by Sam O'Brien
Now, they looked cornered and out of their depth. The social stigma and very public ordeal of going down on the good ship Romano did not appeal to them, but then again, neither did the prospect of a terminal meeting with Mike the Nail.
They stood there, rooted to the spot. Eventually, one swallowed and clicked his fingers at the guard, who dragged his feet out of the room and fondled his baton as if he wanted to crack it over the man’s head.
“Tweedle-Dumb and Tweedle-fuckin-Dee. Bout time. How’s the upper east side? Life easy in your big fuckin’ townhouses? You better have good news for me.”
They squirmed in unison.
They inspected the two plastic chairs with distaste, and gingerly sat on them.
Marco stared at them in astonishment. “Whenever you’re ready, I mean, don’t let me rush you.”
“See, it’s um, like this, Marco,” said Hal, clearing his throat as if the words disgusted him. “It’s um, not looking good. You’re in some deep shit this time. They have you for fifty kilos of absolutely pure cocaine and . . .”
“Absolutely pure?” Marco cut in, mockingly. “Oh, you mean like the shit you put up your noses at your Long Island beach houses? ‘Cause I can assure you, gentlemen, it came from the same source.”
The two lawyers exchanged embarrassed looks.
“Um, they also have testimony against you and audio tapes,” Hal continued.
“What fucking testimony? That goddamn Irishman? He’s up to his neck in this.” Marco’s eyes burned through his counsel, as he jabbed his index finger on the table. “They don’t have shit on me. Your fuckin’ job is to see to it that the Irishman, the terriers, and my son, get the rap for this. Then you work on reducing my son’s sentence. Capiche?”
“Marco, calm down. Please,” said Hal, producing a cigarillo and offering it to Marco.
He snatched it and inhaled fully.
“OK, Marco, it’s like this: we spoke to the DA this morning and he outlined the case against you. There are two key pieces of evidence, which appear to dovetail nicely. First, they have extensive audio footage of you obtained from devices planted in your house.”
He nearly dropped the cigarillo. “What? Say that again? In my house? In my fuckin’ house? How the fuck..?” He banged his fist on the table and set his brain into overdrive. “Hold on a second. Whatever they got in there would be in code. Have you listened to the footage?”
“Our team is on it now, but that’s not the problem,” continued Hal. “The problem is the testimony: we’ve seen video footage. It’s not good. Not good at all.”
“We would advise you to make a plea and take a deal. We’re not saying you should give anyone up, but if you were to cooperate, the DA will advise the Judge to dramatically reduce your sentence,” said Todd.
Marco did not dignify that with a reply.
“Look, the DA wants you put away quickly, but he knows the public soon move on, so if you were to help him get somebody else – your suppliers, say – then he could have you quietly released after a respectable period of years.”
“You make it sound so appealing,” said Marco. He flicked the butt on the ground and leaned in close to Todd, the eyes on full beam, full of thunder. “What the fuck do I pay you for?” he said in a very calm voice.
Todd swallowed hard. “We wouldn’t be acting in your best interests if we didn’t advise you to make a plea.”
“Fuck you,” said Marco, without taking his eyes off Todd. “You listen to me: you were happy to take a fat retainer when times were easy. Now you gotta earn it. That Irishman is not in a position to give evidence against me. You can discredit him easy enough. Get off your fuckin’ ass and build me a defence. And if you can’t do it, find a criminal lawyer who can. But you’ll pay his fees, not me.”
“We already thought of that. Nobody’ll touch you. Not for any money. Not once they look at the evidence.”
“Find Mike, I want to talk to him. Tell him to send someone.”
The Bristow brothers looked at each other nervously.
“Marco,” said Todd, with a quiver in his voice. “Mike disappeared the day you were arrested; nobody has seen Jimmy or the terriers either. Half the Federal Agents on duty are looking for them.” His voice trailed off.
Hal picked up the conversation. “There is one other major point. Er . . . The testimony is not from Oliver McMahon. It’s from . . .” He cleared his throat again. “It’s from your son. Robert.”
“What the fu–” Marco paused and fell back in his chair like he had been punched in the chest. He was speechless.
After what seemed like an age, he took a deep breath and ran his hands over his hair, smoothing it down. Then he locked his dark eyes onto his lawyers, switching from one to the other, cutting right through them.
The Bristows sat as if turned to stone by the Medusa.
“Get the fuck out of here and find Mike.”
“We’ll put the word out,” mumbled Hal.
“Do that. And build me a fucking defence,” he bellowed. Then he shut his eyes.
After a minute, the Bristows stood and knocked on the door. When they were let out, the guard appeared and motioned for Marco to get on his feet. He waited until he was back in his cell before he started to think about Robert and what this all meant. Part of him wanted to scream and shed a tear, but the other part held sway. He needed to contact Mike more than ever.
Chapter 66
The DA had his way and the case was rushed to trial, after Marco – as expected – refused to plead guilty or no contest.
Huntley actually danced a jig alone in his office when he heard the news.
The case was hurried before a judge in just three months; the mid-term elections were approaching and the Governor of New Jersey wanted a high-profile conviction to give weight to his apparent tough stance on crime.
Oliver and Rebecca spent a white Christmas playing cards in the safe house with the four bored agents who were dying to get back to their own lives. Oliver did manage to persuade them to stretch the Federal budget to a few bottles of wine to ease the burden on the long, cold festive nights. He even managed to gain permission from Mitch, via Rosen, to be able to speak to his mother for exactly two minutes on Christmas Day.
Evelyn talked quickly through relieved tears upon hearing her son’s voice, and asked him how he was. The trial had been in the news briefly, she said, though she had never heard Oliver’s name mentioned. James Foster had been kind enough to call her up from time to time and see how she was, and to report how her finances were doing.
“He says Richard’s company has a new boss and seems to be stable and doing well again. Apparently, the little Italian was sentenced. It said in the papers that he never did say a word to the police, or his lawyer, or in court. Very strange chap indeed,” she said.
“Yeah. Very strange.”
“When are you coming home?” she pleaded.
“It might not be that simple, Mum,” Oliver told her, with a lump in his throat. “I, I . . .”
He was cut short by the sight of Mitch across the kitchen table, violently shaking his head and dragging a finger across his throat.
“Er, Mum, I’ll tell you more when I can. I, I . . .” He was about to tell her he loved her, but the connection had been severed. Mitch had the grace to offer him an apologetic glance.
* * *
Though the trial itself lasted only three weeks, it was a dramatic start to 2007. When the prosecution presented its evidence, Marco remained stoic. He was not permitted to sit with his lawyers; instead, he was led into a witness box and forced to endure the proceedings alone.
The majority of the column inches focused on the emotional impact of Robert’s testimony. It took him a whole day to get through it, carefully guided by the DA and given time to compose himself when he was on the verge of tears. The jurors were spellbound.
Marco stared at his son the whole time, but the look on his face was not the usual dark, piercing gaze. It was tinged with disappo
intment and sadness. He did his best to conceal it from those present in court, but the more he listened to his son, the more he slumped in his chair and dropped his hands between his legs, as if the handcuffs weighed ten kilos.
The final drama, and the one that hit all the headlines, was when Robert was being led out of court, past his father. He was already sobbing from the strain of taking the stand, when he suddenly broke down and uttered the perfect media soundbite, “I’m sorry, Dad. You woke me up. I can’t keep lying to myself.”
The press went into a frenzy. The Judge tried to instruct the jurors to dismiss the remark, but she might as well have told them to forget their own names. It was better than Gotti. Every network news broadcast led with the story: mobster turned in by his own son.
Any earlier visible lack of strength on Marco’s part was obliterated when he saw that his own lawyers gave what could, at best, be described as a feeble attempt at cross-examining Robert. In later sessions – clearly rebriefed – Hal and Todd went on to try to dismiss the rantings of a bitter young man as explanation for the codes used on the recordings, but even they looked as if they didn’t really buy what they were selling. Marco was helpless, though he occasionally looked as if he was considering lunging out of his box and garrotting his lawyers with his handcuff chain.
It all went according to plan for Huntley and the DA. The jury took just over an hour to deliberate and find Marco guilty on all counts. He was sentenced to twenty-five years for the supply and smuggling of narcotics worth tens of millions of dollars on the street. In an almost comical aside, the Judge imposed a fine of 100,000$ for cruelty to horses resulting in death, the money to be donated to the Kentucky Horse Park.
All his assets were to be seized: Shadows nightclub, the shooting club, his house, the horses. They would be sold at the earliest opportunity. The proceeds of the sale of Shadows – the Judge instructed – would be held in an account for Robert, until his twenty-seventh birthday. The proceeds from the shooting club and the house would be split between various charities in the State of New Jersey. The Judge warned the Governor’s office that every cent would have to be accounted for after the fine was paid. Painter Girl was not specifically mentioned. However, the Judge ordered that the DA investigate all of Marco’s assets, including a ten million dollar sum he had received for the sale of a racehorse named Concrete Boot. The Bristows squirmed in their seats when they heard this, and Marco cut them into small pieces with a dark gaze across the courtroom.
Several members of the press laughed openly at the mention of the horse’s name, and used it in their headlines the next day. Claude Duvall laughed until tears streamed down his cheeks when he read them; Larry Marshall hired lawyers to make sure that his new purchase couldn’t be repossessed by the Government.
The Judge gave a personal address to Robert, applauding his courage and sense of justice. “Mr. Romano, you are a very brave young man. I expect you to use the money I have set aside for you, wisely and positively. I instruct you to spend the next few years thinking about this, so that you will be ready when the funds become available to you.”
She then turned to Marco and said in an icy voice, “In a final note to the convicted, I must warn you that if any unfortunate accident should befall your son in the coming years, the possibility of parole will never, ever be discussed.”
Robert broke down in the courtroom and had to be comforted by the bailiff and the social services worker assigned to him.
Oliver and Rebecca read the details in a stack of newspapers Mitch dropped on the kitchen table, and listened to his gossip about the trial, which he got from a courtroom reporter.
The following morning, almost absentmindedly, he told them that they should pack and be ready to leave for the airport by ten o’clock. A plane was being sent, along with their passports. Just like that.
Mitch showed ID at the gates of the cargo terminal and the brown Ford was ushered into a hangar, where a Government Gulfstream jet was parked.
Monica paced around outside the steps and looked relieved when she saw the vehicle.
Rebecca and Oliver got out with their bags, and Monica greeted them with a warm smile and two fat brown envelopes.
Oliver laughed when he fondled his. “Jesus, it’s like something our politicians get under the table, stuffed with cash.”
“Fraid there’s no money in it, but you do have a passport and a driver’s licence each. Don’t open them until we’re in the air.”
“We?” said Rebecca.
“I’m coming with you. I’ve been instructed to escort you to your destination, wherever that may be.”
“Cool, and we get to travel in style. Any champagne on board?” asked Oliver.
“I doubt that. There might be a beer, though.”
“Then beer it is! After you, Agent Monica,” he said, sweeping his arm towards the steps.
She told Mitch to wait and led them onto the plane.
When Oliver stepped in and flung his bag on a seat, he was stunned to see Robert, looking thin and pale, but with a huge smile on his face.
“Jesus, I thought they’d have you stuck in some remote spot by now,” said Oliver.
Robert stood and threw his arms around Oliver. “Good to see you again, man.” Then he embraced Rebecca. “And you.”
“What the hell are you doing here?” she asked.
“Part of my deal. I told them I wanted to meet you guys before we go our separate ways. I’m flavour of the month right now, so they agreed.”
“Yeah, we’ve heard. The press is loving it,” said Rebecca.
Robert chewed his lip, searching for the right words. “Anyway, I told them before the trial that if they got you to testify, or presented your evidence in court, then they could forget about me. So officially, you’re in the clear.”
“Hmm, you sure about that?” said Rebecca.
“I had a lot of time alone in a cell to think about shit and, like, I reckon my dad’ll let it go, long as he never has proof you gave evidence.”
Oliver looked sceptical, but hoped Robert was right.
“What about you?” said Rebecca, sliding into a seat. “You sure he’ll leave you alone?”
He flopped down heavily into a seat. “Rebecca, a long time ago, you asked me what my deal was. I didn’t get what you meant, but when the shit hit the fan, it got me thinking.” He took a deep breath. “Being trapped with my dad probably killed my mom. I get that now. I don’t want that to happen to me. You guys,” he pointed at them with both index fingers, “made me face up to him. And the weird thing is, I’m not scared of him any more.” He chuckled, “Even though I just put him away. I have a feeling he’s not going to do anything to me, and even if he tries . . . Well, fuck him, let him do it. At least I’ll be with Mom again, and he’ll still be all alone . . .”
Oliver wanted to speak, but the words choked in his throat.
Rebecca smiled. “You’re a man now.”
“Where’ll you go? What’ll you do?” said Oliver.
“They’ll stash me somewhere secret until they can get me a new ID and stuff. After that, I don’t know. Nebraska, Canada, somewhere I can be anonymous and try to paint. Shit, maybe Australia, I’ve heard the chicks there love an American accent!”
“I guess some things never change,” said Rebecca, rolling her eyes.
Mitch appeared in the door hatch. “Enough of the kiss-and-make-up. Romano, we’ve got to move.”
“That’s my cue.” Robert stood up and took his bag.
Oliver reached out his hand and grabbed Robert by the shoulder. “Take care of . . .”
“Please, no goodbyes. Let’s just say we’ll meet up again in some pool hall in a sunny place.” He looked at them both and plastered on his best smile. “Thanks for everything, guys, I owe you one. Shit, two or three, more like.”
They watched him disappear through the hatch. Both Rebecca and Oliver were unable to speak until the plane was in the air. Even Monica looked a bit downcast.
&nbs
p; “You think he’ll be alright?” said Rebecca at last, when they were cruising at altitude and the whine of the engines had faded to a quiet drone.
“We’ll keep an eye on him,” said Monica.
Oliver suddenly snapped out of his daze. “I just realised, we didn’t say where to go.”
“We’re bound for Newfoundland. We’ll take on fuel there and plot a course. Where you want to go?”
“Ireland. Dublin.”
“You sure about that?”
“I have to sort things out and see my mother, or at least say goodbye to her.”
“You know I have orders to, and I quote: cut you loose on arrival,” she said with raised eyebrows.
“Charming. Still, I did suggest it to him, I suppose,” said Oliver.
“So you’re not worried someone’ll be waiting at your mother’s house?”
“Who said I was going home? But anyway, even if Marco wants to punish me, he won’t touch my mother; it’s not his style. Rebecca and I’ll get lost for a while, then hopefully I can get my mother out to see us at some stage.” He rubbed his forehead with his hand. “Anyway, it doesn’t concern you. What about that beer?”
“Fuck it, I’ll have one, too,” said Monica, getting up and darting for the cabinet. “You, too?” she said to Rebecca.
“No. I’ll have a soda.”
“Oh, come on. They’re on the Federal Government.”
“Well, in that case . . .”
Monica smiled.
* * *
Mike spoke Italian into the receiver. “Yeah, it’s me. Get on to Ireland. Get someone to watch that little prick’s mother. He’s dumb enough to go see her before he takes off.”