appeared to be the younger of the two.
Parker pointed at my laptop. “Do you want to connect that to the Datashow?”
While Parker helped me with the equipment, Adamson chose a seat, leaned his elbows on the long table and laced his fingers together.
“We’ve uncovered an—anomaly,” Adamson said.
“What sort of anomaly?” O’Reilly asked as he read a text message on his Blackberry.
“I’m not exactly sure yet. At the minimum, we’re looking at some extensive record fiddling.”
I smiled at the thought of a judge banging his gavel and declaring a defendant guilty of felony record fiddling.
“Then again, it’s possible we’re looking at widespread fraud,” Adamson continued.
O’Reilly looked up from his Blackberry. “Fraud,” he repeated, as if he wasn’t sure he’d heard correctly.
Adamson cleared his throat. “We suspected we had a problem, so I hired Miss Cimaglia to help us sort through the data. I’ll let her demonstrate her findings.”
I called up a report on my laptop, and it displayed on the large projection screen at the end of the room. “The varieties in question are Carignane, Grenache, Valdepena and Zinfandel. The numbers in the first column represent acres of vines planted for each variety. The second column is a calculation of expected tonnages.”
Parker stopped me. “But young vines won’t produce as much as mature vines.”
“My calculations include the age of the vineyard, so that has been accounted for.”
Parker nodded, exchanged glances with O’Reilly, and waved me to continue.
“The next two columns show the tonnages that were crushed at all California wineries for the season and the gallons of wine produced from those tonnages.”
O’Reilly pointed at the screen. “That’s not right. You allowed for blending?”
“Let her finish,” Adamson said, and nodded for me to continue.
“Yes, I used the minimum varietal percents required by law, so these numbers are the worst-case scenario.”
O’Reilly and Parker began taking notes.
“The last column is a calculation of the yields each of the varieties produced. As you can see, there aren’t nearly enough Zinfandel vines planted in the entire state of California to produce enough grapes to make this much Zinfandel wine.”
Parker shook his head. “How do we know that your numbers are right? Some data-entry clerk could have miss-keyed a number.”
I moved my mouse to a figure on the report and drilled down into more detail. “The numbers have been audited, but if you want to see the supporting documentation, it’s all here.”
“Can you make us a copy of that?” O’Reilly asked.
I handed him a CD. “Already did.”
I could almost see the wheels turning in Parker’s head. “How much are the San Joaquin Valley growers getting for Zin now?”
“A thousand dollars per ton on average,” Adamson said.
“And Carignane?” Parker asked.
“Carignane, Grenache, and Valdepena all go for between a hundred and fifty and two hundred dollars per ton,” Adamson said.
O’Reilly penciled some figures on his notepad, then let out a long, slow whistle. “We’re talking millions of dollars.”
We all stared at the big screen. We had identified the what and the why of the mystery. All that was left was the how, and more importantly, the who.
Early the next morning, I was jarred awake by the sound of rumbling diesel engines and men hollering in Spanish. I rubbed the sleep out of my eyes and propped myself up on my elbows to peer out the window. The pickers were here to harvest my grapes, and Andy was barking out orders and directing truckers to drive across my front lawn. I jumped out of bed, threw on a robe and dashed out my front door to track Andy down.
“Hey!” I shouted at him.
He gave me a face that cried out to be slapped. “Morning,” he said.
“Get these trucks off my lawn!”
“We have to harvest your grapes.”
I pointed my
Parker pointed at my laptop. “Do you want to connect that to the Datashow?”
While Parker helped me with the equipment, Adamson chose a seat, leaned his elbows on the long table and laced his fingers together.
“We’ve uncovered an—anomaly,” Adamson said.
“What sort of anomaly?” O’Reilly asked as he read a text message on his Blackberry.
“I’m not exactly sure yet. At the minimum, we’re looking at some extensive record fiddling.”
I smiled at the thought of a judge banging his gavel and declaring a defendant guilty of felony record fiddling.
“Then again, it’s possible we’re looking at widespread fraud,” Adamson continued.
O’Reilly looked up from his Blackberry. “Fraud,” he repeated, as if he wasn’t sure he’d heard correctly.
Adamson cleared his throat. “We suspected we had a problem, so I hired Miss Cimaglia to help us sort through the data. I’ll let her demonstrate her findings.”
I called up a report on my laptop, and it displayed on the large projection screen at the end of the room. “The varieties in question are Carignane, Grenache, Valdepena and Zinfandel. The numbers in the first column represent acres of vines planted for each variety. The second column is a calculation of expected tonnages.”
Parker stopped me. “But young vines won’t produce as much as mature vines.”
“My calculations include the age of the vineyard, so that has been accounted for.”
Parker nodded, exchanged glances with O’Reilly, and waved me to continue.
“The next two columns show the tonnages that were crushed at all California wineries for the season and the gallons of wine produced from those tonnages.”
O’Reilly pointed at the screen. “That’s not right. You allowed for blending?”
“Let her finish,” Adamson said, and nodded for me to continue.
“Yes, I used the minimum varietal percents required by law, so these numbers are the worst-case scenario.”
O’Reilly and Parker began taking notes.
“The last column is a calculation of the yields each of the varieties produced. As you can see, there aren’t nearly enough Zinfandel vines planted in the entire state of California to produce enough grapes to make this much Zinfandel wine.”
Parker shook his head. “How do we know that your numbers are right? Some data-entry clerk could have miss-keyed a number.”
I moved my mouse to a figure on the report and drilled down into more detail. “The numbers have been audited, but if you want to see the supporting documentation, it’s all here.”
“Can you make us a copy of that?” O’Reilly asked.
I handed him a CD. “Already did.”
I could almost see the wheels turning in Parker’s head. “How much are the San Joaquin Valley growers getting for Zin now?”
“A thousand dollars per ton on average,” Adamson said.
“And Carignane?” Parker asked.
“Carignane, Grenache, and Valdepena all go for between a hundred and fifty and two hundred dollars per ton,” Adamson said.
O’Reilly penciled some figures on his notepad, then let out a long, slow whistle. “We’re talking millions of dollars.”
We all stared at the big screen. We had identified the what and the why of the mystery. All that was left was the how, and more importantly, the who.
Early the next morning, I was jarred awake by the sound of rumbling diesel engines and men hollering in Spanish. I rubbed the sleep out of my eyes and propped myself up on my elbows to peer out the window. The pickers were here to harvest my grapes, and Andy was barking out orders and directing truckers to drive across my front lawn. I jumped out of bed, threw on a robe and dashed out my front door to track Andy down.
“Hey!” I shouted at him.
He gave me a face that cried out to be slapped. “Morning,” he said.
“Get these trucks off my lawn!”
“We have to harvest your grapes.”
I pointed my
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