Condemned

by John Nicholas Iannuzzi

  None of the Agents spoke, knowing there was more coming.

  “Most significantly,” Becker resumed, “Sandro Luca made an inquiry about every one of those seizures, right, Pete?” Mulvehill nodded. “Tell you anything?” Becker said toward the Agents.

  “That the same attorney is going to put in another claim for the fourth?” said Castoro.

  “Possibly,” Becker nodded. He looked at Geraghty. Then Mulvehill. Backto Geraghty.

  “What’s your read on it, Boss?” said Geraghty.

  “What’s yours?”

  “Somebody is feeding the reporter that information,” said Geraghty. “Couldn’t be he picked it up in the courthouse, since the last one isn’t in the courthouse.”

  Becker nodded again. He looked at Mulvehill.

  “It wouldn’t be from the C.I.,” said Mulvehill. He uncrossed his legs and leaned forward on the edge of the couch. “He’s hardly going around giving out information about his own cooperation. Unlikely, too, that it’s the Claimants. If they’re still in the country, they probably don’t speak enough English to talk to a reporter. The only one it could be is the lawyer. You see it as the lawyer, Boss?”

  “Is there any other way to see it, gentlemen?” said Becker.

  The three of them looked at each other, then Becker. They all shook their heads.

  “He was the lawyer for Hardie in your case over in the courthouse until the Judge relieved him of duty, was he not?” Becker said to Geraghty. Geraghty nodded.

  “He seems to be very involved in drugs and druggies,” said Becker. “What does anybody know about him? Marty? You’ve had the most contact with him.”

  “Nothing much, nothing particular,” said Geraghty. “Good lawyer. Dresses real well. Nothing about him personally.”

  “It seems to me that we ought to know something about him personally,” said Becker. “It seems he has such a curiosity about our work that he’s hooked a friendly reporter into making inquiries for him. Why, you wonder? Could it be because he sympathizes with what Mulvehill described as the ‘do-gooder attitude’ of the reporter? Perhaps Luca wants to give him ammunition to write more liberal horse dung about the war on drugs, that it’s a breeding ground for vice and corruption, that it ought to be legalized—the latest garbage routine. Which is not very gratifying, considering all the butt busting hard work we’re doing,” Becker said with some irritation. “We don’t need any more anti-Drug War crap in the papers. By the way, what’s with Galiber? Have we been looking into his personal activities? Something to slow his drug legislation?”

  “We’re continuing surveillance,” said Geraghty.

  “Anything?”

  “He’s very cautious with the twist, if that’s what you mean,” said Geraghty. “She’s still around. But they haven’t been going anywhere alone.”

  “I’ve undertaken to get some friends of ours to help us out with Galiber. Some politicians in Albany. See if we can bury the legislation in committee so it never sees the light of day.” Becker thought quietly. “I saw some newspaper people as well. I wish I knew about this reporter earlier today.” Becker thought silently again. “On the other hand,” Becker picked up the thread of his previous thoughts, “on the other hand, there might be a more insidious motive to Mr. Luca’s interest in our work. He might be trying to come in the back door to flush out the C.I. for the drug people that he works for in Colombia. Help identify the C.I. so they can eliminate him.”

  “You’re talking about the lawyer?” said Mulvehill. Becker nodded. “You think the lawyer works for the Colombians?”

  “Where do you think that lawyer gets all these clients who had money seized? Not from the money launderers we collar. Most of them are just mules. They don’t have enough know-how to get in touch with this lawyer. It’s just too coincidental that they all called the same guy to represent them. But the people they work for, the ones the money actually belongs to, the Bosses in Colombia, would probably direct them to the same lawyer. They’ve got plenty of dough, right? So they offer the lawyer a large bonus to put in these Claims, have some hearings, flush out the identity of the singular informant who’s providing the information we’ve used to make the seizures.”

  The agents listened to Becker intently. Mulvehill nodded silently.

  “That sheds a different light on it, doesn’t it?” said Becker, looking into each of their eyes.

  “If that were the case—and it might be,” said Geraghty, “then it certainly would.”

  “That’s why I think it would be prudent for us to find out as much as we can about this lawyer,” said Becker. “Pete, I want you to check out his background, the Bar Associations, all of them, the Courts, the Grievance Committee, the Prosecutor’s office, local and federal, whatever we can find. Marty, see what you can glean from the files, his involvement with the Brotherhood. This lawyer might be the link between the Colombians and the Brotherhood.”

  “Between the Brotherhood and the Colombians?” Geraghty repeated.

  “Maybe. That’s another interesting angle, isn’t it?” said Becker. “Maybe he’s trying to smoke out the informant, not for the Colombians, but for his client, Hardie. That guy’s going down for sure, right, Marty?”

  “Unless there’s a miracle about to happen.”

  “Maybe Hardie smells a rat in the Brotherhood case, and he’s looking to put the guy in the ground before he goes down. So he asks the lawyer to flush out the informant for him.”

  “What’s the connection between the two cases, other than cocaine?” Mulvehill asked.

  “Not important,” said Becker. “Either way, whether for the Colombians or for Hardie, it seems the only reason the lawyer’d be trying to identify informants is to assist his clients in their extermination.”

  “Or, if it’s the first scenario,” said Geraghty, “like Pete said, he may be a do-gooder.”

  “I didn’t say the lawyer was a do-gooder,” said Mulvehill, “I said the reporter—”

  “Okay, gentlemen, let’s stay focused,” said Becker. “Let’s just find out for sure which side of the fence the lawyer’s on,” said Becker. “If he’s a do-badder, to use a term you seem to like, trying to help in the extermination of cooperators, that’d be a serious crime. I think we ought to get on this, right away. Treat it as a top priority, Top priority! Get back to me as soon as you get something. Okay, gentlemen?” He handed the files back to Mulvehill. “Pete, stay a minute.”

  Mulvehill nodded, turning back to Becker’s desk. Becker made a motion, indicating that he wanted the door shut.

  “We really have to know what’s making this lawyer tick,” Becker said to Mulvehill in a more confidential tone. “Speak to our Colombian informant, find out if he knows anything about the lawyer. Maybe he should talk to his people in Colombia, find out from them what they know about him. Maybe we ought to send an undercover to see the lawyer.”

  “An undercover? That involves the rules. You want me to go through channels, check with Washington if it’s okay, or you want to do a different kind of job?”

  “We don’t yet have enough information to convince Justice that we ought to be investigating this lawyer. Especially if he’s involved in, or was involved in, a case on trial, and is the lawyer for people putting in Claims. Too much explaining to do in Washington; too involved.”

  “No problem,” said Mulvehill.

  “Can you believe he’s even inquiring about a seizure we don’t even have a file for yet?” Mulvehill nodded. “Had a specific amount. A name. If he’s the good lawyer Geraghty described, he’s probably calling all over the place—Washington, all the local prosecutors—beating all the bushes stirring up muck.”

  “No doubt.”

  “We ought to get on top of this inquisitive lawyer right away, and, if necessary, close him down,” said Becker.

  “Close him down?”

  “In a nice way,” said Becker. “See if we can get him dirty on something.” He and Mulvehill stared steadily at each other. Mulvehill
nodded and stood up. “Done.”

  M.C.C., New York : June 20, 1996 : 12:55 P.M.

  M.C.C. is the standard denomination given by the Federal Bureau of Prisons to its detention facilities in major cities where detainees (individuals charged, but not tried) await legal proceedings. M.C.C, New York was situated immediately behind the old Federal courthouse, connected to it by an enclosed bridge which spanned the City street that separated the two buildings. The new courthouse, built just north of those buildings, had inmates brought to it through an underground tunnel.

  When Sandro retraced his steps to the M.C.C. after visiting with Li’l Bit and handling her arraignment, there was a queue of visitors in front of the closed entrance door, awaiting the beginning of family visiting time. Many little children, neat, in their Sunday clothes, struggled to run free as they were restrained by mothers who were all gussied and perfumed, waiting to visit husbands, fathers, boyfriends, lovers. There were some female detainees at the M.C.C, but in the main, the inmates were men.

  Sandro walked past the waiting line and opened the door to the building. While family and social visits are restricted to certain times and certain days, lawyers are permitted to visit their clients everyday from early in the morning until eight at night.

  “Help you, Counselor?” said an Hispanic Officer inside a glass-enclosed cubicle just beyond the entrance. A metal tag on his shirt indicated that his name was Rodriguez. Another Officer within the cubicle, tall, black, was talking into a telephone as he read from some papers.

  “Counsel visit,” said Sandro.

  “Who you here to see?”

  “O.T. Hardie,” said Sandro.

  “Red? The Man himself?” asked the Hispanic Officer.

  “The very one.”

  “Red Hardie receiving visitors yet?” the Officer inquired, affecting a haughty accent.

  The black Officer inside the cubicle could be seen laughing.

  “Big man on campus, Counselor. Very big. I’d say he’s the most illustrious detainee we’ve had in a long time. What kind of guy is he?”

  “Great guy, right down to earth,” said Sandro.

  “If I had his dough, I’d be a gentleman, too. Fill out your paperwork and stand by the machine. I’ll be right out.”

  Sandro filled out a requisition form on which he wrote his name and address, his client’s name and registration number, and assured the authorities that he was not carrying explosives, weapons, drugs, cigarettes, or contraband of any kind.

  Across from the reception cubicle, at the opening to a corridor that permitted visitors to pass to a waiting area behind the cubicle, stood a conveyor belt x-ray machine and a magnetometer which scanned the people and packages to be brought into the interior of the facility. The Hispanic Officer stepped out of the cubicle.

  “Put any metal objects in the tray—keys, coins, pens, belt buckles—anything metal,” said the Officer. Sandro stepped through the magnetometer; the buzzer atop the door frame remained silent. “Left hand, Counselor.” The officer pressed a rubber stamp onto the back of Sandro’s hand. It left no visible impression. “You’re okay. Step inside and sign in.”

  The glassed-in cubicle actually divided a large reception area into two sections. The front section was to initially screen all visitors and packages. The section behind the cubicle served as a waiting area with rows of seats. On a shelf, suspended from the back of the cubicle were two large ledger books. Sandro signed his name into the lawyers’s visiting ledger, and wrote the name of the inmate he was visiting, the inmate’s Bureau of Prison’s Register number, and the time of day he entered.

  “That’s right, ma’am. You can only visit one day a week,” the black Officer, still inside the cubicle, said into the telephone cradled between his head and shoulder. Sandro slid his lawyer’s card through a slot in the glass. By rote, the Officer slid out to Sandro a pink identification tag with a small alligator clip to attach to his lapel. “I can’t help that ma’am—you need a locker, Counselor?” the Officer said from the side of his mouth as he half-listened to the phone. Sandro shook his head. “Red Hardie?” he said to Sandro softly from the side of his mouth. Sandro nodded. “Damn!” the black Officer murmured.

  “You get your paperwork yet, Counselor?” said the first Officer, now walking into the waiting area.

  “Yes.” He handed the completed requisition sheet back to the Officer, who initialed the document and picked up another telephone.

  “Hello, Ross. This is Rodriguez, front desk. I got a Counsel visit for Red Hardie. That’s right, the main man. Ask Mr. Red if he would mind getting off his pillows to attend a Counsel visit?” He listened. “My man, if I had his dough, I would not get out of bed, ever.” He guffawed. “Ask him to step down to the Lawyers’s Visiting Room.” The Officer chuckled again as he hung up the phone and handed the initialed page back to Sandro.

  Sandro passed his left hand under an ultra-violet light; the word “STAFF” appeared on the back of his hand. As part of the Bureau of Prison’s policy, the stamped message, even which hand it was stamped on, were varied daily. Entering through six more glass and steel doors, each unlocked electronically, one at a time, only after the door behind was locked tight, Sandro ascended to the third floor in an elevator controlled by personnel inside a central control room on the main floor of the building. After signing his name into yet another ledger book, passing his hand under another ultra-violet light, Sandro was seated in a small waiting area facing various small, glass-doored visiting rooms. Some of the rooms were already occupied by other lawyers visiting clients.

  In the center of the Lawyers’s Waiting Room was a desk at which a black female Officer sat. Another Officer, white, beefy, with the regulation long, silver keychain hung from a clip on his belt, disappearing into his back pocket, stood at the side of the desk. All of the male prisoners who came into the room wore either a dark brown (signifying a non-problem inmate) or orange (potential problem) government-issued jumpsuit. When they finished their lawyer visits, the male Officer took each prisoner into the men’s toilet to strip search them before they were permitted to return to their housing unit. The few female prisoners were dressed in sky blue jumpsuits and were strip searched by the female Officer at the desk.

  “Who you here to see again, Counselor?” the female Officer said to Sandro after he had been waiting for fifteen minutes.

  “O.T. Hardie.”

  “Mr. Red is probably having his afternoon massage.” The Officer picked up her phone. “Hello, Ross, darling. This is Collette. I have a lawyer waiting patiently for Mr. Red Hardie,” she paused. “I can’t tell him that,” she smiled, winking at Sandro. “Have you sent him down yet?” She nodded. “He’s waiting for Control to send up the elevator,” she said to Sandro as she hung up the phone. “Must be quite a come-down for a man like Mr. Hardie, a real elegant dude, to wear one of these here baggy jumpsuits and eat jail food,” she remarked to both Sandro and the other Officer.

  “Is the glass half-full or half-empty?” said the male Officer.

  “What glass?” said the female Officer.

  “Depends on how you look at it. Step inside,” the male Officer directed an Hispanic prisoner who exited from a visiting room. “He may be wearing jumpsuits now, but he’s been living high on the hog, very high on the hog, for a long time. He had a good run, you know what I mean? Hey, I wouldn’t complain if I had a shot at that kind of high life like I been reading about in the papers, for a year or two. The glass is half-full, right, Counselor?” The Officer followed the prisoner into the toilet room.

  “A philosopher,” said the female Officer.

  Sandro smiled and nodded.

  “Red Hardie’s done some wonderful things for the people uptown,” said the female Officer. “I have a cousin who takes her kids, every morning, to a breakfast center he set up, pays for out of his own pocket. Every six months, they have—the kids and my cousin—a medical checkup, at no charge. I’m not making any judgments, but not many people in this im
mediate area, in charge of putting bad people in jail, do those kinds of things for people.”

  “You won’t hear any argument from me,” said Sandro.

  The entrance door was unlocked from the outside, and two more prisoners arrived for their Counsel visits. The female Officer took their identification cards and logged them in. After another fifteen minutes, Red Hardie came into the Lawyers Visiting Room. Red, handsome and elegant, even in a brown jumpsuit somewhat short in the leg, and a pair of white sneakers—the Bureau of Prisons insists on sneakers, not shoes—smiled.

  “Hello, Sandro,” Hardie said with a wide smile. He shook Sandro’s hand. “Nice tie. I didn’t notice it earlier.”

  “Thanks. You don’t look so bad yourself.”

  “Brown’s not my favorite color,” Red shrugged.

  The two Officers, the other prisoners who were waiting to be interviewed, two other waiting lawyers, even some of the prisoners and lawyers through the glass doors in the visiting rooms, took furtive glances at the celebrity.

  “I need your card, Mr. Hardie,” said the female Officer.

  “Calling me ‘Red’ is fine. How you doing today,” he smiled pleasantly, looking at the Officer’s identification tag, “Miss Ferguson?” Red handed her his identification card.

  “Just fine, Mr. Hardie,” she replied smiling. “You can have room eight again.” She pointed to a corridor at the side of the waiting room.

  “Yes, thank you,” Hardie smiled and nodded.

  A fragrance of cologne wafted behind Hardie as he walked ahead of Sandro along the corridor leading to other visiting rooms off a side corridor, wholly out of the view of the Officers, lawyers, and other prisoners.

  Interview Room 8 was the last, and, therefore, the least trafficked, room. Although this room had a regulation glass door, a vertical girder jutting out from one of the side walls partially concealed the interior of the room from view of the corridor.

  “You seem pretty familiar with the joint already,” said Sandro.