A look of disappointment appeared on his face.
“Longhorn told me the same thing,” I explained. “He asked me to keep it top secret.”
“That’s interesting. He acts like a dumb hillbilly, but he’s slick.”
“Is that it—what you wanted to tell me?” I asked. “That Gonzales might be part of this cartel?”
“No, that’s not my theory. But knowing Longhorn told you fits into my hypothesis. I got a tip last week that two cops in Manhattan were going to plead guilty to taking bribes. My tipster said the cops had a connection to the Gonzales case, so I drove into the city and attended their hearing. Both cops worked in the thirty-fourth precinct and they both admitted to taking drug payoffs. They only made brief appearances in court and there was nothing in the record that identified who was paying them. I couldn’t get anything out of their lawyers or the U.S. Attorney’s office, which prosecuted them.”
“That probably happens a lot to reporters.”
“No, it doesn’t. And that’s what made me suspicious. The U.S. Attorney’s office in the Southern District and the FBI love to go after local cops and local politicians. They always hold press conferences and make a big deal out of the arrests because it makes them look good and the locals look like amateurs. But that didn’t happen in this case. Everything was hush-hush about these two cops.”
“Did you find a connection with Carlos Gonzales?”
“Not at first. Then I realized the thirty-fourth precinct covers the neighborhood where Gonzales owned his jewelry store.”
Harris again checked the room to see if anyone was listening. He was clearly enjoying sharing his theory. “That coincidence made me wonder if Gonzales had been paying those cops bribes. But no one would talk to me—until I tracked down one of the cops’ wives.”
“You talked to the guy’s wife?”
“Yeah, I went to the cop’s house and I told his wife that I wanted to hear her side of the story. That’s what we always tell people—we want to hear their side. She tells me her husband had no choice but to plead guilty because the FBI had tape recordings of him.”
“Wiretaps? A snitch?”
“I don’t know. I’m not sure how they got them and neither was she, but they had cops talking on tape about payoffs. And that’s not all the FBI had. She said Carlos Gonzales was going to testify against them.”
“Wait, Gonzales was going to testify for the FBI?”
“That’s what the cop’s wife told me. She said he had cut some sort of sweetheart deal with the FBI.”
“Holy shit! Carlos Gonzales working for the FBI—I can’t believe it,” I said.
“I couldn’t either at first, but now I think he is. In fact, I’m sure of it. Here’s what I think happened. Somehow, the FBI got a strong case against Gonzales. He’s a smart operator and he realizes that he’s not going to beat it. He’s going to prison. So what does he do? He starts telling Longhorn all about Manuel Rodriquez and the Colombian cartel. Whether it’s true or not doesn’t matter because Longhorn wants it to be true. He wants Gonzales to be a big fish because it will impress everyone in Washington. But before Longhorn can impress his bosses, he’s got to prove that Gonzales is a credible witness and not just blowing smoke. So Longhorn pressures Gonzales to demonstrate that he’s part of the team and Gonzales shows that he is by agreeing to flip over and testify against his buddies in the thirty-fourth precinct. The FBI had all three of them. Gonzales was simply the first rat to run off the ship.”
“If that’s true, Longhorn is protecting Gonzales by keeping him locked up in jail. If he hits the street, he’s a dead man, especially if he is linked to the Colombian cartel.”
“That’s right,” he said, “but all I got is a theory right now because no one will talk to me about it.”
Harris wet his lips and then said, “Everything was going swell for Mr. Gonzales and Agent Longhorn until you came along.”
“Me?”
“That’s right, you. You come charging in with rape, sodomy, and all these other horrific charges. Suddenly, Longhorn has a major public-relations problem. It’s bad enough that he’s cut some sort of deal with a drug dealer. But now he discovers Gonzales raped and sodomized his own kid and beat the hell out of her with a belt. Then Whitaker makes the case into a big New York story, making Carlos Gonzales page-one news. So Longhorn decides to keep Gonzales buried and drag out the Feds’ case as long as possible until you and Whitaker and the media go away. That’s why the U.S. Attorney is keeping quiet about those two dirty cops. Longhorn is waiting for the spotlight to fade. What I don’t know is what the FBI offered Gonzales in return for him becoming a snitch.”
“I’d sure like to know what Gonzales is getting, too—assuming your theory is true,” I replied.
“Want to hear another theory I have?”
I nodded.
“I think the FBI got Neal Kent and his big-shot law firm to defend Gonzales. Gonzales’s financial assets have been frozen and Kent never works for free, but for some strange reason, he suddenly agreed to represent Gonzales pro bono. Now that would be a real headline: ‘FBI Gets Lawyer to Defend Child Abuser-Rapist.’ Why? Because they could control him.”
I didn’t say anything to Harris, but that would explain why I saw Kent and Longhorn talking. Those sneaky bastards, I thought.
Given our respective jobs, I couldn’t buy for him and I didn’t want him buying for me. I pulled out a ten and told Will to do the same. That would be more than enough to cover our tab and give our “hon”-calling waitress a hefty tip.
I said, “I got a lot more out of this conversation than you did. Thanks for sharing your theory with me.”
I stood up to leave.
“Dani,” Harris said, “I mean, Ms. Fox. How about we grab some dinner? I’m really having a good time.”
I considered it but said no. “I’ve enjoyed talking to you, too, but not tonight. Sorry, I got to get home.”
He looked disappointed as I walked out of Elaine’s.
When I got to my car, I took a deep breath. I liked Harris but it was too soon for me to even consider going out with someone new. I was still grieving for my lost relationship with Bob. But for the first time, I felt hopeful.
I was actually smiling when I arrived home and reached the front porch with my door key in hand.
Suddenly, I froze. My front door was ajar. Someone had broken the door frame, splintering the wood on both sides of the dead bolt. Staying on the porch, I peered inside. Although it was dark, I could see that my living room was in shambles. A knife had been taken to the upholstery of my chairs and couch. They were ruined. Family photographs on my mantel had been thrown on the floor. Lamps and chairs were overturned. It looked as if someone had turned a bull loose inside.
I thought about Wilbur. Racing down the porch steps, I ran into the backyard to his pen.
“Wilbur!” I yelled. “Wilbur, where are you?”
I couldn’t see him.
“Wilbur!” I screamed.
I heard a grunt and then saw his snout emerge from under his wooden trough.
“You’re safe!” I declared as he ambled toward me, grunting for food. I threw open the pen’s gate and rubbed behind his ears with my left hand.
Within minutes, after I called from a neighbor’s house, two White Plains patrol cars and O’Brien’s unmarked Ford arrived. O’Brien emerged from his vehicle holding a flashlight and his newly issued Glock nine-millimeter semiautomatic.
“You haven’t gone inside, have you?” he demanded, rushing forward.
“No way.”
One of the officers positioned himself at the back door while O’Brien and the other patrolman gingerly made their way through the front. I waited anxiously with Wilbur near one of the squad cars. A good ten minutes later, O’Brien emerged still holding the flashlight but with his handgun holstered.
“Whoever did this is gone, but he’s done a lot of damage,” he said. “I’m glad you were out when he came calling.”
“Well, someone used a knife on your upholstery and your mattress and he likes beds, but I don’t think we should rule out Rudy Hitchins, either. Or maybe it was someone who Carlos Gonzales called from jail. All of them are capable of this.”
“Great,” I said.
O’Brien looked at me and snapped, “Where’s your snub nose?”
“In my purse,” I replied. In my haste to check on Wilbur, I’d forgotten that I had it.
He shook his head. “Dani, you didn’t buy it to carry around. Next time, you need to have that gun in your hands when I come running in here to save you.”
“Next time?”
40
“Your reporter pal is right!” detective O’Brien declared the following afternoon when he came storming into my office. “Dani, Longhorn fucked us.”
O’Brien plopped down in a chair across from my desk and continued his rant. “I told you those FBI bastards couldn’t be trusted.”
“What’d you learn?”
Like a hound on a fresh scene, O’Brien had hit the ground running as soon as I’d told him the theory that Will Harris had shared with me over beers.
“I went to see some pals of mine in Manhattan,” O’Brien said, “and then I telephoned a buddy who works in Washington at the FBI.”
“Wait, you actually have a buddy who’s an FBI agent?”
“He used to be a real cop like me. Anyway, what this reporter told you is pretty accurate. Gonzales is quietly helping the FBI build cases against corrupt cops in the thirty-fourth precinct and he’s also spinning out tales about the Colombians. Longhorn’s got him buried in jail—not because he’s afraid Gonzales is going to run away, but for his own protection.”
“What’s Longhorn giving him for his cooperation?”
O’Brien replied in a disgusted voice, “You ain’t gonna like this, Dani. Not one bit.”
“Just tell me what the hell Gonzales is getting in return for helping the Feds!”
“A clean slate. A free ride. The FBI is going to put Gonzales into the Federal Witness Protection Program. He’ll get a new name, new identity, and be relocated in a new town—all courtesy of the Justice Department. He’ll simply disappear. There’s a chance he might even get to take his youngest two kids with him.”
“They can’t do that! What about those federal drug-trafficking and racketeering charges?”
“Like they never happened.”
“But he’s facing twenty-five years in prison here in New York for what he did to Carmen. He’s been convicted and that’s a state sentence. The FBI can’t just ignore that sentence.”
O’Brien said, “Actually, Dani, they can. And they will. You’re talking about the Justice Department. They can pull all the strings they have to. My friend tells me Longhorn has promised Gonzales that he’ll never have to serve a single day in prison for the rapes and the beatings that he gave his daughter.”
I suddenly realized that was why Gonzales and Neal Kent hadn’t seemed that upset in the courtroom after the jury found him guilty. Gonzales had known all along he was going to get a free pass into witness protection.
“I’m going to Federal Plaza,” I said. “I want Longhorn to tell me to my face that he’s letting a sadistic rapist walk.”
“I’ll drive,” O’Brien volunteered.
41
FBI special agent Jack Longhorn kept us waiting for thirty minutes. We hadn’t called ahead, his secretary explained. But I suspected Longhorn was trying to discover if we had uncovered his secret arrangement with Gonzales.
When we were finally escorted inside his office, we discovered Longhorn had called in reinforcements. There were two other men with him seated at a conference table.
“I’d like to introduce you,” Longhorn said in a matter-of-fact voice, “to Special Agent Ronnie Cart, who works with me and Jason Gilbert, who’s an assistant U.S. Attorney for the Southern District of New York.”
They didn’t offer to shake hands and neither did we. As soon as we were seated at the table, Longhorn asked: “What brings you here unannounced this afternoon?”
I got right to the point. “I’d like to know if you’re putting Carlos Gonzales into the Federal Witness Protection Program.”
I was watching Longhorn’s eyes, searching for some sign of surprise, but his years of training as a bureaucrat had taught him how to maintain a poker face.
“I’m afraid I can’t comment one way or another about that. While it’s our policy to be as cooperative as possible with local law enforcement, I don’t think our drug and racketeering charges fall under the purview of the Westchester County District Attorney’s Office. Or to be blunt, Ms. Fox, you don’t have a dog in this fight.”
I noticed Longhorn’s FBI buddy was fighting back a grin.
Now I was really angry. “Carlos Gonzales raped and tortured his daughter. If you put him into the witness program, I’m sure the New York media would enjoy exposing how the FBI has relocated him into some unsuspecting community.”
For the first time, I saw a glint of reaction in Longhorn’s face. He put his hands on the conference table and tapped his fingers—as if he were playing a piano. When he stopped, he said in a voice edged with anger, “Ms. Fox, you might want to consider a few things before you say anything more. First, I don’t take kindly to threats. Gonzales is in the MCC awaiting trial on federal drug and racketeering charges that are still pending. Nothing has been officially resolved in that criminal matter and I know of no paperwork that suggests Mr. Gonzales has entered into any sort of arrangement with the FBI or anyone else. If you were to make your charge in public, you’d be putting his life in grave jeopardy and possibly be opening yourself up to federal criminal charges.”
“What charges?” I said.
“Oh, I’m sure we could find something,” he replied coldly. He wasn’t finished lecturing me. “Second, you need to do some homework when it comes to the Federal Witness Protection Program. Start with the names: Joseph ‘the Animal’ Barboza and Vincent Charles Teresa, aka ‘Fat Vinnie.’ Between them, those two boys killed more than twenty men and stole at least one hundred fifty million dollars. Yet Uncle Sam opened his arms and gave them big hugs when they decided to come over to our side. That’s the sort of critter this program was created to protect. Third, let’s presume, for the sake of argument, that you are correct. Let’s say Gonzales is a candidate for the program. If he can give the government the names of his Colombian connections and their mules who may be bringing millions of dollars’ worth of dope into Manhattan each year and ruining thousands of lives and also hand us the heads of dirty NYPD cops—then that’s a pretty sweet deal for the government—no matter what harm he did to his daughter. It’s called a greater good. And it’s none of your goddamn business.”
We locked eyes.
Assistant U.S. Attorney Gilbert chimed in, “Ms. Fox, I’m not certain how familiar you might be with the rules and regulations that govern the Federal Witness Protection Program, but logic would dictate that it would be against the federal government’s best interest for anyone in the FBI or the Justice Department to comment about whether an individual is, or may be, a candidate for that program. If we were to tell you that Mr. Gonzales was a candidate, it would defeat the very purpose of it, wouldn’t it? I’d also like to point out that it is against the law for anyone involved in law enforcement, and that includes state officials such as you, to reveal information about someone who has been admitted into the program. We recently prosecuted and convicted a U.S. Marshal in Newark who revealed the identity of a protected witness.”
Longhorn wanted the last word. “I think this meeting is over. Good-bye, Ms. Fox.”
I was so furious during the return ride to White Plains that I could barely speak. Surprisingly, O’Brien was dead calm.
“You wanna stop for some beers?” he asked when we hit the White Plains city limits. “Hell, let’s go over to O’Toole’s and kick back.”
“Why a
ren’t you angry?”
“Dani, I’ve been around the track a long time and you’ve got to learn that sometimes you lose.”
“Not this time, not after what he did to his daughter!”
In a concerned voice, O’Brien said, “Listen, what Longhorn said is true: the FBI and the Justice Department can come down on you with a hammer.”
“You afraid of them?”
“Longhorn, as a man, no. He’s a punk. But I am afraid of the power he wields. And I sure as hell don’t want the IRS or any other federal agency breathing down my neck—and neither should you. I told you those Hoover boys couldn’t be trusted and they play rough. They can destroy careers and lives. You need to be careful. We both do.”
I asked O’Brien to drop me at my office, even though it was now dark and after hours. There was something that Longhorn had said that I had taken to heart. I didn’t know much about the Federal Witness Protection Program, and if I was going to prevent the FBI from making Gonzales disappear, I needed to do some late-night homework.
42
Witsec, the acronym for the witness Protection Security Program, more commonly known as the federal witness protection program, had been around for only a few years. The government officially created it on October 15, 1970, when the Organized Crime Control Act became law. Buried deep inside that massive bill was a short section entitled “Title V: Protected Facilities for Housing Government Witnesses, Section 901(a)” that said the Justice Department could cut deals with criminals and give them new identities in return for their testimony. Another part of that same crime bill created a program called the Racketeer Influenced and Corrupt Organizations Act (RICO). It allowed the Justice Department to prosecute the heads of crime syndicates for crimes they ordered but were carried out by their underlings. The Justice Department was now using the two programs—WITSEC and RICO—to decimate the mob. FBI agents would catch a mobster, threaten him with life in prison, and then get him to “flip” and testify against his bosses.
I dug in and soon made some interesting discoveries investigating WITSEC. While the FBI could submit “candidates,” the bureau actually didn’t have the authority to guarantee a witness that he would be accepted into the program. That decision was made by the Office of Enforcement Operations, a tiny office buried inside the bowels of the Justice Department.
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