Condemned (22 page)

“Nice bunch of change. What'd they arrest them for?”

“That's the story. There was no arrest. The authorities aren't interested in arresting people. Just seizing money, taking their pictures for posterity, nothing else.”

“You kidding?”

“Been happening a lot lately,” said Sandro. “The police, the D.E.A., get some slob by the short hairs and persuade him they'll do something for him in exchange for information. Sometimes they get information about drug activity, sometimes just about a stash of money. In order to protect the identity of this guy, or gal, whoever gave them the information, they rush in, seize the money, but don't make any arrests. Usually, the people from whom they take the money don't make a squawk, either because they know it's dirty money, or because they're illegal, or just plain scared, so there are no court proceedings, and the cops don't have to reveal the identity of the informant, so he can keep working.”

“They let the people, the ones who had the dough, go, just like that?”

“Just like that.”

“What happens to the money?” asked Jones.

“The Government, D.E.A., local authorities—they all get a bite. They whack it up and keep it.”

“Keep it?”

“Absolutely. Most of the time they voucher the money. Sometimes, they don't. Then afterward, when nobody makes a claim for it, the U.S. Attorney or the D.A. bring an action to forfeit it. Usually, about ten or fifteen percent of it goes south in the counting process. I don't know if the case agents glom it for themselves, or they give some of it to the person who fed them the information—”

“—Or both.”

“—Or both. Then, the reduced amount is forfeited to the Government; part is distributed to local law enforcement agencies, the prosecutor's office, the D.E.A., and the rest must go to Washington.”

“How often does this happen?”

“I have four cases just like it right now,” said Sandro. “If you take the whole country into consideration, we're talking millions upon millions each year.”

“About ten percent of the money goes south, you say?”

“More or less.”

“You figure the cops are pocketing it?” said Jones.

“I don't figure anything. That's your job. I'm just giving you the ball to run with.”

“There's a lot of money in the drug business. You read the story I wrote about a month ago, about currency?” asked Jones.

“I don't think so.”

“Every citizen's pocket and purse in the United States—yours, mine—right now, has twenties, tens, with traces of cocaine on them. Every single one.”

“I don't doubt it.”

“It's true. We did a test before we did the story. Asked some public officials to experiment. We did it with the Mayor the other day. Had a twenty in his pocket that had traces of cocaine. You ask me, this war on drugs is bullshit, brother. I think drugs are getting bigger all the time, not smaller. Rockefeller Laws are a lot of bullshit, too. Do more harm than good, if you ask me.”

In the Seventies, under Governor Nelson Rockefeller, New York State enacted draconian laws, which mandated substantial sentences in drug cases. All that had been accomplished by the Rockefeller Laws was that the jails were filled with people who refused to plead guilty to the harsh minimum sentences.

“One of the judges in the courthouse, when I was doing that currency experiment,” said Jones, “started bitching and moaning about buy and bust cases. Give me a good old homicide, he said. They just give me these Mickey Mouse drug cases, with dumb-ass punks I have to send to jail for life. Except, of course, for cases like the Brotherhood, but that's a different ball game of a case.”

“You want another great story?” asked Sandro. “Write about Senator Galiber's bill to legalize drugs, and how the traffickers would disappear overnight, like the bootleggers did after Prohibition was repealed.”

“You know, it's funny. A lot, maybe not a lot, but more people in high places are jumping on that bandwagon,” said Jones. “Even some of the Federal Judges. Judge Sweet said he wouldn't handle any more drug cases, that drugs ought to be legalized.”

“You cover the courthouse beat. When was the last case you heard of anyone being charged with trafficking in illegal booze, or drinking illegal booze?”

“Never once in my entire life. Is there still such a thing?”

“I guess there's still a law. But nobody has to use it. When they legalized booze, bootlegging disappeared. Legalize drugs, trafficking'll disappear, same way.”

“You know Galiber personally?” said Jones.

“I helped him put the bill together,” said Sandro.

“If he'd be willing to do an interview, maybe I could put together an article. It'd be outrageous—right on the money—but still outrageous. Can you give me more about those cases where the D.E.A. takes the money but doesn't make any arrests? There might be something interesting there too.”

At the northerly edge of City Hall Park, Jones and Sandro passed the Tweed Courthouse. In the late 1880s, it had been built to serve as the Supreme Court for New York County, with a long, wide stone stairway leading down to Chambers Street. This was probably the most expensive courthouse, brick for brick, ever built in the City—or anywhere, for that matter. It cost eleven million 1880 dollars—five million for graft to Boss Tweed and his Tammany cronies, the other six for construction. It also cost Tweed his Senate seat, his rule over Tammany Hall, and his freedom; eventually, he died in the Ludlow Street Jail. Although the building was no longer used as a courthouse, but housed additional offices for the Mayor's staff, and was sometimes used as a location for TV court scenes, it was still called the Tweed Courthouse.

Sandro and Jones turned into Courthouse Canyon, the area beginning at the foot of the Brooklyn Bridge, where the tall Municipal Building, surmounted by a huge gilt statue called Civic Fame, commanded first position at One Centre Street. This building is home to many of the City's agencies, including the Marriage License Bureau, and the chapel for people who are married at City Hall. Tunneled directly through the base of the Municipal Building was a huge stone archway which had been designed as a dramatic exit from the Brooklyn Bridge. The archway, closed to traffic, was now used as a storage area for garbage containers from the building above.

Directly across the street from the Municipal Building stood the columns and statues in front of the New York County Hall of Records. Within was a magnificent replica of the marble staircase at the Opera House of Paris. The building houses the Surrogates Court (which handles wills and estates of people who resided in Manhattan), the Land Register of New York County, and part of the City Archives.

Behind the Hall of Records, Centre Street opened into a wide park area, which was hemmed in on either side, as far as the eye could see, by long palisades of carved stone courthouses and other government facilities. Between the “old” Federal Courthouse and the Supreme Court building, Sandro and Jones turned onto Pearl Street. The block was filled with television vans, their hydraulic antennae extended high into the sky, like the standards of ancient Roman Legions awaiting battle, except that these were used to beam the spectacle of Good Government versus Evil Black Drug Lords of New York to captivated audiences in Wahoo, Nebraska and Cody, Wyoming.

Just in front of the “new” Federal Courthouse was a small plaza surrounded by closely spaced, short, thick stone pillars intended to keep potential suicide bombers at a distance. While park areas and plazas were legislated to provide for more air-space amidst the vertical walls of New York, there were no benches, and the Federal Marshal's Service chased anyone who lingered, even momentarily. Right now, however, the little plaza was filled with media people holding portable television cameras or wearing battery-pack belts, motorized still-cameras, and microphones. The number of Marshals had been increased to carefully monitor the human intrusions.

“Welcome to the zoo,” said Jones.

“They're your people.”

Someone in the crowd spotted Sandro. A gaggle of cameras moved as one toward him.

“I'll catch you later,” Jones said. “Don't forget I'd like to interview Hardie, and Galiber, okay?”

“I'll ask them.”

“What's going to happen now, Counselor?” said the first reporter. Sandro kept walking, surrounded by sparkling lenses and the pulsing red lights of the television cameras. Still cameras began to snap photographs.

“Hey, Counselor!” said another reporter, walking backward beside Sandro, “could you stop and make a statement, Counselor?”

Sandro walked directly to the short staircase that led to the Courthouse.

“Hold it a second, will you, Counselor?”

Reporters from inside the Courthouse, memo pads in hand, came out of the door and down the steps, pushing their way between camera operators.

“What's going to happen, Counselor?”

“Come on, Sandro, give us something!”

“Can the Judge make you take a case you don't want?”

“We'll know more about that in a few minutes,” Sandro said to no one in particular.

“What'd he say? What'd he say?” one of the reporters asked.

“Watch where the fuck you're pushing.”

“Jesus Christ, stand still a second!”

Sandro entered the lobby of the Courthouse. As cameras were not permitted inside, he left a crowd of muttering cameramen stranded on the other side of the doorway. The reporters with their memo pads were still hanging in. Having to go through metal detectors on a daily basis, Sandro carried nothing he would have to remove from his pockets as he went through the magnetometer doorframes. The reporters walked through the metal detector right after Sandro. They, too, knew the drill.

In the long, marble corridor on the 11th floor, Anton Taylor stood near a window that overlooked the Brooklyn Bridge and the East River. “You meet with that somebody last night?” Taylor asked Awgust Nichols, who stood to his left.

“I did.”

“And?”

“Maybe today is gonna be the first day of the rest of our lives,” said Nichols.

Taylor looked at Nichols blankly. “What the fuck's that mean?”

“Maybe something'll happen today.”

At that moment, Sandro Luca and a wave of the media people poured out of the elevator.

“Sandro, what the hell did you come back here for?” said Marty Adams, walking toward Sandro. They were standing in the middle of the corridor, right outside the Courtroom. Adams's right eye was twitching.

“She have you that upset,” Sandro asked.

“I look upset?”

“Your eye's going like a semaphore.” Sandro and Marty had known and worked with each other for years. Joe Brill, Sandro's former mentor, and Marty Adams had been partners many years back.

Adams shrugged, leaning closer to Sandro. “A couple days without a lawyer might have been better,” he said softly. Jackie Engler walked over to join them.

“Is mistrial the game plan?” asked Sandro.

“If some genius made up a game plan, we wouldn't know. We come in yesterday morning like smeck, and Leppard is in the hospital with a nose-bleed. How do you start a nose-bleed?” said Adams.

Red Hardie came out of the Courtroom into the corridor. He saw Sandro and walked toward him, smiling. He was quite conscious of the media all around him. “How are you?” said Hardie, reaching out to shake Sandro's hand.

“Fine, how are you?”

“I'm sorry they dragged you back into this thing. Let Sandro and me talk alone for a minute, okay, fellas?” Red said to Adams and Engler. The two lawyers stood still as Sandro and Red Hardie walked to a wide marbled area at the end of the corridor. Red glanced around. “Things are bad, Sandro. We're going down,” he whispered. “Somehow, they're all over us. There's a spy in our camp, I'm sure of that.”

“Can I talk to you for a moment,” Selwyn Rabb a New York Times reporter said to both Sandro and Hardie.

“In a little bit, okay?” said Sandro. “We don't have much time before the show begins.”

“Later?”

Sandro nodded as he and Red moved to a window overlooking the end of the Brooklyn Bridge and the lower harbor. “No one knows better than you, Sandro, that I've been walking away from this stuff—” Red shook his head, “—almost got there, too. And now, to have my hash on the line like this. When Leppard got sick, for one crazy moment I thought, hey, who knows what'll happen if I don't have a lawyer. The Judge must have thought the same thing. That's when she decided to drag you back in. Someone said you were away?”

“The Marshals found me up near the Finger Lakes.”

Hardie nodded. “Our luck seems to be running in the same gutter. Let me tell you, this Leppard isn't you. Not by a long shot. Not that it'd make much difference. She's letting everything into evidence, everything.” He thought silently for a moment. “You think it'll do any good—I don't mean to insult you—if I take the position, for the record, that I don't want you to represent me?”

“It's the money move.” Sandro turned from the window, leaning back against the wall. “Not that it's going to do either of us any good.”

“Listen, there's another thing I want to talk to you about: Hettie Rouse.”

“Who is Hettie Rouse?” said Sandro.

“The woman who was arrested on the Lower East Side last night for killing her kid. It was all over the papers this morning.”

“I saw it. You know her?”

“I knew her from when she was a kid. I'd like you to help her out, represent her, get someone to represent her. I'll foot the bill.”

“Her name is Hettie Rouse?”

“Everybody calls her Li'l Bit. She's a little bit of a thing,” said Red.

“I'll look into it,” said Sandro.

“I'd appreciate it.”