of weeks ago. We can attach him to that."
"Fax me the brokerage statement and everything else that was in his wallet when you picked him
up. I'll check him out and get back to you."
"Will do," Ogilvy says to Skrivanos.
The information Skrivanos asked for is in the police file. Ogilvy compiles it and faxes it to the
number Skrivanos gave him. In his Gastown office Bernard D. Skrivanos looks over the material.
He references MC 80 Inc. on a government website containing a database of the province's
registered companies. It tells him that the president and sole director of the company is Jeffrey A.
Cavanagh. Then he calls the stock trading number for Paramount Bank and Trust.
"I'd like to do a trade in my account," Skrivanos tells the representative.
"Name and account number please," says the trader.
"336 733. It's a corporate account in the name of MC 80 Inc. My name is Jeffrey Cavanagh."
"I'll need to verify your birth date as a security precaution, sir," says the trader.
Skrivanos finds Cavanagh's birth date on a photocopy of his driver's license. "June 21st, 1963," he
says.
"Thank you Mr. Cavanagh. How can I help you today?" asks the trader.
"I'd like to sell one hundred shares of TransCanada Corporation."
"At what price, sir?"
"Market."
"One hundred shares of TransCanada Corporation at market price." Skrivanos hears the trader
type the transaction into his terminal. Then the trader says, "That transaction has been executed.
You sold one hundred shares of TransCanada Corp., ticker TRP on the Toronto Stock Exchange,
at market value. Any other trades, sir?"
"No, that's it. Can you tell me where the total portfolio market value is today?"
"One million one hundred and six thousand and three hundred dollars."
"That's all thank you."
"Thank you for trading with Paramount Bank and Trust sir."
"Vancouver police have been granted a search warrant extension allowing them to begin
excavating the Richmond slaughterhouse. Police refuse to confirm a report that body parts,
including the heads of three women, were found in a fridge on the Pfister property. A police
spokesperson would only say that the investigation is on-going. And now for CWNU News Radio
630 AM traffic and weather together. A heavy rainfall warning has been issued for the lower
mainland..."
Ogilvy sits in his motionless car listening to the news station on the radio. An accident has him
stuck in a traffic jam in rush hour in the middle of the Lions Gate Bridge. Traffic obstructions are
routine if you commute to Vancouver from North Van for work. The relentless rain pounding the
city makes the drive even more tedious. It's the price of living in the lower mainland's most
civilized community, he thinks to himself smugly. Ogilvy's cell phone goes off. He flips it open
and answers the call.
"Bob Ogilvy here."
"You were right," Skrivanos confirms. "The guy's got money. And he's liquid. He's the president
and sole signing officer of MC 80 Inc. He is MC 80 Inc. Just him. The money's all in the stock
market, consolidated and easy to move. All blue-chip Canada."
"How much?"
"Adjusted to today's market close...eight hundred thousand," Skrivanos lies.
"How long do you need us to hold him?"
"We'll need a little time to set up shop. What's my window here? When do you sentence him?"
"Whenever you want. He's ours. We own him. We can continue to put his case over until you tell
me everything's in place."
"I'll need at least ninety days to bleed him out."
"That can be done."
"What's your fee?"
"We want thirty per cent. Half up front."
"A thirty per cent finders fee? Seems rich," Skrivanos says calmly, feigning surprise. "Isn't the
going rate more in the vicinity of ten per cent for these deals?"
"It's not a finders fee, Bernie, it's an administration fee." Traffic starts moving on the bridge again.
"Making Cavanagh invisible requires paperwork and court time. I'm making the government's
incarceration services available to you. You're retaining the Province of British Columbia here.
You tell me that isn't worth thirty per cent."
"What's thirty per cent of eight hundred thousand? Two hundred and forty?"
"Yeah, a quarter." Ogilvy changes into the bridge's middle lane. "We need one twenty-five in
advance. That way all the parties involved in this project understand the depth of its weight."
"We can probably do that."
"This is a very attractive catch, Bernie. Cavanagh's loaded and he won't be missed by anyone who
matters. He's just some working class punk who probably came into the cash through an
inheritance or an insurance settlement. You'll never get a call from me again with anything like
what I'm holding in the tank right now because I'll never come across another Jeffrey Cavanagh."
"I'll talk to my Winnipeg and Toronto partners. We'll have a cheque for you next week."
"By Wednesday or the deal's off and I release him," Ogilvy says firmly, nudging Skrivanos to
commit to the agreement.
"You'll have a cheque by Wednesday."
After the bail hearing Cavanagh is transported from Vancouver Jail to the Forensic Psychiatric
Hospital. He goes through the intake process and at six-thirty that evening he's assigned a cell.
He's missed dinner so a guard gives him a bagged lunch to eat - a ham and cheese sandwich, an
orange and an apple juice. He takes his food with him to the telephone and calls Audrey.
"Where are you? I've been waiting for you to call," she tells him anxiously.
"I'm in Port Coquitlam." He takes a bite of his sandwich. "They've got me in the fuckin' loony bin
with the freaks."
"I have to go. I'm with a client right now," Audrey says in a hushed tone.
"You are?" Cavanagh says, surprised. Audrey always turns her phone off when she's in a session
at Superstar.
"Yes. Call me back in half an hour."
"Deal."
Cavanagh goes to the TV room. He finishes his food while watching the news with the other
inmates. All they seem to be talking about on TV is the discovery of bodies in a slaughterhouse in
Richmond. Thirty minutes later he calls Audrey again.
"How're you doing?" he asks her.
"I'm okay. I got fired from the department store. I told you I was going to get fired."
"Fuck 'em. You're too good for them anyway."
"They said it was because I was late for work today but they were just looking for an excuse to let
me go. It means I have to work full-time at Superstar. I might move in with Sherelle."
"You do what you have to do, baby. I just have to endure this place. Hopefully for not much
longer."
"What's it like in there?"
"I can handle it. They're going to have a psychiatrist check me out to see if I'm crazy or whatever.
I'll get through it."
"When do you think you'll be coming home?"
"If we go to trial I'll be found innocent. The charge for the home invasion is complete rubbish.
This threatening thing against your friend Mr. Latimer is being blown way out of proportion. It's
like they had it in for me in court this morning. There's something going on here."
"The only court I like is the food court at the mall," Audrey jokes, lightening the mood. That's the
Audrey Cavanagh loves. "How's the food in jail?" she asks.
"Could be worse. Audrey?"
"Yeah?"
"You being a part of this crap-" A swell of sadness causes him to stumble. "I'm sorry," he
manages to say.
"Me too. It's not your fault Wade's a prick."
"I've never run across people like this before. They're a cold bunch. When this shitstorm passes
we'll put it behind us and move on."
"Be careful, Jeff. Don't get into any trouble in there," Audrey says to him. "I want you in one
piece when you get out."
Cavanagh tells Audrey he loves her then says goodbye.
The next day Cavanagh sees a psychiatrist at the Forensic Psychiatric Hospital as they begin his
psychological assessment. Although Cavanagh insists he has no psychological problems to speak
of, the psychiatrist is of a different opinion. Everyone has problems, the psychiatrist tells him, and
you're no exception. He diagnoses Cavanagh as mentally ill, suffering from bi-polar disorder, and
prescribes him a heavy dosage of an anti-psychotic drug called Seroquel. Twice daily, once in the
morning and once in the evening, a nurse and a guard come to his unit with a cart of drugs. All the
inmates line up eagerly for their meds. To make sure the drugs are consumed and not thrown out
or horded, the inmates must wash their pills down with a paper cup of water in front of the nurse
and the guard. The Seroquel makes Cavanagh feel drowsy and lazy. He decides that sleeping
through this ordeal probably isn't such a bad thing.
Two days later Cavanagh is playing a game of table tennis in the yard during gym when he's
approached by two inmates, Dosanjh and Baines. Baines does all the talking.
"Cavanagh, come take a walk with us," Baines says.
"I'll give you this game," Cavanagh says amiably to his ping pong partner. He puts down the bat.
The three men walk the perimeter of the yard.
"You got court tomorrow, right?" Baines asks Cavanagh.
"Yeah," Cavanagh answers, wondering how Baines could know this. It's Cavanagh's intention to
plead not guilty to the charges against him in court in the morning and take the case to trial.
"We've been asked to give you a message," Baines says.
"By who?"
"Doesn't matter."
"What message?"
"Plead out your charges. Don't take your case to trial. You'll get a year. Do the time and, voila,
eight months from now you're back on the street."
"Eight months?" Cavanagh says, taken aback by the notion of spending that much time in jail.
"Who asked you to tell me this?"
"It doesn't matter who asked us to talk to you. What matters is that we have an understanding.
Roll over and play dead."
"What if I say no?"
"You say 'no' you sure as fuck better have a rich old lady waiting for you outside because you
won't be physically able to work no more. Taking a piss'll be more than you can handle. We'll
make you're life inside hell long before your case ever gets to trial. Maybe you'll leave here in a
wheelchair. Maybe you won't leave here at all."
Cavanagh stops in his tracks. "Fuck you," he shoots back.
"Fuck me? No, fuck you." Baines takes a quick glance around the yard then smashes Cavanagh in
the head with an electron-fast hit. He pushes him face down to the ground then, with a knee in his
spine, he pulls Cavanagh's left arm behind his back, easing off when it feels like he's about to snap
his collarbone.
"Kiss the earth muthafucker," Baines says.
Holding the back of Cavanagh's head with a fist of his hair, Baines scrapes Cavanagh's face along
the concrete, back and forth, dirt and stones grinding into the skin of his cheeks, his chin and his
lips. Baines kneels down and whispers in his ear, "You disrespect me like that, fool? Plead out the
charges or next time I break your neck." Baines rises and boots Cavanagh in the ribs. Dosanjh and
Baines walk away, leaving Cavanagh lying there, moaning in pain and shock.
Cavanagh did as he was told. He came to the quick conclusion - no one ever said Jeff Cavanagh
wasn't quick - that he had no power within B.C.'s justice system. His lawyer advised that accepting
the Crown's offer of a year in prison would see him released faster than waiting months for a trial
where he would probably be sentenced to at least two years in the can. There was little doubt he
would be found guilty.
He couldn't reach Audrey to tell her what was happening so she was absent from his final two court
appearances - one where he pleaded guilty to the charges and another, a sentencing hearing, where
he was sentenced by Judge Henry Graff to twelve months in jail.
He can hack the time. Dosanjh and Baines don't bother him now. They're all smiles. And
knowing he's got a million bucks in stock quietly accumulating dividends and interest doesn't hurt
either. A paid vacation. Twelve months in British Columbia's judicial jungle.
Eight months with good behaviour.
So as to make the transaction of separating Jeff Cavanagh from MC 80 Inc., and all the capital it
holds, appear legitimate and legal, Bernie Skrivanos set up a store-front operation that looked like
the offices of a small law firm. His two out of town partners-slash-investors, also lawyers licensed
to practice law in B.C., moved to Vancouver and conducted business out of those offices too.
Together they called themselves Skrivanos Associates. Now all Skrivanos needed was B.C.
Supreme Court paper. He puts a call in to his old chum Matthew Hamilton at his office in The Law
Courts on Smithe Street.
"Matt, it's Bernie Skrivanos. How's the golf swing?"
"With this weather? I haven't been on a golf course since July."
"I have a favour to ask of you. Well, it's not exactly a favour, you'll be compensated of course. I
need some paper. I need you to ratify an order. When can I see you?"
"What kind of order?"
"A very simple matter really. I need to transfer some dormant money."
"I'm in my office this afternoon. Does after lunch work for you?"
"Can we do one-thirty?"
"I'll see you at one-thirty."
Although it never occurred to him to use a fake document, it would have been exceptionally easy
for Skrivanos to have a counterfeit court order forged that included the terms necessary to hijack
MC 80 Inc. By using an actual order that contained the authentic signature of Mr. Justice Matthew
Hamilton of the Supreme Court of British Columbia, an order that had been given the seal of
approval of the judiciary, Skrivanos and his partners would have it made in the shade nonetheless.
The legitimacy of the order would never be questioned. It would be as much legal tender as a crisp
twenty dollar bill fresh out of the Royal Canadian Mint. Yes, thinks Skrivanos, Justice Hamilton
could shit on a legitimate B.C. Supreme Court order and sign it and it would be up to the recipient
to interpret what it meant legally.
Skrivanos didn't expect any opposition from Hamilton. Gossip flows just as rapidly in Vancouver
as it does in any other Canadian city. Not only does he have a reputation for being a sloppy and
lazy judge, it's also widely known that Matthew Hamilton is up to his neck in gambling debt to the
American mob. And Bernie Skrivanos has no qualms about using Hamilton's weakness against
him. In fact he enjoyed having the opportunity to use such unique leverage.
"Before we get too deep here give me some background on this matter," Judge Hamilton, a glass of
scotch in hand, says to Skrivanos sitting across from him in his office at the law courts. "Is there
anything I should know?"
"I agree, some due diligence is in order, Matt. You want to know if this is something that can come
back and bite you in the ass. The answer is 'no.' The long and short of it is we're removing a man
named Jeffrey Cavanagh from a holding company that has assets," Skrivanos explains to the judge.
"Well I need you to tell me why I don't have to be concerned about this Mr. Cavanagh attempting
to appeal the order. Does he own the company?"
"No, Jeffrey Cavanagh does not own the company," Skrivanos lies to the judge. "He's just a
director. And he's a convicted criminal currently behind bars."
The judge lets out a relieved sigh. "Well that in itself may preclude him from being a corporate
director," he says, referring to law within the British Columbia Company Act. "What crime did he
commit? Was it fraud?"
"No. It was a brutal and heinous home invasion. And threatening to murder one of ours, Wade
Latimer of Wheeler, Hill."
"My god," Hamilton says with a gasp.
"It's appalling. I've been in close contact with the Crown, Bob Ogilvy. Bob ordered a psychiatric
assessment and it turns out this guy's mentally ill, a paranoid schizophrenic. They've got him on
heavy medication. He's a nutcase. The Company Act prohibits the mentally infirm from serving as
corporate directors, am I correct?"
"Yes you are."
"Then you have got nothing to worry about, Matt."
"You're sure?"
"I'm sure."
"I ran into some regulatory compliance difficulties two years ago. I thought they were going to do a
conduct review."
"Matt, for all intents and purposes this guy is dead."
"What's the dollar value of the assets?"
"Four hundred and fifty thousand. Ten per cent off the top is yours. How does forty-five
thousand tax-free sound?"
"It sounds good. It sounds very good," the judge says nervously. "I just hope you're careful,
Bernie. If this boomerangs back on me I've got a lot to lose."
"Still playing the high roller rooms in Reno?"
"I haven't travelled across the line for quite some time."
"How much do you owe?"
Hamilton, not accustomed to being questioned by anyone in such a manner, grows irritated with
Skrivanos.
"I have no intention of discussing my finances with you, Bernie," an annoyed Hamilton says.
"When will I see the money?"
Skrivanos hands a sheet of paper to the judge. "Here's a draft of the order. Sign it; process it. I'll
need it within ninety days. Then you'll get your cheque."
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