Condemned (28 page)

“Just got an interesting—well, unusual call from a reporter at The New York Post.”

“Oh?” Becker indicated a chair in front of his desk.

One wall of Becker's office was covered with baseball caps with embroidered emblems and shields from at least 20 law enforcement agencies around the region and nation: Customs; F.B.I.; Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms; Sheriff Departments; U.S. Marshals; Police Departments in several states. On a coat-hook in the corner, was a dark colored jacket with large yellow D.E.A. letters emblazoned on the back and sleeves. On another wall were pictures of Becker with people in various locales, all smiling and shaking hands. Side by side on the third wall were pictures of the President, the Vice President, and the D.E.A. Administrator.

Mulvehill sat. “The reporter wanted to know about some cash seizures that we made, including the one a couple of nights ago in Queens.”

“Really?” Becker leaned back in his chair, waiting.

“He wanted to know how much money was seized on each occasion, what happened to the money after we seized it, and why there were no arrests in any of the cases.”

“Did he mention any specifics?” said Becker.

“I brought the files,” Mulvehill handed Becker three folders he had taken from the file cabinets. “All Queens, six hundred thou on one, a mil on another, we grabbed it from the back of a girl's car, and two hundred-thirty.” He handed the files to Becker. “He's also asking about one that we don't have a file for yet, the two point four mil we counted up last night, thanks to the snitch in Miami.”

Becker had begun to read the top file. “Who's the reporter?” he asked, glancing up at Mulvehill.

“Jones. Greg Jones, from the Post.”

“How'd he ask about the cases? By amount? Names? Location?” Becker began skimming through the second file.

“On the first three, he had all the information, name, amount, location. On the two point four, he just gave me the amount—but the file on that hasn't been put together yet.” Mulvehill stopped talking, waiting for Becker to finish reading or ask another question. He knew Becker to be like a Marine drill sergeant; he wanted snappy, direct answers, and was impatient with what he called ‘gratuitous comments'.

“And you told him?” Becker was skimming the third file. His eyes stopped moving as he waited for the answer.

“Nothing for me to tell him. I told him I'd have to find, look for the files.”

Becker nodded slightly, his eyes continuing to scan the third file. “The interesting thing is that all these files have a common thread,” said Becker, re-opening the first file.

“I didn't read them, yet,” said Mulvehill.

“They're all cases where Sandro Luca, the lawyer, made inquiries or put in claims for clients.” Becker picked up his phone and pressed a couple of the numbers. “Including, if I'm not mistaken, the two point four mil.” He listened to the phone receiver. “Lou, did a lawyer call in, inquiring about a couple of million dollar seizure yesterday?” He paused. “That's what I thought. Seems a reporter from the Post is calling about some cash seizures, including that last one. Come in a minute, will you?” He was about to hang up the receiver, then, with another thought, touched other buttons on the key pad. “I think we ought to have Geraghty, too—Marty,” he said into the phone, “come on in. Yes, right away.” Becker hung up, his eyes roving through the files again. “Lou Castoro just told me that Luca called in late this morning about the two point four as well,” he said, not looking up.

“You wanted to see me, Boss?” Marty Geraghty said, coming to the doorway of Becker's office.

“Yes, come in. Sit down.” He continued to read. “I'm just waiting for Lou.”

“Hey, bro,” Geraghty smiled at Mulvehill. They clasped each other's hand and thumb in a ‘brothers' handshake.

“I think you two might be getting a little too close to your work,” Becker said, studying his two agents.

Geraghty and Mulvehill exchanged quick, amused glances. Geraghty sat.

In a few moments, Lou Castoro, very tall and big, sometimes called Moose, came into Becker's office. He low-fived both Geraghty and Mulvehill.

“Sit down, bros,” Becker said with a hard look at Castoro. “Pete just told me that he received a call from a reporter at The Post, a fellow by the name of Jones.”

“I know the guy,” said Geraghty. “He covers the Southern District.” Geraghty thought a moment. “He's also the guy who wrote that story on how you can find traces of cocaine on almost every twenty dollar bill in everybody's pocket, a couple of months back.”

“I read that,” said Mulvehill. He shifted his body on Becker's couch so he could cross his heavy legs. “It was kind of a, ‘isn't it time to do something else?' article, as I remember it. He's one of those do-gooders who wants to legalize drugs.”

“As opposed to a do-badder?” said Geraghty.

Mulvehill and Castoro chuckled.

“Listen up, you three,” said Becker, serious. The Agents fell silent quickly. “The intriguing thing about Mr. Jones's call is that he inquired about particular cash seizures, referring to them by specific amounts. Is that right?” he said to Mulvehill.

Mulvehill nodded. “Rounded the amounts, but pretty much right on the button, the six hundred was actually—”

“The point is,” Becker cut him off, “three of these cases involved stops we made in Queens, as a result of information from the same singular, local Colombian C.I.—whose identity we particularly want to keep under wraps. Even more interesting: the fourth amount is a seizure that hasn't even had time to have a file made on it …” Becker paused, thinking silently.

None of the Agents spoke, knowing there was more coming.

“Most significantly,” Becker resumed, “Sandro Luca made an inquiry about every one of those seizures, right, Pete?” Mulvehill nodded. “Tell you anything?” Becker said toward the Agents.

“That the same attorney is going to put in another claim for the fourth?” said Castoro.

“Possibly,” Becker nodded. He looked at Geraghty. Then Mulvehill. Backto Geraghty.

“What's your read on it, Boss?” said Geraghty.

“What's yours?”

“Somebody is feeding the reporter that information,” said Geraghty. “Couldn't be he picked it up in the courthouse, since the last one isn't in the courthouse.”

Becker nodded again. He looked at Mulvehill.

“It wouldn't be from the C.I.,” said Mulvehill. He uncrossed his legs and leaned forward on the edge of the couch. “He's hardly going around giving out information about his own cooperation. Unlikely, too, that it's the Claimants. If they're still in the country, they probably don't speak enough English to talk to a reporter. The only one it could be is the lawyer. You see it as the lawyer, Boss?”

“Is there any other way to see it, gentlemen?” said Becker.

The three of them looked at each other, then Becker. They all shook their heads.

“He was the lawyer for Hardie in your case over in the courthouse until the Judge relieved him of duty, was he not?” Becker said to Geraghty. Geraghty nodded.

“He seems to be very involved in drugs and druggies,” said Becker. “What does anybody know about him? Marty? You've had the most contact with him.”

“Nothing much, nothing particular,” said Geraghty. “Good lawyer. Dresses real well. Nothing about him personally.”

“It seems to me that we ought to know something about him personally,” said Becker. “It seems he has such a curiosity about our work that he's hooked a friendly reporter into making inquiries for him. Why, you wonder? Could it be because he sympathizes with what Mulvehill described as the ‘do-gooder attitude' of the reporter? Perhaps Luca wants to give him ammunition to write more liberal horse dung about the war on drugs, that it's a breeding ground for vice and corruption, that it ought to be legalized—the latest garbage routine. Which is not very gratifying, considering all the butt busting hard work we're doing,” Becker said with some irritation. “We don't need any more anti-Drug War crap in the papers. By the way, what's with Galiber? Have we been looking into his personal activities? Something to slow his drug legislation?”

“We're continuing surveillance,” said Geraghty.

“Anything?”

“He's very cautious with the twist, if that's what you mean,” said Geraghty. “She's still around. But they haven't been going anywhere alone.”

“I've undertaken to get some friends of ours to help us out with Galiber. Some politicians in Albany. See if we can bury the legislation in committee so it never sees the light of day.” Becker thought quietly. “I saw some newspaper people as well. I wish I knew about this reporter earlier today.” Becker thought silently again. “On the other hand,” Becker picked up the thread of his previous thoughts, “on the other hand, there might be a more insidious motive to Mr. Luca's interest in our work. He might be trying to come in the back door to flush out the C.I. for the drug people that he works for in Colombia. Help identify the C.I. so they can eliminate him.”

“You're talking about the lawyer?” said Mulvehill. Becker nodded. “You think the lawyer works for the Colombians?”

“Where do you think that lawyer gets all these clients who had money seized? Not from the money launderers we collar. Most of them are just mules. They don't have enough know-how to get in touch with this lawyer. It's just too coincidental that they all called the same guy to represent them. But the people they work for, the ones the money actually belongs to, the Bosses in Colombia, would probably direct them to the same lawyer. They've got plenty of dough, right? So they offer the lawyer a large bonus to put in these Claims, have some hearings, flush out the identity of the singular informant who's providing the information we've used to make the seizures.”

The agents listened to Becker intently. Mulvehill nodded silently.

“That sheds a different light on it, doesn't it?” said Becker, looking into each of their eyes.

“If that were the case—and it might be,” said Geraghty, “then it certainly would.”

“That's why I think it would be prudent for us to find out as much as we can about this lawyer,” said Becker. “Pete, I want you to check out his background, the Bar Associations, all of them, the Courts, the Grievance Committee, the Prosecutor's office, local and federal, whatever we can find. Marty, see what you can glean from the files, his involvement with the Brotherhood. This lawyer might be the link between the Colombians and the Brotherhood.”

“Between the Brotherhood and the Colombians?” Geraghty repeated.

“Maybe. That's another interesting angle, isn't it?” said Becker. “Maybe he's trying to smoke out the informant, not for the Colombians, but for his client, Hardie. That guy's going down for sure, right, Marty?”

“Unless there's a miracle about to happen.”

“Maybe Hardie smells a rat in the Brotherhood case, and he's looking to put the guy in the ground before he goes down. So he asks the lawyer to flush out the informant for him.”

“What's the connection between the two cases, other than cocaine?” Mulvehill asked.

“Not important,” said Becker. “Either way, whether for the Colombians or for Hardie, it seems the only reason the lawyer'd be trying to identify informants is to assist his clients in their extermination.”

“Or, if it's the first scenario,” said Geraghty, “like Pete said, he may be a do-gooder.”

“I didn't say the lawyer was a do-gooder,” said Mulvehill, “I said the reporter—”

“Okay, gentlemen, let's stay focused,” said Becker. “Let's just find out for sure which side of the fence the lawyer's on,” said Becker. “If he's a do-badder, to use a term you seem to like, trying to help in the extermination of cooperators, that'd be a serious crime. I think we ought to get on this, right away. Treat it as a top priority, Top priority! Get back to me as soon as you get something. Okay, gentlemen?” He handed the files back to Mulvehill. “Pete, stay a minute.”

Mulvehill nodded, turning back to Becker's desk. Becker made a motion, indicating that he wanted the door shut.

“We really have to know what's making this lawyer tick,” Becker said to Mulvehill in a more confidential tone. “Speak to our Colombian informant, find out if he knows anything about the lawyer. Maybe he should talk to his people in Colombia, find out from them what they know about him. Maybe we ought to send an undercover to see the lawyer.”

“An undercover? That involves the rules. You want me to go through channels, check with Washington if it's okay, or you want to do a different kind of job?”

“We don't yet have enough information to convince Justice that we ought to be investigating this lawyer. Especially if he's involved in, or was involved in, a case on trial, and is the lawyer for people putting in Claims. Too much explaining to do in Washington; too involved.”

“No problem,” said Mulvehill.

“Can you believe he's even inquiring about a seizure we don't even have a file for yet?” Mulvehill nodded. “Had a specific amount. A name. If he's the good lawyer Geraghty described, he's probably calling all over the place—Washington, all the local prosecutors—beating all the bushes stirring up muck.”

“No doubt.”

“We ought to get on top of this inquisitive lawyer right away, and, if necessary, close him down,” said Becker.

“Close him down?”

“In a nice way,” said Becker. “See if we can get him dirty on something.” He and Mulvehill stared steadily at each other. Mulvehill nodded and stood up. “Done.”

M.C.C., New York : June 20, 1996 : 12:55 P.M.

M.C.C. is the standard denomination given by the Federal Bureau of Prisons to its detention facilities in major cities where detainees (individuals charged, but not tried) await legal proceedings. M.C.C, New York was situated immediately behind the old Federal courthouse, connected to it by an enclosed bridge which spanned the City street that separated the two buildings. The new courthouse, built just north of those buildings, had inmates brought to it through an underground tunnel.