Tower of Babel

by Michael Sears

  “You should get dressed,” Duran said. “Your doctor tells us you’re okay to leave.”

  “I’d rather hear it directly from her.”

  “That can be arranged,” Duran said. “Meantime, get dressed. You’re coming with us.”

  “What’s happening with the other guy?” Ted asked. “Are you going to pick him up, too?”

  “The Russian? Not my case. You’ll have to ask Nassau County.”

  “Is he still in the ER?”

  “Not a clue. Now get your clothes on.”

  “Am I under arrest?”

  “That, too, can be arranged. It would be easier on you if you volunteered to come with us to answer some questions.”

  “I want to check on my friend before I go anywhere.”

  Duran checked his watch before answering. “Three minutes. Starting now.”

  Ted swung his legs to the floor. “I’ll have my lawyer meet us there.”

  -66-

  The Queens County Criminal Court was located on an island surrounded by highways and looked like a beached iceberg. If a criminal had any desire to escape, the bleak scene outside would convince them to surrender themself to the judicial system.

  Mervyn Prestwick had a voice like an organ. When in court, he used it like a one-man orchestra, allowing a hint of his Jamaican antecedents to add color to his delivery—juries loved it. Ted had counted him as a friend in law school, and they had attended each other’s weddings, but as their career paths diverged, they saw less of each other. Mervyn had spent six years in the Bronx DA’s office before switching to “the dark side” and becoming a successful criminal defense attorney. He was Ted’s first and only call.

  Mervyn brought Ted a fresh shirt and a toothbrush.

  “My client has agreed to talk to you, solely to prevent a great miscarriage of justice,” he began when all the players were in place in the third-floor conference room. “But before he says a word, I need to know why we are here. Are you really prepared to move forward with these charges? Your detective”—Mervyn nodded in Kasabian’s direction—“mentioned murder for hire, among other things. Is he serious? What evidence do you have that my client is involved in anything like this?”

  “Let’s go easy on the speeches, Merv.” The ADA was an abrasive man named Petronelli. Ted didn’t know him, but he recognized immediately that the ADA came from the same streets as Ted and Mervyn. He tended to apply sarcasm to every other word, a pose recognized by anyone who grew up in Queens—the Jersey defense. “Right now we are having a conversation. If we hear the right words, there is no need for this to go any further.”

  “Then what have you got?” Ted tossed back. He was prepared to cooperate—to a reasonable extent. Now it was time for the great wheels of justice to make some headway in his direction. The puke-green walls of the interview room were interfering with his recovery. Fainting was a possibility. Barfing on the table was a high probability.

  Petronelli flashed him a smile. It wasn’t meant to be friendly. “We had a visit from a Cheryl Rubiano first thing this morning. You know the woman?”

  Ted didn’t reply. It wasn’t really a question.

  “You are, in fact, intimately familiar with her, are you not?” He removed his glasses and massaged the bridge of his nose as he talked. The gesture hid his eyes. “According to the story she and her lawyer presented, you two had a brief, but heated, affair. The husband, who did odd jobs for you, blamed her and moved out. She was devastated, broke it off with you, and begged the old man to come home.”

  Ted’s blood pressure spiked, and a world-class headache took up residence in his temples.

  “You didn’t like getting the brush-off. When Mr. Rubiano turned up dead, she confronted you and you steadfastly refused to deny any involvement. And you intimated that if she didn’t play along, you were prepared to go to the police and put the blame solely on her. How’m I doing, Mr. Molloy? Is there any of this that you’re willing to confirm?”

  “My client has nothing to say at this time,” Mervyn said.

  Ted disagreed. He was ready to scream. But he let Petronelli continue.

  “Mrs. Rubiano was frightened. She tried to buy you off. You took the money, but then later you showed up at her apartment looking to get your dick wet. She wasn’t interested. You threatened. She was frightened, so she performed oral sex on you. That’s rape.”

  “This is all such bullshit!” Ted yelled. His headache improved the moment the words came out of his mouth. “Total crap.”

  Mervyn tapped the back of Ted’s hand. “My client should speak only when I grant him permission, but he does raise a good question. Do you believe all this crap?”

  Duran’s face showed nothing during the recitation. Kasabian smirked at the sexual references but otherwise maintained a stoic Marlboro Man demeanor. Ted thought they were both too smart to have bought into this story.

  Petronelli, on the other hand, didn’t need to believe. He needed a story he could sell to a jury, and he thought he had it. He put the glasses on again and looked at Ted. “Maybe not all of it. I want to hear your side. I’d like to hear that Cheryl with the hair up to here orchestrated the whole deal. There was something off about her approach. Did she try to hire you to do the deed? Maybe you turned her down. Maybe you didn’t.”

  There remained two one-hundred-dollar bills in an envelope in Ted’s jacket. They would have Cheryl’s prints on them, he was sure.

  “What are you offering?” Mervyn asked.

  Ted couldn’t help himself. He gave his lawyer a hard, glowering look. The alternative story was as unbelievable as the first. Why was Mervyn opening negotiations?

  “How do I know until I hear his story?” the ADA said.

  Ted had no story. At least, nothing that would match the epic fictions he had just heard.

  “Cooperating witness,” Mervyn said.

  “Of course,” Petronelli answered. It cost him nothing.

  “Remand,” Mervyn said.

  “Come on, I can’t let a murderer out on bail,” the ADA said.

  “He didn’t do it.”

  “That’s his whole story?” Petronelli didn’t like it. “I thought we were talking here.”

  “That’s not my story,” Ted blurted, unable to keep his temper in check any longer. “It’s the truth.”

  Mervyn made a deep sound somewhere between a hum and a growl, loud enough to cut Ted off. “I’d like a few minutes alone with my client,” he said into the ensuing silence.

  Magic words. Petronelli and the two detectives stood and left the room. Kasabian was last out the door, and he paused there, looked at Ted, and grinned like a man who was about to carve up the holiday turkey. “Gotcha,” he said softly.

  “What are you doing?” Ted said the moment the door swung shut.

  “They want this Cheryl person,” Mervyn said. “That gives you leverage. Let me do my job.”

  “It’s only worth something if I’m guilty.”

  “You’re in my world now, Ted. It’s not the same as the corporate legal world.” Mervyn sounded both firm and sympathetic, as though imparting these realities was a sad duty he had to perform too often. “Petronelli wants you for the murder. He’s not alone. You saw that cop. He’s got you in his sights, and you are going down. If you tell me to fight this, I will. But as your legal advisor here, I am telling you that you are making a big mistake. Right now I can get you a deal. But if you don’t appear to be cooperating, they’ll do an end run around you, and your next stop will be Rikers Island.”

  “The story is all wrong.” The words tumbled out faster than his brain could order them. “Someone put her up to this. They’re leaning on her hard. Which means they’re scared. If we push back, they’ll bail. It’s a distraction.”

  “Slow down. And hold off on the grand conspiracies. Just give me a simple story that I can sell.”<
br />
  “My bet? The Russians did Richie. The slick one practically admitted it the first time I met him. On the steps after the foreclosure auctions. Richie was following the paper trail on those stolen properties, and he ran into Corona Partners. And they killed him.”

  Mervyn shook his big head sadly. “Petronelli isn’t going to buy that without proof.”

  Ted had a thought. Pieces of this puzzle fell into place. “They might already have the proof. Let me ask Detective Duran a couple of questions.”

  “You should let me do the asking.”

  That wouldn’t work. The detective would never open up to a defense attorney. “No. Duran’s all right. I can talk to him. Two minutes. Alone.”

  “You are paying me for my advice. You should take it.”

  Ted nodded in agreement but plunged ahead anyway. “I need an ally in their camp or I’m done. I know it’s a risk, but it’s my choice.”

  “This is not how I learned this in law school,” Mervyn said. But he stood and went out the door.

  Minutes passed and then the door opened again. It was Duran.

  “Make it quick, Mr. Molloy. Nobody out there is happy about this.” He took Petronelli’s seat directly across the table from Ted.

  “I’ve got a couple of questions for you,” Ted said.

  “I don’t know if I can answer. You have now officially graduated from person of interest to suspect.”

  Again. Ted didn’t feel as if he’d been promoted. “You told me you were working an alternative theory of the case. Is this it?”

  “You know I can’t tell you that,” Duran said.

  “I’ll take that as a no. Cheryl didn’t come up with this story until today.”

  “No comment. Any other questions?”

  “This is an easy one. Where’d you find Richie’s body?”

  “Douglaston.” Duran bit the word out. He wasn’t happy about sharing info with the suspect.

  “I mean, was he lying on the street? Tossed in a dumpster?”

  There was a long pause before he answered. Ted could see him wrestling with his own sense of caution, and finally, Ted saw the detective make his decision. “He was behind a restaurant down by Alley Pond. Lying in the reeds at the back of the lot. Some doctor from Great Neck was parking his Mercedes where it wouldn’t get scraped. He saw the body and made the call.”

  “Thanks.” Ted felt embarrassed that he had never even thought to ask the question before.

  “That’s it? You could’ve found that out reading the Daily News.”

  “Let me start over. What I want to know is, What did he have with him?”

  “On him? Wallet, keys, a few bucks. Not much.”

  “A backpack,” Ted said. “He always carried a black backpack.”

  “Yeah, we found one at the scene. But there was nothing there. Copies of court papers. We looked at them, but there was no reason to think they had any bearing on his case.”

  “A standard foreclosure for unpaid water and taxes.” Ted did not make it a question. He barely waited for confirmation.

  “Right,” Duran said.

  “Do you still have it?”

  “The bag? I’m sure. It was booked. But if you’re looking for any clues there, you should keep looking.”

  “And the papers?”

  “Also booked. We throw nothing away. But we looked at them, Molloy. There was nothing there.”

  Ted was exultant but kept his expression neutral. There would be time enough to celebrate when this was done. “Those files tie Richie Rubiano to Reisner, LBC, the tower, and the damn Russians. You’ve heard most of this before, but let me walk you through the updated version. Reisner needed Barbara Miller’s properties to put the tower project together. One of his lawyers—Jacqueline Clavette—arranged to have herself appointed by a judge to be the old lady’s caretaker. I can’t prove that, because I don’t have subpoena power. Your people do. Clavette stopped paying taxes on the lots that Reisner wanted.”

  Ted could feel that Duran’s patience was flagging. The detective had heard all this before.

  “Bear with me. I would bet you’ll find proof of that in Richie’s files in the backpack. The lots went to auction and, through a couple of cutouts connected to the Russian mob, ended up in Reisner’s hands. Richie dug up enough dirt to figure out the rest. Maybe he thought he could get Reisner to pay him off. Or maybe he just blundered into it and got too close to the truth. Either way he became a problem. The Russians killed him. Meanwhile, this same lawyer is Reisner’s bagman, paying politicians for little favors, like air rights and other variances he needs for the tower project. Let me look at those papers, and I’ll walk you through it.”

  Duran was now listening. He wasn’t fighting it; he was hooked. He had heard the tale before but never with the possibility of real proof. Ted was beginning to reel him in. “I still need the old lady,” Duran said.

  “Barbara Miller was taken—by the Russians, damn it—and moved, most likely to another nursing home. They did this so she couldn’t point the finger. But I would bet they didn’t take her far. It would take me weeks to find her, but the NYPD could do it in minutes. With those files and Miller’s testimony, you’ve got a case.”

  “Why didn’t you give me the lawyer’s name before?”

  “It’s personal. I owed a favor.”

  “And what? Now it’s paid?”

  “They tried to kill my friend. Twice. That cleans the slate.”

  “But why?” There may have been a hint of sympathy in his voice. “Why was Zielinski a threat?”

  Ted had been turning this over and could only guess. But he believed it was a good guess. “It’s the fat Russian. Slobovich or whatever his name is. He recognized her even with the disguise. He had to be spooked. Kenzie was getting too close. If she put all the pieces together, she could go public. The deal would be dead. And fat boy would have to explain to his daddy why he’d screwed up again. I made a call to a pal in London. Orlov didn’t resign from that bank. He was fired for money laundering. It cost his old man seventy million pounds to keep the kid out of jail.”

  If Duran was at all surprised, he didn’t show it. “That’s verifiable?”

  “I would think so. My source said it’s common knowledge.”

  Duran kept his poker face, but he was nodding. He saw the whole picture. Ted had his ally.

  The door opened. No one knocked or announced themself. ADA Petronelli came in looking as if he’d bitten into a bulb of raw garlic. He was immediately followed by a tough-looking couple, a man and a woman both dressed in jeans, lace-up boots, and dark windbreakers. The man had the close-cropped, fresh-from-his-workout look of a Navy SEAL or a member of Delta Force. A guy you wouldn’t want to have upset with you. The woman looked tougher. Mervyn came in last, missing his usual bombast and radiant confidence. His expression was worried.

  Petronelli cleared his throat before reluctantly delivering a short speech. “I’ve had a call from the federal prosecutor’s office, Mr. Molloy. You are no longer my problem. We’re to hand you over to these US Marshals.”

  -67-

  “Call Lester Young McKinley,” Ted said to Duran as the marshals approached him. He checked his phone and rattled off the number. “He’s good with the details and Miller trusts him.”

  Mervyn was working his phone, trying to get hold of a federal prosecutor he knew at the Eastern District. “I’ll find you,” he said, but his eyes said he didn’t have a lot of hope for an immediate resolution.

  The marshals pretended to be patient while Petronelli pretended to read their warrant. He’d been trumped and hated it. He finished playing with the document and thrust it at Mervyn, who scanned it quickly and shrugged.

  “Call me when you can,” Mervyn said. “I’m standing by.”

  The woman handcuffed Ted, patted him down, but left him his wallet a
nd cell phone. Then the two led him out of the interview room and through the maze of offices to the elevators. Neither one spoke to him.

  “Does either of you want to tell me where we’re going?” Ted said, breaking the silence once they were all in a car—a monstrous SUV equipped with ringbolts on the floor, which Ted assumed were there so prisoners could be shackled in place. Apparently he did not represent enough of a risk.

  The woman drove. The man watched Ted in a mirror on the sun visor. Neither one answered him at first. Just before pulling out into traffic, the woman caught his eye in the rearview mirror. “MDC Brooklyn,” she said.

  The Metropolitan Detention Center, Brooklyn, was famous for all the wrong reasons. It was the short-term jail for the federal justice system in the Eastern District, a warehouse for all levels of alleged criminals. From drug lords and made men to white-collar suburbanites and tax evaders, all were waiting to be arraigned or, without bail, awaiting trial. Some waited years. Ted had never been there, but every lawyer had heard the stories. It was a vile, smelly, violent holding pen—one of the worst in the system. Stabbings, sexual assaults, and suicides were normal.

  They were inching along the LIE when a cell phone rang from the front seat. The man answered. He listened for a minute, twice saying the words “Yes, sir.”

  “Change in plans,” he said to the driver. “We’re to deliver him into the city.”

  -68-

  Ted braced for a trip downtown. If he was very lucky, he would be taken to the FBI or the federal prosecutor’s offices for questioning. The more likely destination was the Metropolitan Correctional Center, a federal facility similar to the MDC Brooklyn, this one located in Lower Manhattan. The main differences between the two institutions were a matter of opinion. Most attorneys agreed if the MDC Brooklyn was a zoo, then the MCC was a circus. That was metaphor, as the reality was worse. Each held dangerous animals in cages with considerably less oversight and control than any zoo or circus.

  The drive into Manhattan took close to an hour; the marshals didn’t bother with lights or siren, which might have earned them ten or fifteen minutes. Ted was relieved they didn’t seem to be in a particular hurry. When the car turned uptown on Third after exiting the Midtown Tunnel, Ted was both relieved and confused. This was not the way to the feds’ offices. In a few blocks, the woman cut over to Park Avenue and continued uptown. Ted had an odd premonition that soon became reality as they slowed and made a U-turn in the midfifties.