by Justin Scott
“Where’d you hide the wire?”
“Garter belt.”
“I’d like to hear the rest of the tape, if we didn’t melt it. Want to tell me why?”
“Don’t say anything. They’ll use it against you.”
“I want to know why.”
“Eddie. It’s a trade for my brother.”
“But we—”
“We are stranieri,” she whispered. “‘A wife is one thing, a sister something more. ”
29
CHAPTER
A pair of agents stepped toward the table. “Stand up, please.”
Taggart pointed a big, blunt, manicured finger at his brother. “You know and I know, they owed us.”
“They owed the law. And so do you. Make it easy for me and I’ll do what I can to make it easy for you. Who’s Reggie?”
“Reggie?” The whole room was spinning. Helen in the center, tears splashing the hands she held to her lips. He wanted to make her smile. “Reggie? Isn’t that the rich kid in the Archie comics?”
Helen felt as if an earthquake had cleaved the gaudy room. With that joke he had forgiven her betrayal and the betrayals to come at his trial. It made it even more terrible that she could never see him again. Except, like her father, behind faraway prison walls.
They locked his handcuffs to a chain around his waist when they boarded the chartered plane. The NYPD escorted them with lights and sirens from LaGuardia Airport to Foley Square. Cops with shotguns lined the steps of the Federal Court House shouting, “Get back! Back!”
Barred, ethically, from participating in his brother’s case, Tony Taglione observed Taggart’s arraignment from the public area of the magistrate’s courtroom. He maintained a scrupulous silence as the Strikeforce agents swore their complaints, but his gaze, alternately angry and stricken, flashed like high beams on ice.
Taggart pleaded not guilty. He was still deeply shaken by the arrest. He was awed by the finality of the handcuffs; every few minutes he had to struggle with himself not to tear at the metal.
Taggart’s lawyers—“graduates” themselves of the U.S. Attorney’s office, Criminal Division—moved to seek bail.
Tony’s assistants acted swiftly to dominate the bail hearing. They characterized Taggart as an international criminal with means to escape the court’s jurisdiction before the government could finish investigating the scope of Taggart’s conspiracy.
The head of Taggart’s defense team rebutted: “To characterize the government’s case as thinner than the thinnest ceramic wafer on the smallest chip in the tiniest component of a microscopic electronic element would be to overstate its validity manyfold. We will not dignify this entrapment by a woman scorned—a woman whose racketeering brother is in the slammer, a woman herself on the brink—by ever mentioning it again. Your Honor, Mr. Taggart seeks bail solely on the grounds that his roots are deep in the community.” He sat down whispering, “If this ever goes to trial, we will eat their ‘accomplice witness’ for breakfast.”
“Just keep me out of jail.”
Tony’s assistants offered their second argument. The accused was a danger to the community.
Taggart’s lawyer rose again, chuckling. “A danger to the community? Perhaps the prosecutor has confused the breastbeating of a disappointed Landmarks Commission with reality, but I really can’t accept that Mr. Christopher Taggart, developer of some four Manhattan skyscrapers this year alone, a Queens high school, and several thousand units of Bronx low-income housing, is a danger to the community. Good lord, Your Honor, Mr. Taggart is the community.”
The magistrate, an ordinary-looking, round-faced woman of middle age, replied: “Obviously, the charges are extremely serious. And just as obviously, what the accused characterizes as roots in the community could also be construed as the wealth and power to escape the jurisdiction. Therefore, the accused will surrender his passport to the U.S. Attorney. And bail is set at eight hundred thousand dollars.”
Taggart held up his hands. “Could Your Honor have these removed so I could write a check?”
30
CHAPTER
“And of course,” said the barfly, “you’ve heard of the Eton boy who ran away from school? Disguised himself by closing the bottom button on his waistcoat.”
Jack Warner felt his vest—the goddamned thing was buttoned—finished his flat beer in the dreary pub near Charing Cross train station, and wandered unhappily into the cold, damp streets of London. He hated not knowing the rules. And he didn’t really want to learn new ones. Loathing his weeks in continental Europe, he had retreated to England, and liked it even less. It was all, in a word, bush. Or, in three words, not New York. He missed Puerto Ricans, blacks, and Chinese. He missed fast, dirty streets and Italian guys on the make. He missed knowing who was good and who was bad. But most of all, he missed being a cop.
Heading for a newstand to buy a map of Ireland, he was amazed to find Christopher Taggart’s picture plastered on the front pages. How in hell had they nailed the slick bastard? Warner started to read the story in the International Herald Tribune, but halfway down the first column he bolted into the street, hailing a cab with the paper.
“Heathrow Airport!”
“What’s in the news, Guv?”
“My ticket home.”
U.S. Customs didn’t even blink at the forged passport Reggie Rand had supplied him when he had fled New York. Warner ducked the Immigration guys working Kennedy and caught a cab to his Lower East Side apartment. Slipping in unnoticed, he wedged himself into his kitchen closet and opened a tiny wooden door in the back, behind which sat the ancient fuse box. Helen Rizzolo might have told Tony Taglione what his brother had done, but knowing and proving were different matters, as any cop could tell you.
Five malevolent-looking glass fuses studded a metal frame. He disengaged the main switch; the lights went out and the refrigerator stopped with a shudder that shook the floor. Working by flashlight, he unscrewed the face of the fuse box, reached into the hole, and removed a long mailing tube. Then he stuffed the cardboard tube into the inside pocket of his raincoat, and headed for St. Andrew’s Square.
The Strikeforce receptionist regarded him uncertainly.
“Tell Taglione it’s Detective Jack Warner, NYPD, and I guarantee he’ll drop everything.”
As a cop, he had broken many a prisoner down; the coin of the realm was I will send you to jail, and there was only one winner in the race to cooperate. An FBI agent he knew came out and frisked him warily. He even peered inside the mailing tube.
“I’m not here to shoot him, asshole.”
“I wish you were so I’d have an excuse to shoot you. Here’s a warrant for your arrest.”
“Save us both some trouble and wait till I’ve seen the boss.”
Taglione was on the phone. Some exhausted-looking assistants were waiting with papers. Agents were pacing the halls, smoking too much. Warner smiled. Just as he had suspected when he had read the first news story—all the trappings of a big case turned sour.
Taglione covered the mouthpiece and drilled him with his piercing eyes. “Are you turning yourself in?”
“Alone.”
Taglione studied him with dark contempt, muttered something into the phone, hung up, and asked his assistant attorneys to come back in five minutes.
Warner closed the door and leaned against it. “All I want is my badge.”
“Your badge? You’ll be lucky to pull ten years. Why should I give you your badge?”
“Because without me, you got shit on Taggart.”
“We have an accomplice witness. I don’t call that a weak case.”
“You have no corroboration.”
Taglione stared.
“Hey, I worked for your brother. I know how careful he was. He didn’t give the broad anything she could use on him. All she’s got is a story. No proof.”
“Jack, you betrayed the most prestigious office in America. You sold out and ran for it. I can’t give you your badge.”
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Warner shrugged. “So your brother walks.”
“And you go to prison.”
“Great. The big guy gets away and the little guy gets the slammer. Maybe the U.S. Attorney for Kansas plays that way. But the Southern District of New York?... ”
Taglione reddened and Warner knew he had him. Taglione said, “Even if Arthur Finch goes along, the cops won’t. Everybody knows you ran.”
“I didn’t run,” Warner smirked. “Where’d you get that idea? It was a setup. I was working a deep-cover sting for you.”
“You were not.”
“But if you and Finch tell ’em we had to make it look like I ran, then I’m home free and you make your case.”
Taglione glared, ready to kill, but he was stuck, and knew it. “You’d have to do a hell of a lot to get us to go along with that.”
Warner laughed. “Hey, nobody knows more about the Maf than Jack Warner.”
He pulled the mailer from his new trenchcoat, pried off the cap, and spilled the contents across Taglione’s desk—notes, Xeroxes, recording transcripts, phone records, names and dates.
Taglione sifted through them with both hands. “What does this mean?”
“It means if I keep my badge, I can use my files to steer your investigation in seventeen directions your brother went. Helen Rizzolo don’t know the half of it.”
U.S. Attorney Arthur Finch invited Taggart and his lawyer to meet in his office. Tony Taglione was there when they arrived, sitting on a couch, his dark eyes burning. Taggart’s lawyer walked around, sniffing the wind while he rolled a cigar pugnaciously between his fingers. Taggart stood quietly by the window gazing out at the Brooklyn Bridge, waiting to hear what had gone badly wrong. Arthur took the seat behind his desk.
“I’m going to let your client cop a plea.”
“We’re not copping any plea.”
“You’ll be begging to when you hear what we’ve got.”
“You’ve got shit, Arthur. This is a charade to scare my client. You’ve got an asshole case and you’re going to look like assholes in front of the grand jury. I’m moving to get this whole trumped-up mess dropped tomorrow morning.”
Finch’s eyes turned steely gray, and for the first time in the years he had known him, Taggart understood how earlier Finch generations had acquired railroads. “Are you quite through, Counselor?”
He held Taggart’s lawyer’s eye until the man looked away.
“Up until now, we knew your client did it. Now, we can prove how.”
“If you’re that sure, Arthur, how come you’re talking plea?”
“Because I would much prefer a full list of all the government people your client corrupted and the Mafiosi he elevated and the dope networks he spawned, as well as your client himself under immediate lock and key.”
“Should we throw in a cure for cancer?”
“We’ve cut a cooperation agreement with one of your client’s helpers. He’s steering us in every direction we need. The conspiracy is much bigger than we thought.”
“Come off it. What ‘helper’?” He glanced at Taggart, who shrugged and thought, Jack Warner.
“I’m willing to consolidate all the charges—those made and those to be made—into two RICOs on heroin trafficking, twenty years apiece, to be served concurrently. The full twenty. I don’t want to see your man on the street before he’s fifty years old.”
“I don’t believe you guys. What ‘helper’? Who is this ‘helper’?”
The room was stuffy. Taggart unlatched the window and swung it open a crack. He held his face to the cool breeze, then turned to study the men debating his fate. Arthur glared back, and Taggart realized that even as he tried to put him in jail, the U.S. Attorney was hoping to save Tony’s career. His own lawyer’s mouth was a tight, worried line. And Tony’s mask was slipping; a tic that Chris remembered from childhood was tugging at his brother’s cheek.
“Sid, would you please leave the room?” he said to his attorney.
“Mr. Taggart—”
“Out! Please.”
“I really strongly advise—”
Taggart glanced at Tony and Tony stood up. “Arthur? Why don’t Chris and I take a walk?”
“Fine with me. Counsel and I can pass the timfe recalling the good old days before he left public service to get rich.”
“Some of us weren’t born with a silver suppository up our ass,” Sid shot back. “Mr. Taggart, what you’re doing is dangerous. I strongly advise—”
“I’m just going for a walk with my brother.”
While riding the elevator and walking through the lobby and onto the pavestone plaza, Taggart could feel Tony assessing him, as if he was hunting the best approach to get him to open up. “No escort?” he asked.
“You’re still out on bail, for the moment, Mr. Community. What do you want? Walk? Drink?” He nodded toward Police Headquarters, behind which nestled a cop bar. “Hamburger at the Mick’s?”
Taggart raised his eyes to the building tops. “Let’s go to the Spire.”
“You gonna talk to me?”
“Yeah. We’ll work something out. I want to see the job.”
They hurried to Center Street and got into a cab. “Okay,” Tony said, shutting the driver’s shield. “Just us. It’s all true, isn’t it?”
“What do you think?”
“But why? Why’d you do it?”
“For Pop.”
Tony stared. “Revenge?”
“I told you over ten years ago. They owed us.”
“All for Pop?”
“All.”
“What about the money?”
“What money? I spent more than I ever made.”
They sat silently until the cab reached Union Square. Tony said, “You don’t understand what you’ve done wrong, do you? You still don’t understand the crimes. You sold dope.”
“Bait.”
“You killed people.”
“Greaseball hoods.”
“You corrupted—”
“I got caught.”
“But don’t you understand what you’ve done?”
“Yes. I destroyed the biggest Mafia family in New York.”
“You can’t do that!”
“I did it. The Cirillos are broken, man. Pick up the pieces.”
“It’s the wrong way.”
“It worked.”
“You undermine everything. Why have a government if you can just run out and blow people away to satisfy your revenge? Why have law?”
“You tell me.”
“Because a guy can always be wrong. And the rest of us have to be protected from a guy who can be wrong.”
“But I was right. And you know it. We fought on this from the beginning. You’re still trying to force theories on truth. But you know I was right.”
“Not quite. You’re going to jail.”
“We’ll see.”
“Oh, you’re going all right. You belong to the law now.”
“The same law that did nothing when they killed Pop.”
“Pop!” Tony yelled. “Blame it on Pop!”
“They killed Pop!”
“Pop! What about me?”
“What?”
“You used me. You used my office. You ripped me off, Chris. You tricked me into doing your dirty work.”
“I gave you real leads.”
“Thanks a lot. You two. You and Pop. Remember joking about me? Big joke. Tony’s honest? Tony’s straight? He’s like a priest? Got it from Mom? And then in the next breath, Pop going, ‘Tony’s gonna be my lawyer.’ ”
“What’s wrong with that? He loved you. You were his first-born son.”
“Pop knew I couldn’t have been his lawyer in a million years. Didn’t you ever wonder? Who did he appoint executor of his will? You. I was studying law, and he put you in charge of the money.”
“I was in the business,” Taggart protested, but he too had wondered at the time, and despite the pride of being chosen, he had felt for Tony. Now
he wished he had said something then, when it had mattered.
“And straight Tony was too honest,” Tony said bitterly.
“I wanted you to be my lawyer. I asked you fourteen times.”
“You didn’t want a lawyer, you wanted a manipulator. You wanted to find the ways around the law like it’s a game, and if you’re smart you win. Well, that’s bullshit. The law is supposed to protect helpless people from people who are so strong they think they can do what they please—people like you, Bro. Scary people... Admit it, man. You wanted me off the Strikeforce because you knew I’d nail your ass in the end.”
“All Pop or I ever wanted was you to be part of the family.”
“You used me. You lied. You talked about family, but you treated me like I was one of your fucking women.”
“Hey. Don’t talk to me about women. You don’t know them.”
“You do?” Tony exploded. “You arrogant bastard! Do whatever you feel, whenever you feel. That’s how you live. If you get mad, kill somebody—right, Bro? It’s obvious you killed Rendini, or had him killed. You meet a Mafia girl, bingo, fall in love. Your brother, who you say you love, gets established in something he loves, so you use the dummy. You have no standards. You have no restraint. No character. Look what you’ve done. You’ve blown it all. The company. Us. Even Pop. I loved him too, you know. I didn’t have to agree with him to love him. Do you think Pop would back you on this shit? Don’t you see how far wrong you’ve gone? Do you think Pop would approve?”
“The only thing I regret is making you trouble,” Taggart retorted angrily. “I am really sorry. You wouldn’t have been hurt if I didn’t get caught, and believe me, Tony, I did not intend to get caught.”
“What are you, God? Of course you got caught.”
Taggart flushed darkly. “Only because Eddie Rizzolo homed in on that phony dope deal. When you investigate you’ll see I had Crazy Mikey set up. He was the last. I got Don Richard. I got Sal Ponte. I blew that whole stinking family apart. Then I was home free. Out and done. With my father’s murder avenged... our father. I don’t apologize for avenging Pop.”