by Don Winslow
The first few weeks he was religious about working out—push-ups, pull-ups, planks—because the Eme guys at V-Ville told him that was the key to keeping his spirit strong.
But now it just seems like too much work, and what he mostly does between meals (if you can call them that) is lie on his bunk and stare at the walls. Or the ceiling.
His body is going to shit.
It’s all the starch they feed him.
Minimum Ben comes and tries to keep him up on things.
“What’s a ‘special counsel’?” Eddie asks. “Is it like the Special Olympics or something? They get trophies and shit?”
“You have to take this seriously, Eddie,” Tompkins says.
“Get me the fuck out of here, Ben.”
“I’m working on it.”
“Work harder.”
Because I’m losing my fucking mind.
They’re breaking him down and he knows it. Used to be he could do something about it, he could fight it, but he’s losing the fight and that’s what the motherfuckers want, that’s what prison is for, to destroy your mind and body and your soul until you’ll do whatever the fuckers want.
Or just die.
Or worse, be one of those pathetic fuckers finger-painting with your own shit.
He realizes that he just said that out loud.
“Great,” he says, “now you’re talking to yourself. Well, at least you’re talking to someone who’s actually here, which is better than talking to someone who’s not. I mean, you’re not really losing it until you’re talking to people who aren’t here, right?”
Right?
The special counsel’s offices are in a nondescript building in southwest Washington, just north of Fort McNair.
Crosby drives her BMW X5 into the parking structure and she and Keller take an elevator into the office from there, away from the eyes of the press. In the elevator Crosby says, “Scorti isn’t racist, but he’s a product of his generation. He and all the other Ivy League lawyers up there are going to look at an African American woman who went to Howard and think I got where I am through affirmative action. That won’t last long but it will give us a temporary advantage.”
The doors slide open.
Maybe for security reasons, the conference room has no windows, although Keller thinks it’s more to make witnesses feel claustrophobic. He’s used the same technique himself.
Scorti has fifteen lawyers on staff, each with his or her own specialty—criminal law, drug trafficking, money laundering, constitutional law. He has forensic accountants, surveillance experts and a raft of secretaries, all literally sworn to secrecy. It has been a tight ship, Keller thinks. No leaks have come out of Scorti’s operation.
It’s 9:00 a.m.
Scorti likes to start early and go late, he’s prompt as an ex-marine, but he’s not in the room when Keller and Crosby go in. Three other lawyers are there, white men in suits and ties. A secretary sits with a stenograph and small microphones are set on the table.
Introductions are passed around, Keller quickly forgets everyone’s name, and everyone sits back down. One of the lawyers takes charge. “We’re recording this session. It’s for your protection as well as ours. We’ll provide you with a transcript.”
“Of course,” Crosby says. “As well as a copy of the recording.”
“We generally don’t give those out.”
“I’m not interested in what you generally do,” Crosby says. “I want to make sure the transcript is accurate.”
“We’re not obligated to provide you with a copy,” the lawyer says.
“Then it’s going to be a very long day,” Crosby says. “And monotonous, with me instructing my client not to answer.”
“If it means that much to you.” The lawyer turns to Keller. “I’m going to swear you in. Your testimony has the same effect and force as if it were in a court of law and is therefore subject to the federal statutes on perjury.”
“Mr. Keller is here as a cooperative witness,” Crosby says. “We didn’t require a subpoena. I don’t think we need to start this procedure with threats.”
“I’m just stating the law.”
“I’ll make my client aware of the law,” Crosby says. “You ask your questions. And I want some pitchers of ice water and some glasses here. Also a carafe of coffee and real cups, not cardboard. This isn’t some Ansonia precinct house.”
The lawyer smiles. “Is there anything else you’d like? Some Danish, croissants?”
“Do you have any?”
“No.”
“Then I guess not,” Crosby says. “But we will be taking regular breaks and an hour and a half for lunch, off premises. And at any time that Mr. Keller wishes to consult with me, we will do that in private.”
“This doesn’t have to be an adversarial proceeding, Ms. Crosby.”
“I agree,” Crosby says. “I’m just making sure we all know the difference between an interview and an interrogation.”
An assistant brings in the water and coffee.
The lead lawyer starts with basic questions—name, DOB, occupation—which gets a small chuckle in the room when Keller says “currently unemployed.” It feels odd to Keller, who’s used to being the one asking the questions.
They’re still playing pitch-and-catch when the door opens, Scorti comes into the room, pulls a metal folding chair against the wall and sits down, gesturing with his hand for them to keep going.
“I want to turn your attention now to the point in time when you became administrator of DEA,” the lead lawyer says. “Do you have that time frame in mind?”
“Yes.”
“You sort of came out of nowhere,” the lawyer says.
“Is that a question?” Crosby asks.
“That was awkward,” the lawyer says. “I guess what I’m trying to get at is how did you come to be appointed to that office?”
“I’m sure you’re familiar with the process,” Crosby says. “He was nominated by the president and confirmed by Congress. Please don’t try to tell me that you haven’t read the confirmation hearing transcripts. What’s your real question?”
“What if any role did Senator O’Brien have in your getting this position?”
“Senator O’Brien came to El Paso and asked me if I’d consider accepting the position.”
“You were living in Juárez, though, weren’t you?” the lawyer asks.
“Just across the bridge.”
“Did the senator say why he wanted you in the job?”
The interview has taken a different tack than Keller thought it would. Why is he asking about O’Brien? “He had looked at my career and thought I could do a good job.”
“You’re a Democrat, aren’t you?” the lawyer asks. “I mean, isn’t it a little odd for a Republican senator to want a Democrat in a high position?”
“Actually, I’m an independent.”
“But you know what I mean.”
“Not really.” But now he knows what the lawyer is sniffing around at—a special relationship with O’Brien. Has Ruiz given up Guatemala? And if so, how much has he given up? Or is the lawyer just fishing? Throwing out a cast to see if I’ll bite?
“I think this is a good time for a break,” Crosby says. In the hallway she asks Keller, “Something you want to tell me? About Ben O’Brien?”
“No.”
“Then what is this guy on about?”
“I don’t know.”
She looks at him. Angry. When they walk back in, Scorti gets out of his chair and offers his hand to Keller. “I’m John Scorti.”
“Art Keller.”
“Congratulations on the Cozzo arrest,” Scorti says.
“That was NYPD,” Keller says. “Brian Mullen.”
“I think you had something to do with it,” Scorti says. He shakes Crosby’s hand. “John Scorti. I’m surprised we haven’t met before. I’m familiar with your work.”
They all sit back down. The lead lawyer starts to ask a question but Scorti hold
s up his hand and says, “Keller, you and I are old soldiers. We can go on like this or we can just cut to the chase. Vet to vet, what do you have on Jason Lerner?”
Keller looks to Crosby.
She shrugs and says, “Go.”
Keller lays it out. How they had Chandler Claiborne as a CI, leveraged on a drug and sexual assault charge, how he gave them Lerner and the Terra meeting with Echeverría. How he obtained a warrant to wire the second meeting.
“Did you wire the first meeting,” Scorti asks, “without a warrant?”
“No,” Keller says. “Claiborne had inadvertently left his phone on ‘record.’”
“You expect me to believe that?”
“Believe what you want,” Keller says.
“Do you have that recording?” Scorti asks.
“Yes.”
Crosby produces the recording and they all listen to it. When they’re done, Scorti says, “Lerner’s not in this meeting.”
“Correct.”
“Based on this, you acquired a 2518?”
Crosby produces the warrant and slides it across the table.
“Justice Antonelli,” Scorti says. “He’s solid.”
“The warrant wasn’t obtained solely on the Claiborne recording,” Keller says. “Antonelli was persuaded by a verbal assertion from an undercover officer that he was asked by a drug trafficker to provide security for the meeting.”
“Can you provide the identity of that officer?”
“Robert Cirello, detective second grade, NYPD Narcotics Division.”
“Where is he now?”
Keller says, “On disability leave.”
“Is that a coincidence?”
“Have you ever been undercover?” Keller asks.
“Can’t say that I have.”
“Cirello was undercover for over two years,” Keller says. “It’s not a coincidence.”
Scorti looks at one of his staff. “Track him down. We need to talk with him.”
“Detective Cirello’s actions were impeccable,” Keller says. “He’s a hero largely responsible for bringing down a major heroin network. I don’t want to see him harassed or persecuted.”
“You’re not in charge of this investigation,” Scorti says.
“But you want my cooperation,” Keller says.
Crosby says, “Art—”
“Hold on,” Keller says. “None of these people know what it’s like on the ground. They just get to sit in their conference rooms making judgments. The guns at their heads are metaphorical. The guns pointed at Cirello were real.”
“Point taken,” Scorti says. “We still need to talk with Cirello. We also need to talk with Agent Hidalgo. Where is he?”
“I don’t know.”
“We’ve made numerous efforts to contact him,” Scorti says. “He doesn’t respond.”
“I don’t know where he is,” Keller says.
It’s the truth. Keller hasn’t heard from Hidalgo since the kid left his office.
“That’s kind of convenient, isn’t it?” Scorti asks.
Keller shrugs.
Scorti says, “So Antonelli gives you a warrant . . .”
Keller picks up the narrative—Lerner comes to this meeting, sits down with Echeverría, who has known ties to Mexican narcos . . .
“We have photographs,” Crosby says. She lays them out on the table.
“I assume you brought the recordings of this meeting,” Scorti says.
They listen to that tape. Keller feels the air in the room change as they listen to Lerner invite Echeverría to commit bank fraud and transmit hundreds of millions of dollars under the table.
The air gets thicker when they hear—
“And, as you noted, you’re under increased scrutiny these days because of your close connections. I would hope, if we did this favor for you, as an old friend you would make some of these connections available to us if we need an ear to listen to our point of view.”
“That’s Echeverría?” Scorti asks.
“Correct,” Keller says. “And this is Lerner—”
“I can’t promise that our connections would or would not take any specific actions—”
“Of course not.”
“But you will always find an ear.”
The room goes silent.
Then Scorti says, “What I hear is a man offering considerations to a business partner. I don’t hear anything about drugs.”
“You could hear it,” Keller says.
“If . . .”
“If I knew you’d use it.”
“What do you have?”
“What if I had Lerner on tape acknowledging the loan came from drug money?”
“Do you?” Scorti asks.
Keller doesn’t answer.
“I specifically requested all materials,” Scorti says.
“Do you always get what you want?” Keller asks.
“Usually.”
“My client has provided valuable information in your investigation,” Crosby says, “and proven his value as a witness. I’m not going to let him offer anything further without a grant of full immunity.”
“Screw that,” Keller says. “I want to know what this guy is going to do about Lerner.”
“I haven’t decided yet,” Scorti says. “I won’t reach that determination until the investigation is complete.”
Keller says, “I just gave you more than enough to indict Lerner.”
“You’re also withholding information.”
“Indict Lerner,” Keller says, “and I’ll give you the tapes. That way I know which side you’re on; I’ll know you won’t take the tapes and bury them.”
“Who the hell do you think you are?” Scorti asks. “Who the hell do you think I am? I exercise the leverage here, not you. Ms. Crosby, please tell your client that I can have him put in jail until he produces those tapes.”
“Not without a subpoena, you can’t,” Crosby says.
“I can have it this afternoon,” Scorti says.
“There’s no need for any of this if you’ll simply grant immunity,” Crosby says.
“Yeah, there is,” Keller says. “No indictment, no tapes.”
“Maybe I should indict you,” Scorti says.
Keller gets up.
“We have more questions,” Scorti says.
“We’re done here,” Keller says.
“Just one more question,” Scorti says. “There have been rumors. I’m asking you now—did you kill Adán Barrera?”
Keller looks straight at him. “No.”
“I’ll prepare that indictment,” Scorti says.
“Which one?” Keller asks. He walks to the door and turns around. “I’ll be waiting to see who you are.”
In the elevator, Crosby goes off. “What do you think I am, a lawn ornament? Some wall you bounce balls off? If you don’t want me to represent you—”
“I told you—”
“I’m telling you, this man will put you behind bars.”
“What do you want from me?”
“What I want is to protect you.” The elevator doors open. “What do you want, Art?”
“I want to pull this thing down.”
“Even if it’s on top of you?” Crosby asks.
What Mari would call my masochistic, guilty Catholic bullshit, Keller thinks. But, yes, even if it comes down on top of me, it’s coming down.
Eddie looks across the table at the fancy-ass New York lawyer.
“Eddie,” Tompkins says, “we’ve engaged Mr. Cohn here to assist in your defense. As such, anything you say to him is privileged. Do you understand?”
“Sure.” Eddie understands that Cohn here is Lerner’s guy, come to make a deal.
“How can I help you?” Cohn asks.
“It’s how I can help you,” Eddie says. “I can peel Art Keller off your back like an old sunburn. In return, you’re going to give me a plea deal that will get me out while I can still get a hard-on. Do we have a deal?”
“T
hat depends,” Cohn says, “on what you have.”
They’re at an impasse.
Tompkins says, “Well, someone here has to be the first to get naked.”
Okay, Eddie thinks. Why not? What the fuck do I have to lose? He leans across the table, looks at Cohn, smiles, and says, “I saw Art Keller kill Adán Barrera.”
Bang.
The pressure builds.
Scorti doesn’t announce any indictments, doesn’t take anyone into a grand jury, but he does subpoena Dennison’s personal financial records.
The president goes nuts.
Tweets about “witch hunts,” grumbles about firing Ribello, firing the attorney general, even firing Scorti, who has “gone beyond the scope of his investigation, crossed a red line.”
The media go equally nuts.
Talking heads on split screens debate whether firing Scorti would end Dennison’s presidency, if Congress would move to impeach.
Dennison doesn’t do it.
He just threatens, grumbles, vents on Twitter.
Keller waits for indictments.
Lerner’s.
His own.
He waits for a subpoena, a judge’s order to surrender the tapes or go to jail.
Nothing happens.
All that comes out of Scorti’s operation is silence.
Keller reads the papers, watches the shows, sees that Scorti is interviewing witnesses, reviewing documents, poring over Dennison’s financials.
But announces nothing.
Keller is tired.
He won’t say it, but Marisol can tell that it’s all wearing on him—the media glare, the pressure fighting the president of the United States, the worries about his future, the possibility of going to prison.
Her husband doesn’t complain—she wishes he would, wishes that he’d shout, yell, throw things, but Arturo is the type who keeps everything inside and she’s afraid that it’s eating away at him. She knows that he’s not sleeping well. Hears him get up and go downstairs, hears the television come on, or him just padding around the house.
Now he feigns interest in a hockey game on television, but she can tell that his mind is grinding away.
“So,” Marisol says, “what do you want to do, when this is all over?”