by Sam O'Brien
“Yeah. So I don’t want him to give evidence that will cost him his life.”
“Even if it costs you yours?” asked Rosen.
“Look, I’m still his only son. I know, in his world, sending me to jail is no big deal ‘cause he thinks he’s doing me a favour, but I don’t think he could give the order to kill me.”
“I hope you’re right,” said Huntley, though he really didn’t give a shit if Marco succeeded in killing his son. As long as they got the testimony first.
“Now tell us more about your mother’s death,” said Rosen.
Robert told them what he remembered, what he had been led to believe, and what his father had finally confessed to.
Huntley concluded the session after that. Robert was led back to his cell.
* * *
As the agents ate take-out in an empty office, they went over the interview tapes again and formulated a plan of attack to present to the District Attorney.
Huntley considered what they had. He was of the opinion that a written statement from Oliver could be prepared and introduced, only if necessary. The testimony of Robert would confirm that Marco was behind it all, and his confirmation that product was Marco’s codeword for cocaine should make the information on the CD decipherable and admissible.
Robert’s evidence about his mother was anecdotal, at best. Huntley also decided they would make no mention in court of the previous successful shipment. There seemed no point in bringing up a crime that had gone undetected and making themselves look inept. Besides, that would mean having to alert, and co-operate with, the Irish Government, and that was a chore he had no interest in. Rosen knew better than to argue with him. Monica kept her mouth shut, to prevent her contempt from spilling out and ruining her career.
The three of them kept at it until dawn. After a fitful few hours sleep, Huntley called one of his team and ordered the young agent to go to his house and fetch the transcripts and discs from the bug in Marco’s office, and bring them to the station. He dragged a bleary-eyed Rosen and Monica from their rooms and back to the office.
“You guys haven’t heard this before,” he said, sipping his fourth coffee and feeling jittery with caffeine and excitement.
Rosen and Monica looked at him, puzzled. Huntley tossed the transcript on the table.
“This is the tape of Marco giving the order to Mike to put the drugs into the horses. He speaks in code, but with his son’s testimony, we can convince the DA and a jury that he was talking about drugs.” His hand was shaking as he pressed play.
The machine started to whirr as the disc spun and Marco’s voice bellowed from the speaker.
“Looks like we’re goin’ to have to change plans earlier than I thought. I had an idea a while back, now’s the time to give it a try. Tomorrow, do the other thing first, but keep the tool in the car. Then pick Oliver up from the airport. Drive him somewhere quiet.”
“Then what?”
“Then you tell him we’re goin’ to fill Painter up with product and send her to Ireland. Like that thing I told you about – the Mexican bitch with the dead baby, and the other one with the dog. Know what I mean?”
“Yeah, I got you.”
“Good. Get the terriers to make a delivery to him. For starters, capiche?”
“Good. Then tell him if it goes well, he can buy me more horses. I’ll give him a wedge for himself on top of the purchase fees. Everyone stays happy as long as everyone makes money.”
“I hear you.”
“Good. Get it done.”
He tapped the pause button. “That’s it.”
“I don’t get it,” said Monica. “I thought you said we wouldn’t refer to this crime, that there was no need.”
“I did, but it came to me when I slept: this is the key order. We have to use it. Shit, we’ll just tell them we didn’t appreciate the full significance of it until we interviewed Robert. And fuck the Irish authorities – it’s my bust.”
“What if the DA wants heads to roll for this?” asked Rosen.
“Then we feed him Oliver and the vet,” he snorted. “Little shit should have come to us about it, anyway.”
Chapter 64
“Geez, I think he did the right thing,” said Monica.
Huntley shot her a look which said: I don’t care what you think.
She continued regardless. “If he had come to you, that would have been the end of that and you’d have got Marco Romano for four kilos of blow. Now you have him for fifty, and whatever you think of him, it’s mostly down to that Irishman.”
Rosen cracked a wry smile. He was really pleased he had chosen Monica.
“What are you grinning about?” snapped Huntley.
“I hate to rain on your parade, but she’s right.”
Huntley glared at Monica. “Find out anything you can about a Mexican woman smuggling coke inside a dead baby, or – what else did he say? A dog? Anyway, we’ll need the info to explain the conversation and give more credence to the ‘product’ code. Get on it now.”
She was already furiously scribbling notes, delighted to be given something to do that didn’t require filling a coffee cup.
When she had hurried out of the office and closed the door, Huntley spoke. “As I see it, we’ll proceed like this: Keep Marco in the dark; McMahon has to give a written statement; Robert will testify, before the jury hears the tapes; then we put Marco on the stand and hit him with everything.”
Rosen raised his hand. “Hold it right there. Isn’t that for the DA to decide?”
“It’s for me to tell the DA.”
Rosen raised his eyebrows.” And what if Marco’s lawyer fucks up your plan?”
“That’s the DA’s problem, but we have to keep Marco in the dark as long as possible. I bet you he’s not expecting this. He’ll be sitting in there thinking all we have is an Irishman, a bunch of guards who won’t talk, and a son who says it was all him, the Irishman and two others, the . . . the . . . er . . .” He clicked his fingers, trying to remember.
“The terriers,” Rosen prompted.
“Right. Shit, that reminds me.” He picked up his phone and called Monica. “Yeah, get information on associates or members of the Family known as Tomo and Tito, the terriers. What? Yes, that’s all we have to go on.” He ended the call.
“You reckon we’ll find them?” said Rosen.
Huntley shrugged. “If they’re willing to take the fall, then yes. If not, we never will.”
“That’s a no, then.”
“Hey, this kind of thing happened before. Remember? That Italian guy in Ireland.”
Rosen looked lost.
“You know, the guy caught on the Irishman’s brother’s plane – I sent you the file. Anyway, he’ll get fifteen years, and he hasn’t said a word to the cops. I mean, not a fucking word. That’s loyalty.”
“Or bribery.”
“Whatever, whichever. Who cares? It works.” He scratched under his chin.
“What about the race fixing?”
“Fuck race fixing. Your little broad Monica’s right; we got him for fifty kilos of pure coke. Who gives a shit about fixing a fucking race? So maybe some rich Kentucky asshole lost a few bucks. Let the NTRA or the Jockey Club, or whoever hands out the discipline, sort it out; like they sort out those crooked trainers and their doping and all that shit.”
“What about the deals for Oliver, Rebecca and the kid?”
“Fuck, I guess we’ll have to do something,” he said grudgingly. “Give them new passports and cut them loose. It’ll be cheaper and less of a headache. And we won’t give a shit if they get hit.”
“I’ll get on to a guy in Langley or Homeland Sec,” said Rosen, making a note.
“Fuck that. Use Immigration.”
“No, it’s too leaky.”
“What do you care?”
“I want to do it properly. Jesus, we owe them that much.”
Huntley shrugged. “If you want that kind of headache, you take care of it all yourself.”
* * *
Oliver and Rebecca slept on the government jet from Newark. They touched down in Atlanta and were taken from the plane by a stern, tired-looking agent, who introduced himself as Mitch.
“I’m in charge of your protection detail,” he said, driving them through the city in a brown Ford. “You’ll be in a safe house. Four of us’ll mind you. Two teams of two on rotation. No going outside. No phones, no e-mail. No complaining.”
They got to the house in an affluent, leafy suburb, and Mitch showed his charges to their rooms and asked them to make a list of food and other things they would need. Nothing expensive. Basics only. The house was large, with six bedrooms and a huge living room, but sparsely furnished.
“Where’d you guys get this place?” asked Rebecca.
“Drug bust. Seized asset,” said Mitch. “Your room’s at the top of the stairs. Put your bags in it and write out your list. I’ll send someone to the store.”
Rebecca decided they should start to change their appearances, to be ready for their new identities. Oliver smiled. “I’ve always wanted to shave my head and grow a goatee.”
“Now’s your chance, hon. You’ll look like a badass biker. I’m going strawberry blonde.”
They wrote out their list and handed it to Mitch.
The next morning, Oliver woke feeling troubled. He sat on the floor in their bare room. “Even if we get a new passport for Mum, I’m pretty sure she’d never leave Limerick. That means she’ll be alone. I’ll have to go to Ireland to see her before we take off.”
Rebecca sat up in the bed, wearing a concerned look. “Wherever you go, I’m coming, too.”
He smiled. “Thanks, Bec. There’s also Rich’s inheritance, we have to do something with that, I mean, we could sort Mum out and just take the rest – I’m sure Foster can figure out ways to hide the money for us – but I’m not sure I want all his money.”
“Are you crazy? He gave it to you.”
“I know, but he made most of it by exploiting people or situations for massive profit. I don’t want to just sit around living off it.”
“Then what do we do? We have to have some cash to start a new life eventually. We can’t just keep wandering for ever. It’d be nice to start a family someday, but I don’t think I’ll be able to work as a vet under an assumed identity. I’ll never be able to practice again.”
He looked deep into her eyes. “I want a family, too. I want to do better by my own kids than was done to me.” He rubbed his temples. “I’m not sure what to do yet, but taking all the money just doesn’t sit right in my head.”
“So what do you want to do? Give it to charity?”
He shrugged. “I’m not sure, we’ll both have to think about it, but I just know it’s the right thing to do. We have to give something back.”
* * *
Two weeks later, their boredom was broken by a visitor. Oliver padded into the kitchen to see the young female agent having a heated discussion with Mitch. She stopped abruptly when she saw him. “Holy shit, you look different.”
Oliver smiled and ran his hand over his smooth head. “Time for a new look. Bec’s gone all blonde.”
“Yeah, they think it’s Hallowe’en,” said Mitch.
Oliver ignored him. “Last time I saw you, you were waving a gun at me on a plane full of drugs,” he said. “Agent Kimble, wasn’t it?”
“You can call me Monica, if you like. Sorry if I was a bit rough on you back then, I didn’t know all the facts.”
“And now you do?”
“Where’s Rebecca? Is there some place we can talk?” she said, glancing at Mitch.
Up in their room, Rebecca and Oliver sat on the bed and Monica leaned on the window sill. “At the moment, we have a strong case and the DA wants to press on immediately,” she announced. “Marco’s arraignment will take place tomorrow. The DA will ask for bail to be denied and for a trial in two months, tops. At the moment it looks like you will not be required to testify. I’ll have to take a written statement from you now, but we don’t anticipate we’ll have to use it. You guys will get passports, drivers’ licences, and a plane to wherever you want to go.That’s it. No protection.”
“Jesus, what happened? I thought you needed me. I thought that was the whole idea.”
Monica put up her hand. “I can’t say any more at this time.” She paused for a second, before changing the subject. “Anyway, I also have to take photos of you for your new passports, and get you to make signatures.”
“Great,” said Oliver. “Did Huntley say anything about my mother?”
Monica chewed her lip. “No.”
Oliver and Rebecca exchanged looks.
Monica took a deep breath and said, “Look, I wouldn’t put much faith in Huntley, if I were you. He doesn’t care about you. He’s got his man, and he’ll get a conviction. He says he doesn’t even need you, he’s done the deal with the DA without you, says you’re lucky he doesn’t send you down for smuggling. He only wants the statement as a back-up and to keep you scared. I’m afraid the best you can hope for is a new identity and a fresh start.”
“Charming,” said Oliver. “Pawns in another business deal.” He flopped back on the bed and stared at the ceiling.
“But don’t worry,” she continued, “that’ll be done properly. He put Rosen and I on it.”
“Can we choose our nationalities?” Oliver asked.
“No. Canadian only.”
“Beggars can’t be choosers, I suppose. Let’s get on with it, then,” said Rebecca.
Monica stood them against the bare white wall and took their photos. “OK, that was simple. Now I’m going to need you to write out and sign your account of things with Marco.”
Oliver sighed. “Not again.”
“Fraid so.”
Oliver went to work. An hour later, he was satisfied and signed the three page statement. Monica tucked it into her case. “That’s everything. If all goes well, I’ll see you guys after the trial. Don’t let Mitch and his crew drive you crazy.” She strode to the door and paused with her hand on the knob. “Say, I um, I know how you first met Marco and this is how it all ended up . . . So I gotta ask: if you could go back in time, would you still have done it and got involved?”
“Would I still have saved Robert? Of course. What kind of a question is that? I probably wouldn’t have asked Marco to invest in horses, though, but there’s no point in dwelling on that. What’s done is done.”
“Hey, Monica. Before you go, can you ask Mitch if I can use his phone?”
“I guess so. Follow me.”
After repeated drilling from Mitch about what she could and could not say, Rebecca was granted the use of a satellite cellphone for a few minutes under strict supervision. During the brief call, she learned that Watson and Hollenbach had terminated her position to avoid a scandal and media frenzy. Doug Hollenbach was pushing to have her struck off for malpractice; the matter was to be decided at a board meeting next week. Damage limitation, she was told.
Chapter 65
Marco sat in the small interview room, fuming. He was feeling like a Death Row criminal in his yellow jumpsuit, though he had shaved his face and immaculately slicked his hair back. This strange attention to detail, along with his prison garb, made him look more intimidating – a bit like Hannibal Lecter – and he was certainly angry enough to consider eating his lawyers.
He drummed his fingers on the plastic table and stared at his companion. The grizzled guard had seen it all before, but still looked quite honoured to be assigned to Marc
o Romano today.
Marco composed himself by counting silently to ten, then asked in a calm voice, “I thought you said my lawyers were here?”
“Looks like they’re late, Sir.”
Marco kept drumming his fingers.
“They’re probably getting searched, and a glove up their assholes.” said the guard, in an attempt at humour.
“Huh,” said Marco, with a smirk. “Now that I’d pay to see.” He stopped himself from calling them useless fucking pricks in front of the guard, but he wanted to roar it from the rooftops. None of the deals they oversaw, the money they hid and re-routed for him, counted for shit now, as far as he was concerned. If they couldn’t make this go away, well . . .
Moments later, there was a rattle of keys in the door and two men in thousand-dollar suits slithered into the room. They were twin brothers – both in navy, with white shirts and fine silk ties; both had their blond hair slicked back, not unlike Marco’s; and both were a little plump from middle-age spread and comfortable living. Todd and Hal Bristow had grown up on the Upper East side of Manhattan, in a world of moneyed entitlement that had taken a huge hit in the stock market crash of the mid-eighties.
Fear of ordinary, middle-class living had motivated them to graduate law school and pass the bar within a year of each other. Pedigree and connections had guaranteed them positions in major New York practices. Both were intelligent and could have been accomplished attorneys, but they soon got sick of the anti-social hours and the interminable drudgery necessary to become a partner. They felt they should reap the rewards without having to put in the effort.
A chance meeting with Marco over a planning dispute for a nightclub, had led them to quit their jobs and set up a small practice. They had some other clients, but Marco was the one who financed their lifestyle and kept them in champagne and tailored suits. For the most part, it was easy money.
Marco had always felt that he was not only retaining the services of lawyers, but purchasing a glimpse of the upper-class respectability that he craved. He sometimes pressured them into wangling him an invitation to a society event, despite the fact that whenever he attended most guests politely ignored him out of fear or shock. Todd and Hal always tried to avoid being seen with him. Secretly, however, they loved the aura of mystery being Marco’s lawyers gave them. It made them sexier, and gave them an illusion of power above their station.