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“Got it,” said Imani.
Jack had thought Imani and the pirates were behind him, at least for a while. Then everything changed when he received a phone call from the head of the U.S. attorney’s cybercrime unit in Manhattan telling him that federal prosecutors wanted to meet with Imani and her lawyer. This wasn’t the kind of invitation you could RSVP no to.
“This has to be a mistake,” said Imani as they stepped into the elevator.
“We’ll see,” said Jack.
The meeting was in the basement of the Thurgood Marshall United States Courthouse. Prosecutors had proposed their offices, which Jack had nixed. An “Imani sighting” at the U.S. Attorney’s Office would have triggered rumors that she was somehow connected to a criminal investigation. The federal courthouse wasn’t exactly neutral ground, but prosecutors were loath to give up the inherent power of “you come to us,” so Jack agreed. It was surely no coincidence that they were in a windowless conference room near the underground tunnel that connected the courthouse to the detention center. A steady stream of inmates on their way to arraignment served to remind Jack and his client how important it was that this meeting go well.
“We know your client perjured herself at the hearing in Miami,” said the senior prosecutor.
Apart from the fact that he was head of the cybercrime unit, Edwin Miles had the markings of a formidable adversary: midforties, perpetual bags under the eyes from not enough sleep, and the vaguely athletic build of a former jock who could no longer find time to exercise. It all added up to a career prosecutor who was married to his job.
“Since when is the U.S. attorney in New York concerned about what goes on in civil cases in Florida state court?” asked Jack.
“Your client testified under oath that she derives no economic benefit from her ‘go pirate’ campaign. We know that’s false.”
“What kind of economic benefit do you believe she’s getting?”
“Kickbacks,” said Miles. “By our calculation, the pirates are paying her more for every illegal download of her songs than her record label pays her for legal downloads.”
“That’s not true!” said Imani.
Jack hand signaled her, a reminder to let him do the talking.
“Mr. Miles, there are so many things wrong with what you’re telling me,” said Jack. “First, even if Imani were getting kickbacks, which she’s not, doesn’t your office have bigger fish to fry than a musician who simply wants to be paid what she deserves for her own music?”
“We set our priorities, Mr. Swyteck, not you.”
“Do you? Or does Shaky Nichols?”
“Please, don’t insult me,” the prosecutor said.
“I’m just stating the obvious,” said Jack. “Under Judge Stevens’s ruling, Shaky’s case against his ex-wife is dead in the water unless and until he can prove she is getting kickbacks from pirates. Lo and behold, three days later, you’ve summoned us to New York to tell us that federal prosecutors have plugged the hole.”
“I’m not going to dignify that accusation with a response,” said Miles. Then he glanced at the junior prosecutor beside him and said, “Show him.”
The younger lawyer removed a spreadsheet from her file and placed it on the table.
“What’s that?” asked Jack.
“Wire transfers from a Latvian bank account to a numbered bank account in the Cayman Islands,” said Miles. “We’ve connected the Cayman Islands account to your client.”
Imani gasped. “I don’t have a—”
Jack gave her the hand signal again, and she stopped talking.
“Who controls the Latvian bank account?” asked Jack.
“Nominally, the same shell company that controls the largest piracy websites on the planet.”
“Sounds to me like you don’t know who controls the Latvian account,” said Jack.
“We can’tprovewho controls the Latvian account,” said Miles. “We’re all but certain that it’s a Russian oligarch and his son, both deep into cybercrime. I’m not prepared to disclose the family name to you, but I will tell you this. The son has a preteen granddaughter who lives in London. And she’s a huge fan of Imani.”
Jack could see where this was heading. “What are you asking us to do?”
“A private concert for a young girl.”
