Doctor Dealer

by Mark Bowden

  “Dave, do you know what mine is going to be?” Larry asked.

  “I’m pretty sure it’s going to be two million or in excess of that,” Shapiro said sharply. Not just the amount he cited, but the way the lawyer addressed him, startled Larry. It was as though he were suggesting that Larry was, by far, the principal figure. Larry had always considered Frannie to be doing the bigger business. Plus, Frannie had been arrested several times before, once for firebombing a Dairy Queen franchise. Larry was a dentist, for Chrissakes! He was amazed that his bail would be bigger than Frannie’s.

  Feeling somewhat more secure locked in the cell, Larry asked Frannie what he knew, whispering in his ear.

  There was a third person in the cell, a stranger.

  “He’s a plant,” advised Frannie.

  So they quickly made plans for where and when to meet when they got out.

  Within minutes after Larry was locked in the cell, Don Goldberg arrived.

  “I’ve had a quick talk with the U.S. attorney,” he said. “They’re going to be asking a quarter of a million dollars.”

  Larry was immensely relieved. To gain release, he would only need Marcia to bring one-tenth of that to the courthouse.

  “I think I can get it down,” said Goldberg. “From you I need a quick list of liquid assets, what you can get your hands on right away.”

  Larry could have kissed the guy. Goldberg seemed determined to get Larry out as soon as possible. He drew up a list of money in local bank accounts, and the lawyer left.

  Larry and Frannie waited in the cell for less than an hour before being escorted to the elevator and upstairs. They were seated in a room adjacent to a courtroom. Larry was surprised to see a crowd of reporters and sketch artists waiting. He sat down in the first of four rows of folding chairs. A court clerk came in and handed him a copy of his indictment and a thick stack of papers including the wiretap authorization and transcripts of taped telephone conversations—including the one last August with Wayne. Larry set the thick document down on the floor between his feet, leaned forward, and began paging through it with fascination and mounting alarm.

  One by one, the other people arrested that day were led into the same waiting room. It was a mixed bag. Joining Larry and Frannie were Sandy Freas, Frannie’s teenage girlfriend, two minor customers whom Larry had never met, and Kim Norimatsu. Also named in the indictment were Bruce and Suzanne, who were vacationing in New England, Steve and June Rasner, Mark Taplar, and three other small customers. Larry was confused. There was no logic to the indictments. How had the government hit upon this group of people, of whom only he, Frannie, Bruce, Suzanne, and Mark Taplar were central to the business—and each at separate times and places? Larry and Frannie were back to pretending they didn’t know each other. No one in the room exchanged greetings as they entered, and each sat apart from the others. Larry exchanged a quick, silent look with Mark Taplar and then went back to his reading. His heart sank when Kim was led in, wearing blue jeans and sandals with her thick, curly hair pulled back into a long ponytail—why would they want Kim? If they were arresting her, they were arresting everybody.

  “Hi, Larry,” said Kim cheerfully.

  “Not now, not now,” Larry said softly, still looking down at the papers between his feet.

  Kim took the chair behind Larry and kicked the leg of his chair.

  “Larry, what are you doing?”

  “Kimmie, not now,” said Larry.

  “Why are you pretending you don’t know me?”

  Larry looked up at her wearily. “We can’t talk now.”

  “Do you know where Bruce and Suzanne are?”

  “Not now,” in a tone that finally shut Kim up.

  Larry was increasingly mystified and alarmed by the document between his feet. He was no expert on legalese, but as he saw it, in addition to his indictment for conspiracy to distribute cocaine, and for using the telephone to further that conspiracy, he was being indicted under Title 21, U.S. Code Section 848, something referred to in the U.S. attorney’s press release as the “kingpin statute.” Larry saw that he was being named as the “kingpin” of the conspiracy, and that the punishment under that count of his indictment was not something on the order of ten to fifteen years, but a minimum of ten years and a maximum of life!

  LIFE!

  Larry had never even heard of the kingpin statute! As he read it over, he guessed that it was something tailored for a Mafia don, not for a kid three years out of dental school who dealt cocaine on the side!

  LIFE!

  Sweat formed down the furrow of his spine. Larry felt slightly sick to his stomach.

  A marshal entered the waiting room and instructed the group to enter the courtroom. They filed in and took seats in the soft swivel chairs of the jury box. Larry sat next to Frannie.

  “Have you ever heard of Section Eight Forty-eight?” he whispered.

  Frannie just shook his head. When Larry turned toward the crowd in the benches at the rear of the courtroom, the sketch artists stared up at him dispassionately and started drawing. Frannie was trying to keep himself turned toward the wall. Larry felt peculiar, as if he were a character in a dream. Things seemed out of synch. The reporters and artists and federal courthouse workers who had gathered to observe this hearing—Larry was amazed by how many there were—were mostly his age, in their twenties or early thirties. They all seemed just like him. Yet Larry felt on display, as though he were something basically different from the crowd. It was an especially odd feeling for someone so used to being accepted, liked, admired, so much at the center of his youthful society. To be suddenly shunned, put on display and scrutinized so coldly, like a freak—it didn’t seem quite right. It was as though the rest of the world were suddenly out of step . . . what was this? Didn’t all these people smoke dope and snort coke at their parties? Larry could understand the way the cops treated him—heavy-handed, square-headed agents of the state, one of “Them”—but these people in the audience craning their necks, jotting notes, and frantically sketching, they didn’t belong to “Them.” They belonged to “Us.” These were people just like him.

  Everyone stood up when the man with the black robe entered the courtroom. The court crier introduced him as “the Honorable Tullio G. Leomporra”; he was not a judge but a U.S. magistrate. Sandy and Kim were let off with minimal bail and on their own recognizance. Larry found the mechanics of the hearing soothing and interesting. He alternately listened and continued reading through the indictment. Skimming over his conversation with Wayne Heinauer, Larry winced at how freely he had talked about Frannie. He could see that the recording was much more damaging than he had thought. Bruce Taylor was all over the summary of wiretap evidence. Didn’t that son-of-a-bitch ever use a pay phone?

  Chuck Reed took the stand to testify in favor of the prosecutor’s request for a $500,000 bail for Frannie. Larry listened with surprise and wonder as the FBI agent did a number on Frannie. In the months since he had sold out to Frannie, Larry had learned that Burns was capable of violence—but could this be the same person? Chuck described Frannie as a vicious career criminal who was implicated in a firebombing, who had set aside two million dollars to bribe witnesses, and who had threatened to have anyone who testified against him killed.

  When Shapiro got up to speak on Frannie’s behalf, he began to roam the courtroom as he spoke. The magistrate abruptly told him to sit down.

  Bail for Frannie was set at $250,000.

  Then it was Larry’s turn. He could hardly believe his ears when the prosecutor started in on him, describing his cocaine business as “the largest cocaine-distribution enterprise in the history of the Philadelphia area.” They placed volume at sixty to eighty kilos per month—Larry recognized this estimate to be the volume he had quoted to Wayne Heinauer on the phone in August, when he was doing the sales job for Frannie. That volume represented Larry’s guess of how much Frannie was doing combined with his own business, which he believed was the smaller of the two. His own business
was closer to thirty kilos per month. The way the business was being described, it was made to sound as if Frannie worked for him, and that all the money from sales at the hypothetical volume of sixty to eighty kilos per month was being passed up to him. The prosecutor said the business generated five million per month. Larry’s estimate of his net worth, after selling pot and cocaine for almost ten years, was just under six million.

  Larry wanted to jump up several times to explain, but he knew he had to just sit there and take it. The prosecutor urged a bail of $250,000. At last Don Goldberg got up. Speaking with his authoritative, reassuring bass tones, Larry’s lawyer argued simply and forcefully. His client was a professional. He had a wife and a child. He had never been arrested before and he had known he was under investigation for nearly two years. Larry Lavin hardly posed a threat to potential witnesses and had demonstrated his willingness to stay and face charges.

  The magistrate set Larry’s bail at $150,000. Larry grinned with relief.

  Before going back to the holding cell, the U.S. marshals let Larry use a phone to call Marcia.

  “If I’m going to get out today, you’ll have to move fast,” said Larry. “We need a cashier’s check for fifteen thousand.”

  Larry instructed Marcia which account at the Provident Bank to withdraw the funds from, and begged her to hurry.

  Marcia called her mother, and stood in the driveway outside until Agnes pulled in.

  “Give me the keys,” she said, as her mother stepped out of the car.

  “Why can’t you use your car?”

  “Because Chris locked the keys inside.”

  Marcia sped to the Provident, arriving at 2:55 p.m., five minutes before closing time. She told the teller she wanted a check for fifteen thousand dollars. Marcia had never withdrawn that much money from a bank in her life. She expected the teller to ask her why. But instead the woman just smiled and asked for an account number.

  Marcia drove home with the check. Her mother was still standing outside in the driveway when she got back.

  “What’s going to happen?” Agnes asked.

  “Mom, I don’t know,” said Marcia. She explained that she had to go down into Philadelphia to get Larry. She didn’t know how long it would take.

  Marcia was shaking with fear and excitement. She stopped to get gas. All the way into the city her mind raced. Where exactly was Race Street and Fifth? What was the best way to get there? She had to be careful not to get in an accident, but she had to hurry . . . hurry.

  She found the federal building easily and parked her mother’s car two blocks away, at Fourth and Market streets. Walking briskly down the sidewalk, back toward the courthouse, the weirdness of the moment finally hit her. The gray morning sky had cleared into a bright blue late-summer afternoon. Across the street was the Liberty Bell pavilion and beyond that Independence Hall. A pretzel vendor on the corner offered her his wares. Marcia thought, I’m on my way in to bail out my husband; should I buy a soft pretzel? It was a strange adventure. Instead of feeling sad or angry, she felt almost amused, as though she were watching herself from outside.

  Inside the enormous first-floor lobby, a cool, dark, echoing chamber, Marcia set her car keys in a little basket and strode through the metal detector.

  “Could you tell me where the U.S. marshal’s office is?” she asked.

  She was directed up an escalator off to the side.

  Inside the marshal’s office, Marcia was directed to a clerk who took her check. Very quickly, Larry appeared behind a thick window. He was wearing handcuffs, which startled Marcia. A door opened and Larry was led out. He looked so sheepish and vulnerable. She had never seen him look like that.

  “Thanks for getting here so fast,” he said.

  Larry and Marcia signed papers guaranteeing the full $150,000 bond against their house. The handcuffs were taken off, and the clerk said, “Okay, you can go now.”

  Larry didn’t smile.

  He said, “Let’s just get the hell out of here.”

  ELEVEN

  Time for a Vacation

  “Where did you park the car?” asked Larry.

  “A few blocks from here,” said Marcia. She had a difficult time keeping up with his long strides as they exited the courthouse. “I’ve got my mother’s car. Chris locked the keys in mine. Do you want me to drive?”

  “No. I want to drive.”

  They walked down one long block in silence.

  “You would think I was a murderer or something!” Larry exclaimed.

  They drove directly over to Donald Goldberg’s office across the street from City Hall. Larry was worried that the agents had found the embosser that he had thrown away that morning. He was so relieved to be out of that courthouse.

  “I’m in deep, deep trouble,” he told Marcia, but didn’t bother to explain.

  “Well, Larry, we knew this was coming for a long time,” she said, trying to soothe him.

  “But I didn’t know,” Larry said sharply. “It’s much worse than I ever thought. You see, there’s five counts to the indictment. One of the counts is under something called Section Eight Forty-eight. You can get life under that one! I want to know why the hell I was indicted under that and Frannie wasn’t.”

  “Maybe it won’t be that bad,” said Marcia. Their roles were reversed; it was usually Larry telling Marcia things weren’t going to be as bad as she feared.

  “No,” said Larry. “They’ve got me. You should read the tapes.”

  Marcia sat in the waiting room while Larry conferred with Goldberg.

  Larry sat down opposite the lawyer’s cluttered desk. The north wall of the office, to Larry’s left, was one long window looking down on the ornate gray stone columns of City Hall.

  Goldberg’s first words after greeting Larry and expressing satisfaction at his release were, “I think Tom Bergstrom would be good for this case.” He explained that his own specialty was in tax matters, and that Larry would need someone with recent experiences in cases like his own. Bergstrom was a former assistant U.S. attorney recently gone into private practice. He would have the kind of time and expertise Larry would need for preparing his defense.

  It was unsettling. Larry was impressed with what Goldberg had done for him that day. He was grateful. Now to be told that Goldberg was not going to represent him further was alarming.

  “I thought you were done dealing,” the lawyer said pointedly.

  Larry tried to explain that he really had stopped dealing, at least very soon after having consulted with Goldberg for the first time in late 1982. He had just been trying to collect money, to make back some of the millions he had lost in investments with Mark Stewart and Joe Powell.

  “It was stupid,” said Larry. “You’re right. What can I say?”

  “And I told you to stay off the phones,” Goldberg said.

  They got home shortly after five. The air had gotten suddenly cooler.

  Marcia’s mother asked, “Are you all right, son?”

  “Yeah,” said Larry, trying to smile.

  “Do you want me to stay or go?” Agnes asked her daughter.

  “I think you better go,” said Marcia. “I’ll call you.”

  Larry pulled down all the shades in the house, moving from room to room.

  “I don’t want people looking in,” he said.

  Marcia called the AAA to help her get the keys out of the car. While she was out in the driveway she saw the woman next door in her driveway. Neither woman said anything. When the keys were freed, she thanked the AAA man and walked back into the kitchen to start dinner.

  Inside, Larry had on the Channel 6 news. The story of his arrest, complete with the mug shot taken earlier that day, was the lead news item.

  “Larry, why in the world would you want to listen to that?” called Marcia from the kitchen.

  He didn’t answer. Marcia walked in to watch for a moment.

  “That’s the most important thing that happened in this city today?” asked Marcia.


  Larry listened silently in his leather armchair, flipping channels to catch portions of the item on other stations. When the part dealing with his arrest was over, he turned off the TV and walked into the kitchen. He stood quietly for a moment, watching Marcia at work but with a distant look in his eyes.

  “We may be leaving within six weeks,” he said.

  Bruce and Suzanne Taylor were in a cabin in New England the day of Larry’s arrest. They learned of their indictment by phone. Bruce, who was out on bail, had left the cabin number with his lawyer’s office.

  They were advised to hustle home. If they were arrested in New Hampshire, it might take a while before extradition was completed. They would spend days, if not longer, being shuttled from prison to prison on their way back to Philadelphia for arraignment.

  So they gathered up their things, half expecting swarms of armed agents to come storming over the quiet autumn hills, and drove straight home as fast as they could. They turned themselves in the next day, and both were again released on bail.

  Tom Bergstrom looked like the kind of man you would want on your side of a goal-line stand. He stood well over six feet and had the shoulders and back of an immovable object. Bergstrom played basketball in college, served in the U.S. Marines, and filled his office with posters, drawings, busts, and statuettes of John Wayne. There was a hint of the Duke’s manner in his muscular ease and lack of pretension. In his early forties, Bergstrom might have had flecks of gray in his hair, but it was cut too short to tell for sure.

  Don Goldberg had called on the day of Larry’s arrest and briefed him on the case. Larry had agreed to pay Tom a twenty-five-thousand-dollar fee up front. The big lawyer met Larry for the first time in Goldberg’s office the next day.

  What Bergstrom saw surprised him. While he had not expected to meet a bum—Larry had made a lot of money, after all—he had expected someone a little more gold-trimmed and high-gloss. Larry looked as if he had stepped off the cover of an advertising brochure for an Ivy League school. He was wearing a gray crewneck sweater over a white shirt with a button-down collar, brown corduroy pants, and a pair of topsider shoes. He looked and comported himself like everyone’s idea of a perfect son: He was outgoing and friendly in a very pleasant way; he was candid, humorous, and self-deprecatory, obviously intelligent, clean-cut, and apparently genuine. Any reservations Tom had about defending the reputed cocaine king of Philadelphia eased. He liked Larry immediately. Tom’s first impression coincided with Goldberg’s assessment: This was a basically nice kid who had made some big mistakes—Big Mistakes. Larry was in big-league trouble. He was about to be martyred to his generation’s lust for cocaine.