Chapter 13 - The Marina Raid
Lake Hopatcong was veiled in a thick, gray drizzle when Arthur’s private investigator, a retired state trooper named Frank Callahan, pulled his dark SUV onto the gravel shoulder opposite Hopatcong Marine Services. The air smelled of gasoline, damp pine needles, and stagnant lake water.
Arthur sat in the passenger seat with a briefcase resting on his knees, while Detective Miller from the state financial task force sat behind us in an unmarked cruiser alongside two New Jersey State Police officers. I insisted on sitting in the rear of Callahan’s car. Arthur had begged me to stay in the city, but after forty years of defending Harborview, I was not going to watch this battle from the sidelines.
"Confirming the target," Frank Callahan murmured, lowering a pair of high-powered binoculars. "Second-floor window above the maintenance bay. Guy in a gray tracksuit just pulled back the blinds to smoke a cigarette. Balding, scar on the left cheek. That’s Raymond Cruz."
"Does he know we're here?" Arthur asked, checking his watch.
"Not yet," Callahan replied. "He thinks he’s a forgotten ghost. Douglas Sterling’s lawyers have probably been feeding him a monthly stipend to keep him quiet until the foreclosure hearing in federal court next Tuesday."
Detective Miller’s radio crackled through Callahan’s receiver: Moving in.
Two unmarked police cruisers rolled silently across the asphalt, blocking the exit ramp of the marina. Detective Miller and two uniformed troopers strode swiftly toward the rusted metal stairs leading to the second-story apartment, their weapons unholstered and held at low-ready.
"Police! Search warrant! Raymond Cruz, open the door!" Miller’s voice boomed across the quiet cove.
A crash of shattering glass echoed through the courtyard.
"He’s running out the rear fire escape!" Callahan shouted, shifting into gear and swinging the vehicle around the boat slips.
Through the rain-streaked window, I saw Raymond Cruz sprinting across the slippery wooden docks, clutching a black nylon duffel bag against his chest. He was heading for a moored twenty-four-foot fiberglass speedboat tied to slip seven. His boots skidded on the wet timber, and he scrambled frantically to untie the bowline.
"Stop right there, Cruz!" Miller shouted, rounding the corner of the boathouse with his badge raised.
Cruz didn't stop. He jumped into the boat, fumbling with the ignition keys. The engine let out a guttural cough, sputtered, and died. He twisted the key again in wild desperation, swearing loudly into the rain.
Before he could turn it a third time, Callahan slammed the SUV to a halt, and Miller leaped onto the stern of the boat. With one swift, decisive motion, Miller dragged Cruz backward across the vinyl seats and pinned him face-down against the engine cover.
The steel cuffs clicked with satisfying finality.
"Raymond Cruz," Miller panted, catching his breath as the cold rain plastered his hair to his forehead. "You are under arrest for felony perjury, criminal possession of a forged instrument, and conspiracy to commit commercial fraud."
"I didn't do anything!" Cruz shrieked, spitting lake water from his lips. "I was just doing paperwork for Bradley Cole! I didn't know it was fake!"
Arthur and I stepped out of the SUV, walking onto the wooden dock under a large black umbrella.
Cruz looked up from the engine cover, his eyes locking onto me. His defiance dissolved into sudden, quivering guilt.
"Mrs. Bennett," he stammered, shivering in the drizzle.
"Mr. Cruz," I replied calmly, stepping to the edge of the gunwale. "You certified under oath that I sat in your office in Hoboken on November fourteenth and signed over a five-million-dollar mortgage to Douglas Sterling."
"Bradley paid me ten grand!" Cruz blurted out, terrified of facing a decade behind bars. "He told me you were in a nursing home and Ethan had full conservatorship! He had the fake power of attorney stamped by the city! I swear, I didn't know they were stealing the hotel!"
Arthur opened his briefcase, pulling out a legal document. "What’s inside that black duffel bag on the deck, Raymond?"
Miller unzipped the nylon bag. Inside lay two high-end external hard drives, a ledger of offshore bank routing numbers, and a manila folder marked Apex Crest / Cole Settlement Agreement.
Miller pulled out a signed, original agreement. He scanned the first page and let out a low whistle.
"Look at this, Arthur," Miller said, handing the paper over. "A side letter executed between Bradley Cole and Douglas Sterling. If the north wing foreclosure goes through, Douglas agreed to pay Bradley an offshore finder's fee of one point two million dollars into an account in Belize. And Raymond Cruz was paid fifty thousand dollars in cash by Douglas Sterling's private attorney to stay hidden until the summary judgment was finalized."
I looked at the trembling notary on the boat deck. "It seems, Mr. Cruz, that your silence was bought with Douglas Sterling's checkbook. But in federal court, that check just bounced."
Cruz buried his face against the wet vinyl. "I'll talk. I'll sign whatever you want. Just don't let them put me in state prison with Bradley’s associates."
"Take him in," Miller ordered the troopers.
May you like
Arthur looked at me under the rim of the umbrella, a wide, triumphant grin breaking across his lined face. "Douglas Sterling thought he was going to auction our north wing on Tuesday. Now, he’s about to walk into an ambush."
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