Condemned (60 page)

At the United States Attorney's office, Dineen met Sandro at the reception desk, then led him to a small conference room. Michael Becker and Pete Mulvehill were already there. Tony Balls was not.

“Your client will be here in a minute,” said Dineen. “Agent Geraghty went over to the M,C.C. for him. You surprised us when you called,” he added. “Nobody thought Tony Balls would be interested in cooperation.”

“How low the mighty have fallen,” chortled Becker. He was beaming, anticipating the joy of seeing Tony Balls, brought to heel, seeing Tony Balls grovel before the majesty of the law.

Marty Geraghty opened the conference room door. Tony Balls, in his orange jump suit, was behind him. He sat next to Sandro, across the table from Dineen and Becker.

“Hello, Tony,” said Becker with a triumphal smile.

“Hello, Mr. Becker,” said Tony Balls quietly.

“I'm Assistant United States Attorney Dineen,” began Dineen. “You know Supervisor Becker. This is Pete Mulvehill, D.E.A., and, you know Marty Geraghty.” There were nods all around the table. “Mr. Luca has advised us that you might be willing to cooperate with the Government in connection with your indictment, is that correct?”

“If you guys need help, so do I,” said Tony Balls. His attitude was a quiet, subdued contrition.

“You willing to testify in open court?” said Becker, leaning forward, “because without that—”

“Let me handle this, if you don't mind, Mike,” Dineen cut in.

“I just want to make sure that this, this—” Becker glared at Tony Balls, venom, almost literally, dripped from his lips.

“Let's take it easy,” said Dineen calmly. “I know there's been some bad blood here. But if Mr. Spacavento wants to assist the Government, the Government is very interested in all that he might have to tell us.”

“I apologize to you, Mr. Becker, if I gave you a hard time,” Tony Balls said softly, looking directly in Becker's eyes.

Becker's bony nose and lips twitched with a dislike he tried very hard to contain as he stared directly back toward Tony Balls. “Apology not accepted,” spat Becker, almost childishly.

“Look, I came here to try to cooperate, okay? I apologized. That's as far as I can go. I ain't here to give any of youse a blow job.”

“Let's keep it calm,” said Dineen, looking at Tony Balls, then Becker. “If you sincerely want to cooperate, the Government is more than happy to have you do so. But, let me advise you of this, your cooperation has to be complete, completely truthful, and you can't hold anything back. You have to be willing to tell us everything that you've done, practically take a bath, because if we can't trust you, if we feel you're holding back anything, then we can't use you. Are you willing to cooperate fully and completely?”

“Yeah. Let's get it going,” said Tony Balls. His entire mien was one of abject surrender.

“You're willing to testify against the Russians?” said Dineen.

“If you want.”

“And Sally Cantalupo?”

“If you want me to.”

Dineen pursed his lips, nodding. “Let's get started at the beginning.” Thereafter, Dineen asked Tony Balls questions, and Tony Balls responded, about the case, about Sally Cantelupo, about his own background, all of which questions Tony Balls answered openly and candidly. Sandro was amazed at what he was hearing come from Tony Balls' mouth. While Dineen didn't start to de-brief Tony Balls concerning organized crime, Sandro was sure that at the next session, there was no question but that the Government was going to milk Tony Balls dry—the subject of the associations that Tony Balls had in organized crime was going to be a major subject of discussion.

After about an hour and fifteen minutes of Dineen asking questions and Tony Balls giving complete and open answers, Sandro said:

“I have a matter in the Eastern District at 1:30. I didn't anticipate that this was going to go on so long.”

“Would you have any objection if we continued in your absence?” said Dineen, “We're going along so well.”

“I really would prefer that we do this when I'm present,” said Sandro.

“Could you come back after you finish in court? How long are you going to be tied up?” said Dineen.

“I don't think it'll be long. It's a plea in front of the Magistrate.”

“Maybe we could reconvene, say around two-thirty? Would that be feasible?” Dineen asked Sandro.

Sandro looked at Tony Balls. Tony Balls shrugged. “I guess that would be possible. Depending on how long it takes in court.”

“Let's tentatively say we'll come back here at two-thirty. If something comes up, call us,” said Dineen.

“I'd like to ask you a favor,” Tony Balls said to Dineen.

“What's that? If we can accommodate you—”

“I always wear my scapula medals, and my St. Jude. When I got arrested, I didn't have them on, because I took them off the night before and put them on the night-stand in my house.”

“What's a scapula medal?” said Dineen.

“That's a—it's hard to explain,” said Geraghty. “It not really a medal, they're like cloth prayers, prayer things, on string, it goes over your head, one goes in the back, one in the front. Is that what you're talking about?” he said to Tony Balls.

“That's it. I don't know if you guys believe me, but I'm religious. Down beneath this gruff exterior, is a guy that's deeply religious. I'd like, since we got some time, to have someone take me home—it'll take twenty minutes—so I can and get my scapulas and my St. Jude. It's very important to me.”

“What is this, a joke?” said Becker.

“I don't know that anyone's religious beliefs are a joke,” said Sandro.

“I'm not talking about religious beliefs, I'm talking about being a car service for this—this, mug.”

“Look,” said Sandro, “is there any doubt that Tony has been open and truthful this morning? Is there any doubt that the information that he's given, and is going to give this afternoon, is singular and significant?”

“Can't you have your wife bring them to the M.C.C.?” said Dineen.

“She can't give them to me. They got rules and channels. I wouldn't get them for a month, if that. And, I tell you the truth, St Jude is my guide, he walks with me through thick and thin. I need him to get me through what we're going through. I don't know about you, but this is very difficult for me. Cooperating is going against my whole way of life, my whole life.”

“Can't someone go to your house and pick them up?”

“No one is home. My wife and kid work,” said Tony Balls. “Look, if it can't be done while we wait for Sandro to get back, it can't be done. But I don't think I want to go on without my medals, not today, anyways. I'm beggin' you, please. I want to do this thing, but it's hard, real hard.”

“Michael, would you permit two of your men to take Tony to his house, just to pick up the medals, and bring him back?” asked Dineen.

“Are we all crazy here?” said Becker.

“Let me talk to you a minute, outside,” Dineen said to Becker. Once outside the room, Dineen said to Becker, “this is probably the most frank and open channel to organized crime that you've had for a long time. I know it is for me. I'm not even talking about this case. I'm talking about a direct line to whatever organized crime is still out there. It could be stupendous. Another Joe Valachi. And you want to shut the door because of a couple of religious medals.”

“If you want to, it's up to you. You're the boss,” said Becker exasperated.

Geraghty and Castoro took Tony Balls, in his baggy orange jumpsuit, sneakers, and handcuffs, to Sunnyside. There was a spare front door key under a rock on the front lawn. Geraghty retrieved the key, and Tony Balls clumsily opened the door. Both Geraghty and Castoro accompanied him inside the house, and up the stairs. They stood outside the door watching Tony as he went into his bedroom. They watched him retrieve scapula pads and a gold St. Jude medal, and put them around his neck.

“Can I go to the john?” he asked, nodding his head toward a door to the side of the master bedroom.

“I'll check it out,” said Castoro.

“You think, maybe I had somebody stashed in my bathroom waitin' for this moment?”

“You never know,” said Castoro. He looked inside the bathroom, into the medicine cabinet, opened the door under the sink, looked out the window, then nodded his head. Tony Balls went into the bathroom and shut the door behind him. Once inside, Tony Balls stood silent for a few moments, then flushed the toilet. He turned one of the faucets in the sink full blast, letting the water splash noisily. He wriggled the two arms of the toilet paper holder until it came out of the wall. Inside the recess, there was a wash cloth wrapped around a .38 caliber snub-nosed revolver. Tony Balls opened the cylinder. There were five live shells in the cylinder.

“Hey, you fall in or something?” said Geraghty, knocking hard on the door three times. He twisted the handle from side to side. “Open up!”

“Yeah, yeah, okay,” said Tony Balls hurriedly. He opened the button front of his jump suit and placed the revolver inside his under pants, rebuttoning the jump suit. He opened the door.

“What's the hell's going on in here?” said Geraghty, looking around inside the bathroom.

“I hadda jerk off,” scoffed Tony Balls.

Castoro laughed.

The three men re-entered the government vehicle and drove back toward the city. It was now about 1:15 P.M. The entire trip had taken forty minutes, so far. After they crossed the Brooklyn Bridge, Geraghty drove the vehicle up to Chatham Square, and was about to make a left toward Pearl Street and St. Andrews Plaza where the United States Attorney's office was located.

“Would you guys let me make a call to my wife?”, Tony Balls said from the back seat.

“Hey, Tony, not for nothing,” said Castoro.

“What's the big fucking deal? There's a phone booth right there, fifteen feet away.” He nodded toward a booth on the island in the middle of Chatham Square.

“Give us a break, will you?”

“Give me a break. One fuckin' phone call. Come to the door with me, both of you, stand there right outside the booth.”

“Use the portable phone here in the car.”

“Can't I have a little privacy? Come with me, stand outside the booth. Where the fuck am I going to go in an orange jumpsuit and handcuffs?”

“Make it quick. Go with him,” Geraghty said to Castoro. “Don't try any funny shit, Tony.”

“My days of being funny are over,” he said as he exited the car. Castoro held him by the elbow as they walked to the phone booth.

Chatham Square is in the middle of Chinatown, on the fringes of Little Italy. The phone booth was red, with green metal work on the top making it look like a small pagoda.

“You got a quarter?” he said to Castoro.

“How you fixed for socks and underwear?”

“I'll give it back to you from my commissary money,” Tony Balls said, taking the quarter from Castoro with his cuffed hands. He shut the folding door of the phone booth behind him, took the receiver off the hook and let it dangle as he tried to put the coin in the slot of the phone. Tony Balls dropped the quarter. “Fuck me,” he spat aloud, squatting, opening the door with his rear end, as he tried to pick up the coin. He put it back in the slot angrily. Then picked up the receiver to listen if he had a dial tone. Suddenly, the phone made a clicking nose, and the quarter dropped down into the coin reservoir, eating the quarter.

“Son of a fuckin' bitch,” Tony Balls said angrily. The resignation, the abject contrition of his session with the Government suddenly disappeared, as he began to take his fury out on the telephone. He hit the coin return button several times, vigorously, violently. The coin dropped down into the coin return. He took the coin and reached up to put it into the coin slot again He quickly moved his cuffed hands down and pulled at his crotch. When he had reached up to place the coin in the slot, the revolver in his underwear almost dislodged. He moved the weapon—seeming to be scratching his private parts—then pushed the operator button.

A female operator answered the line. “Thank you for using A.T&T. May I help you?”

“I want to make a collect call—7-1-8-2-7-7-3 …”

“Collect calls may be dialed directly,” said the operator. “Just push zero before the number.”

“Dial it for me, operator? I can't dial the phone.”

“Sorry, sir, you must make that call directly yourself,” the voice repeated.

“Fuckin' nigger bitch,” Tony Balls exploded into the black plastic, pounding a finger down on the disconnect bar several times rapidly. When he released the disconnect, there was no dial tone.

“Scum bag,” hissed the angry operator's voice from the other end.

“Get off the fuckin' phone, you miserable cunt,” Tony Balls screamed, jamming down the disconnect bar again, holding it down forcefully. Castoro, outside the booth, looked quizzically at Tony Balls. Tony Balls released the disconnect bar; there still was no dial tone. “Piece of shit,” the operator's voice said.

“You nigger—you ought to get cancer.” Tony Balls stepped back, flinging the tethered phone receiver as hard as he could against the glass side of the booth. The receiver bounced off the glass, and hit Tony Balls in the jaw. In sheer anger he pulled the phone booth door open then slammed it violently closed, pulled it open again, slammed it closed again as hard as he could.

“What the fuck's going on, Tony?” said Castoro, taken aback by what he was watching.

“Fucking operator!”

Two Chinese men walking together stopped to watch the strange man in orange raging inside the phone booth.

“Mind your fuckin' business, you dumb chink bastards,” Tony shouted at the two men. They said something to each other in Chinese, walked a few steps, then stopped again to stare.