“So I assume you did this,” stated my attorney.
I looked around the debriefing room, at the bare windowless walls, at the cheap government-issue desk, at the cheap black armchairs, and at the empty pitcher of water off to the side, and I found myself wondering if the room was bugged.
I looked at the Yale-man and mouthed the words: “Is it safe to talk?”
The Yale-man stared at me, incredulous. After a few seconds, he said, “Yes, Jordan, it's safe to talk. Everything we say is privileged.”
“Yeah,” I muttered. “Well, I guess you've never been to the movies before. It's the oldest trick in the book: The cops leave the room and wait for a confession. Then they run back inside and say, ‘Gotcha!’”
The Yale-man cocked his head to one side, the way you do when you're looking at someone who's just lost their mind. Then he said, “This room is not bugged. I worked in the U.S. Attorney's Office for many years, doing just what Joel does, so you can trust me on this. Now, did you pass Dave Beall a note?”
Deny! Deny! Deny! “What if I did?” I asked aggressively. “I mean, I'm not saying I did, but since they think I did, what if I did?”
“Then we have a serious problem,” he replied. “Joel could break your cooperation agreement—which means you'd be sentenced without a 5K letter.”
Remain calm! It's your word against his! “That's bullshit, Nick! How can they prove I passed Dave Beall a note? I mean, I'm saying I didn't do it, and they're saying I did. And even if Dave is cooperating, who's to say he's not the one who's lying?” I shook my head righteously. “I mean, really! They can't hold back my 5K letter without having proof, right?”
The Yale-man shrugged. “It's not so cut-and-dry. If they think you're lying they can still withhold it, although I doubt that's what's going on here.”
“What do you mean?”
“My guess is that they do have proof, or at least they think they have proof; they wouldn't be coming on so strong otherwise.” He paused for a moment, as if lost in thought. After a few seconds, he said, “Okay, let's just assume for a second that you did pass him the note. Where would you have been when you passed it to him?”
Unbelievable! I thought. Even now, at the very moment of my doom, I couldn't help but marvel at the twisted nature of the U.S. legal system. The simple fact was that if I came clean with my attorney—telling him that I did pass Dave Beall the note—then he could no longer represent me if I continued to lie. So, instead, we had to speak in “hypothetical terms,” so my attorney could try to find out where I was most vulnerable. Then he would help me mold the best bullshit story possible that was consistent with the known facts.
“I would have probably been in a restaurant,” I replied.
“And why would you say that?”
“Because that's where the meeting in question took place.”
He nodded. “Okay, and what was the name of the restaurant?”
“Caracalla. It's on Long Island, in Syosset.”
“And was the restaurant crowded?”
I knew what he was getting at. “No, there were only a handful of people there, and none of them was an FBI agent. I'm certain of it.”
The Yale-man nodded in agreement. “You're probably right about that. You've been cooperating for a while now, so I'm sure Coleman trusts you.” He paused for a moment, while his last few words hung in the air like mustard gas. Yes, I had betrayed OCD's trust. He had always been straight with me and I had f**ked him over royally! But, still, I had acted like a man. I had maintained my self-respect. And this is what happens!
The Yale-man continued: “Okay, so for argument's sake, let's just assume that you did pass him the note but that no one saw you. Would anything have been said on tape that would sound incriminating—meaning, would Dave Beall have reacted to the note? You understand what I'm saying?”
“Yeah, I do”—and what do you think, I'm stupid? I didn't just pass him the note without warning!-“but I'm sure that that's not it. I mean, if I was gonna take a risk like that, I would have been very careful about it. I would have looked around the restaurant to make sure no one was watching, and then I would have sent him a signal—like maybe putting my finger to my lips or something like that. Anyway, there's nothing on that tape out of the ordinary, except that Dave didn't incriminate himself. But that's not so unusual, is it? I mean, I've had four or five meetings with Gaito and he hasn't incriminated himself. So it's really my word against Dave's, no?”
“I hear what you're saying,” reasoned the Yale-man, “but there's something not adding up here.” He paused for a moment. Then: “Let me ask you this: If you had passed him a note, would you have taken it back afterward or would he have kept it as a souvenir?”
I let out a great sigh. “I'm not sure, Nick. I mean, I probably would have assumed that he would just throw the note out, but I'm not really sure.” I paused and shook my head ironically. It was unbelievable! I had protected my friend, and as a way of saying thank you he ratted me out! Magnum had been right all along, and so had OCD. I was a fool, and now I was about to lose my life over it. I said, “Let me ask you a question, Nick: What's gonna happen here if I don't get a 5K letter? I mean, will I really end up doing thirty years?”
“Yes,” he said quickly. “Maybe even more. Joel will hit you with other charges on top of what you've already pled guilty to: You've got obstruction of justice, lying to a federal officer, and a few others too. But we cannot let that happen. We need to do everything possible to stop this from going beyond this room.” He put his hand on my shoulder, the way a friend would. “I need to know right now—as your lawyer: Did you pass Dave Beall a note?”
I nodded sadly. “Yeah, Nick, I did. I passed him the note, and it said exactly what Coleman said it did.” I chuckled softly. “You know, it's hard to believe that I went out on a limb for a friend and this is what I get in return.”
The Yale-man nodded. “Can I ask you why you did it?”
I shrugged. “Why, does it matter?”
With surprise: “Of course it matters! If you were trying to protect Dave Beall because he was holding money for you or you were in the process of breaking the law with him, then this is not going to end well. But if it was simply a crisis of conscience, and you had nothing to gain other than holding on to some mistaken notion of self-respect, then there might be a way out of this. So which is it? Are you hiding something else or was it just because he's your friend?”
“The latter,” I said confidently, feeling like the boy who cried Wolf. “I swear to God about that, Nick”—shit! I had already done that today, and then lied! “I mean, this time I really swear to God! I had nothing to gain here other than to help a friend. That's it. I went to that meeting with every intention of getting Dave to talk, but then something happened when I sat at the table. I don't know—I just kinda looked at him and saw everything that Stratton could've been. I felt like it was my fault for corrupting him in the first place. I ignited his greed with those stupid meetings I used to give and all that sort of shit. And, unlike the other people I cooperated against, Dave was a friend, or at least I thought he was. Now I know that there are no friends—and that there is no loyalty—and that it's every man for himself!” I shook my head angrily. “Now I'm probably going to jail for the rest of my f**king life because of it!” I paused for a moment, trying to rein in my anger. “And what about my kids?” I shook my head in disbelief. “Chandler and Carter. Oh, God—what did I do?”
The Yale-man put his hand on my shoulder again and patted it a few times. “Okay,” he said. “Now we gotta pick up the pieces. We gotta clean this mess up.”
“And how do we do that?”
“Well, for starters, you gotta come clean with them immediately. We can't let this drag on past today.”
“Yeah? Well, Joel hates my guts, Nick. The second I admit to this, he's going to break my cooperation agreement. I know it.” I paused for a moment, thinking of the short-term ramifications. “I have to see my kids again. I need to one more time before this goes down. Just to kiss them good-bye and tell them that I love them.”
“I understand,” he said sympathetically. “And I'm sure that if I go outside and tell Joel that you have something to say to him, he'll agree not to take any immediate action; he'll at least think about it overnight.”
“And then what happens? What would you have done in this situation?”
He chuckled at that. “What would I have done?”
I looked at him dead serious. “Yeah—what would you have done? Would you break my cooperation agreement right on the spot, or would you give me a slap on the wrist?”
“There's no way I would break your agreement,” he answered quickly. “The consequences are too severe; and I would say that ninety percent of the AUSAs would agree with me.” He shrugged. “Unfortunately, Joel doesn't fall into that ninety percent, but that doesn't mean he'll break your agreement. It's just that most of the AUSAs aren't as hard-nosed as Joel.
“But to answer your question, what I'd probably do is give you a stern warning—or, at worst, make you plead guilty to another charge, something like lying to a federal officer or maybe obstruction of justice. My goal would be to teach you a lesson and also to send a message to the jury that you've been punished for what you did.”
“What jury? I've already pleaded guilty.”
He shook his head. “I'm not talking about your jury; I'm talking about the jury you'll end up testifying against. Understand: This is all going to come out under cross-examination. That's why everyone is so pissed right now! I'm sure they know that your motives weren't evil. You were just trying to help a friend.
“Anyway, give me permission and I'll go out there right now and tell them that you're ready to come clean. Then Greg and I will roll up our sleeves and go to work for you, and we're going to pull out all the stops on this one. Once Greg finds out what happened, I'm sure he'll be back here tonight; then first thing tomorrow we'll be down at the U.S. Attorney's Office pleading your case. And we'll go right to the top if we have to. We have an excellent relationship with the chief of the criminal division, and, ultimately, that's who Joel has to go to to sign off on this. In the meantime, I would suggest you speak to Coleman and ask him to put in a good word for you. I know you guys have a good relationship; I've heard from more than one source that he genuinely likes you and that he respects you.”
“Yeah,” I said gravely, “maybe that used to be true, but it's not true anymore. I totally betrayed the guy.” I shook my head in embarrassment. “I mean, I don't even know how I'm going to face him again.” I bit my lower lip at the thought. “He must be really hating my guts right now.”
“Nehhh,” said the Yale-man, with a hint of a smile. “He doesn't hate you. In fact, I'm sure he understands exactly what happened here. You know, you're not the first cooperator to do this sort of thing; it happens more often than you think. But at least your heart was in the right place. I mean, Coleman would never admit it, but he probably respects you even more now.” He winked at me. “And so do I. So, that leaves us with Joel: We need to do everything we can to make sure he doesn't shut down your cooperation. Then we can move forward with our lives.”
I nodded, feeling very lucky that I had chosen De Feis O'Connell & Rose as my law firm. Not only were they first-rate lawyers but they were also friends, which was a commodity that I was quickly running out of. Of course, there was still a better than fifty-fifty chance that the Bastard would break my cooperation agreement or at least try to, but with Nick and Greg in my corner— and, if I was lucky, OCD—I still had a fighting chance.
Five minutes later, my captors were back inside the debriefing room, and I was spilling my very guts; thirty minutes later I was done. I had told them everything.
The Bastard took it well, or at least he seemed to. He showed little emotion—telling Nick afterward that he would be in touch with him in a few days. The Witch, to my surprise, stayed out of it, as did the Mormon.
And then there was OCD, who had been unusually quiet.
At first that troubled me—no, it devastated me, because I assumed that any goodwill I had built up with him had been permanently destroyed. After all, I had completely betrayed his trust. I had looked him in the eye and lied to him, and not just when I first handed him the tape but also right here in the debriefing room when he confronted me. So, yes, he had every right to lose my phone number and to chalk the whole thing up to experience.
But I had been wrong; he was just saving his thoughts for when the two of us were alone. That happened about ten minutes later, after he had escorted the Yale-man and me up the service elevator, through the lobby with its endless sea of dark-faced grim-faced semi-illegal aliens, and then out onto the street. It was then that the Yale-man turned left and headed for the subway, and OCD and I turned right and headed for the parking lot.
We were somewhere around Broadway, with 26 Federal Plaza rising up behind us and Broadway in front of us, when OCD stopped dead in his tracks and slapped me on the biceps and said, “What the f**k is wrong with you, huh? Did you lose your mind or something?”
I stopped dead in my tracks too. “Yeah,” I replied sheepishly. “I did.”
OCD attacked: “Yeah—well, you're in some deep shit right now! Do you have any idea of the uphill battle you're facing with Joel? Christ! You don't get it! You're playing with your life here!” He compressed his lips and shook his head. “I can't believe it! And after what you've done, now I gotta go to bat for you and plead your f**king case to Joel, and to my boss, and to Joel's boss, and to everyone else around here!
“And do you have any idea how much f**king paperwork I gotta do because of this shit?” He shook his head angrily. “Unbelievable!” he muttered. “What did I tell you that night when you were all upset about wiring up against Beall? Come on, you're the one with the photographic memory! So, tell me, genius: What did I say to you?”
With my tail between my legs: “You said that if the shoe were on the other foot he would do the same thing to me. And you were right. I don't know what to say.” I paused, trying to find the right words. “Would you like to know why I did it?”
“No,” he answered flatly. “Don't waste your breath. I already know why you did it. That's why I'm out here talking to you and you're not sitting in jail already.” He shook his head some more. “Anyway, it's your mess, and now I gotta try to clean it up. I want to thank you for that.”
I didn't quite know what to say, so I said, “Well, what are friends for?”
“Yeah,” he muttered, “you—my friend. Christ! Who needs enemies when I have cooperators like you?” More head-shaking now. “Anyway, listen to me very closely: I can't promise you how this is gonna turn out, but I'll do everything in my power to try to salvage your life. In return, I want you to step up your cooperation to new levels. You've done a good job so far, but only good. You could do better—much, much better. I know what you're capable of and so does Joel, and that's the biggest thing you got in your corner. Now—you know who the targets are, my friend. So I want you to go home tonight and rack your brain on how to reach out to them. This way, while I'm busy pleading with Joel to spare your life, I can tell him that you're prepared to take your cooperation to a whole new level. You understand?”
“Yeah. Clearly,” I said. “You were right all along: There's no loyalty in this world. And everyone rats.” And with that we shook hands and parted ways.
How odd it was that when I sat down with George that very evening, and I asked him to place a phone call to Elliot Lavigne to see if he would send me a bit of the money he owed me in my hour of need, George hung up the phone a minute later, astonished.
“According to your friend Elliot,” George said tonelessly, “you don't need money in jail. Then he told me to wish you well and to go f**k myself. Then he hung up on me.”
Fair enough, I thought. There were a few people in this world I'd committed crimes with who thought they had gotten away with it. Well, they were in for a rude awakening.
CHAPTER 19
SUPER RAT
t was one of those sweltering early-August days, a Tuesday, and the island of Manhattan was being smothered by a soupy air mass of such stillness and oppressiveness that by ten a.m. you could literally feel the atmosphere on your skin. But inside the law offices of De Feis O'Connell & Rose, perfection! The building's air conditioner was working overtime as the three of us went about discussing the events of the last seven days.
Unlike my lawyers, I was dressed for the weather, in a white polo shirt, tan golf shorts, and leather boating moccasins. And, of course, I also wore socks, which concealed my ankle bracelet from the casual glance of a nosy voyeur. Right now Magnum had center stage and was in the middle of explaining the outcome of his negotiations with my good friend the Bastard.
“Obstruction of justice,” he declared proudly, as he leaned back in his high-back leather chair. “You plead guilty to one count and do an extra thirty months in jail. But”—and he held up his right index finger—”you still get your 5K letter, which means we avoid Armageddon.” He nodded a single time. “It's a terrific result, Jordan, especially when you consider the nature of who we're dealing with.”
“Yeah,” I agreed, “and especially when you consider the magnitude of my idiocy.” I shook my head in amazement. “I'll tell you, this has to go down as the dumbest thing I've ever done in my entire life.” I shook my head some more. “And there's no close seconds.” I turned to the Yale-man and offered him a warm smile.
I said to him, “If it weren't for you, Nick, I don't think I would've made it through that day. You were amazing—from start to finish.”
The Yale-man raised his eyebrows. “That's very nice of you to say, but are you prepared to swear to God about that?” He started chuckling. “Or are you willing to take a lie-detector test?”
“Fuck off, Nick! That's what all guilty people say when you put their backs to the wall. It's a biological reflex, no different than a jelly fish stinging a passing swimmer.” I shrugged. “It can't be blamed.”
“Who?” Magnum asked. “The jellyfish?”