Page 1 of Irish Brute
1
SAMANTHA
Idon’t feel the jaws of the trap squeeze closed until it’s too late.
I thought I was safe, living my life as Samantha Mott. I thought I could go on being an attorney, representing the Diamond Freeport tax haven and its clients in their often-shady, always-high-stakes transactions. I thought the biggest mistake of my life would stay a secret forever.
I was wrong.
Now the wind is picking up outside the Delaware Revenue Department conference room. The parking lot is nearly empty. Heavy, wet snow makes the few remaining vehicles look like giant sheep. I lean back in my chair, grateful for my Balenciaga blazer.
“Gentlemen,” I say, purposely keeping my voice low so the tax officials have to lean forward. “The state government has already declared a state of emergency because of this winterstorm. If we can’t resolve this matter in the next few minutes, I propose tabling it until some future date.”
Warren Jenkins, the head of tax enforcement, clears his throat. “That won’t be necessary,” he says. “I’m sure we can agree that a timely amended filing will take care of Kelly Construction’s outstanding?—”
“We absolutelycannotagree to that,” I interrupt.
Braiden Kelly sits to my right. He’s the president and CEO of Kelly Construction, a perfectly legal corporation organized under the laws of the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania.
But that’s not why we’re here. We’re here because—according to TMZ,The Philadelphia Enquirer, and word on the street—Braiden Kelly is the Captain of Philadelphia’s Irish Mob.
Rumor has it he ascended to the role two and a half years ago, capping a decade of bloody infighting. The same rumor says it cost Kelly north of twenty million dollars to gain his seat—payments to cops, gifts to allies, and rewards to his loyal foot soldiers. Kelly supposedly paid that price by diverting Irish pharmaceuticals, cosmetics, and agricultural products.
I have no idea where the butter and honey landed. But according to attorney-client privileged conversations I’ve had with the kingpin himself, the drugs and make-up are sheltered in an underground gallery on Diamond Freeport grounds, here in Delaware. And Delaware’s taxing authority is determined to take their cut, despite the freeport’s tax-exempt status.
“You have no authority to ask for new paperwork,” I say to Jenkins.
“Mr. Kelly does business in Delaware,” he says, like he’s teaching me to share toys in kindergarten.
“No,” I say. “Mr. Kelly does business in a tax-exempt freeport. You have no legal standing to demand any filings regarding any transactions that take place on freeport land.”
My phone buzzes in the pocket of my tailored trousers. I’m not about to check who’s texting me now, not when this negotiation is finally beginning to move.
Instead, I gesture to the thick binder on the table in front of Jenkins, which contains copies of all the relevant statutes, regulations, and corporate paperwork. “Your predecessor understood how freeports work.”
“Mypredecessor,”—he says the word like he’s chewing on lemon rinds—“accepted your cockamamie scheme?—”
“By ‘scheme’ you’re referring to a business enterprise licensed by Delaware’s Division of Corporations. A business enterprise that pays annual fees upwards of?—”
“Yourscheme,” he repeats, his voice louder. Sharper. Tight. “Which is clearly an unlawful?—”
“Your saying so doesn’t change the facts or the law.” My phone buzzes again, a reminder of the text. I don’t allow my expression to change.
The bureaucrat’s face flushes crimson at my second interruption. “Miss Mott?—”
“Ms.Mott.” I glance at the door as I correct him. I’m pretty sure I saw a defibrillator by the elevator. I hope we don’t have to use it, because this guy looks like he’s about to have a stroke.
My phone buzzes again, this time in the pattern I set for an email. Once again, I resist the temptation to see what’s going on.
Jenkins says, “Ms. Mott, you may think I have nothing better to do than play games today, but I?—”
“Mr. Jenkins, I assure you no one here thinks this is a game. Not me. Not Trap Prince, who founded Diamond Freeport. And certainly not Mr. Kelly, who has generously given hours of his time to pursue this frankly insulting meeting.”
“If anyone is being insulted?—”
“Mr. Jenkins,” I interrupt again, gesturing toward the manila folder on the table, the one I carefully put there at the start of this meeting.
Another email arrives on my phone. I’m beginning to consider the communication important, but I need to drop the hammer on Jenkins.
