“If he has to take the stand, you’ll see that he is. He’ll tell the whole story, about himself, his name, that he was passing, the sacrifice he’d be making for her sake—”
“Yeah, yeah, I got it,” said Quintalian. “I’m impressed. Do I get to talk to the Doctor in person, or do I have to buy this pig in a poke?”
“In anticipation that you’d ask that very question, and with no small amount of effort,” said Sandro, “I convinced the Doctor to accompany me here this morning. He’s sitting on one of the metal chairs in what you refer to charitably as a waiting area.”
“He’s here?”
“It wasn’t easy to get him to come down. And I’m going to ask you to be—well, to take it easy on the guy. Maybe we might not agree with him, or the position he’s put himself in, but, whether we like it or not, his life is in our hands as well as Hettie’s. If I’m forced to call him, which I will if I have to, if we put him through this, we are going—rightly or wrongly—to ruin the man’s life, and the lives of his wife and children.”
“Give me some credit for understanding. I’m not totally insensitive, Sandro.”
“I know we didn’t create the situation—it’s his own doing—but for whatever reason, the ruin will hurt as much. You want me to bring him in?”
“Yeah, go ahead.”
Sandro walked out to the reception area and caught the Doctor’s eyes. He grimaced as Sandro signaled for him to go to meet the D.A. “I imagine the District Attorney wants to talk with me,” said the Doctor.
“I don’t think for content. The affidavit speaks for itself. I think he just wants to impress himself with you.”
“I don’t feel very impressive, Sandro—you don’t mind if I call you Sandro?”
“Not at all.” They were walking along the wide corridor that led to Quintalian’s office.
“I think I feel the same being led to Quintalian, as people must have felt being led to the guillotine,” said the Doctor.
“For a prosecutor, he’s a nice guy,” said Sandro. He knocked on Quintalian’s door.
Quintalian scrutinized the Doctor as he entered. “Doctor, Mr. Luca tells me you’re willing to testify on behalf of your sister.” Quintalian aimed his dart right at the heart of the matter.
“Mr. Luca is very convincing.”
“He must be,” said Quintalian, his face softening. He stood and extended his hand to shake the Doctor’s hand. “Thank you for taking the time to come down. Yes, Sandro is an excellent attorney. Your sister is lucky to have him.”
“If he could convince me to come down here and lend my support to—to this matter, I think he can convince anyone of anything,” said the Doctor.
“I imagine that’s so,” said Quintalian, sitting down behind his desk, pointing to a chair for the Doctor. “I’ve read this affidavit,” he said, handing the pages to the Doctor. “The contents of this document are your own words?”
“Oh, yes, quite.”
“You swore to the truth of this document—the original?”
The Doctor gnawing on his bottom lip, nodded.
Quintalian nodded, taking the pages back from the Doctor.
“And you’d be willing to get up on the stand to testify to these facts?”
The Doctor was pensive. “If it were to save the life of a human being. I can’t tell you how difficult it would be, but I would.”
“I’m impressed,” Quintalian said, standing. “I didn’t tip my mitt, there, Sandro, not inadvertently, that is. I realize how difficult this is for you, Doctor, and not wanting you to be entirely on pins and needles, I will tell you that Sandro has made a formidable pitch for your sister. I’m not saying one way or the other, the final decision is up to my boss. But I will tell you, under the circumstances, I’m impressed with the circumstances.” Quintalian reached out his hand to shake the doctor’s hand. “I’ll be in touch with Mr. Luca.”
“Thank you for—for anything you can do for Hettie.”
“Sandro, I’ll be in touch.”
“Thanks, Rob.”
Chatham Square : August 25, 1996 : 10:25 A.M.
Since Tony Balls was being charged with selling narcotics, combined with the total hostility of the D.E.A. in the form of Michael Becker, A.U.S.A. Dineen had requested, and the Magistrate Judge had ordered, that Tony Balls be remanded to the Metropolitan Correction Center (M.C.C.) without bail pending the disposition of his case. Now, Tony Balls sat across a table from Sandro Luca in a small counsel visiting room.
“I’m fucked now, right?” Tony Balls said to Sandro with a resigned shrug. He was wearing a baggy orange jump suit and a pair of government issue white sneakers.
“It’s not a hundred percent shoo in,” said Sandro, “but you’ve been around long enough to know they have a pretty solid case against you. They have videotapes with you and Sally Cantalupo—not devastating tapes—but they show you meeting with him in front of the restaurant, appearing to drop something on the ground, him picking something up. They have audio tapes, but the audio tapes are not bad; you hardly say anything on tape.”
“Thank God for little favors.”
“They have the Russians by the balls as far as a narcotics conspiracy is concerned—they haven’t even mentioned, yet, their complicity in killing Red Hardie—tapes, informant, this guy Awgust Nichols is in the Government’s pocket, the whole thing,” continued Sandro. “The conspiracy against them is solid, so the Government will be able to prove a conspiracy without any trouble. As you know, after that, all they have to do is connect you to that conspiracy, even the last link in the chain, and they’ve got you.”
“And then they have me meeting with the Russians down in Coney Island, right?”
“That’s right. And they have you meeting with Sally Cantalupo—”
“So the whole fucking thing goes ‘round in a circle, like one big circle jerk, and like I said, I’m totally fucked, right?”
“If I had a mind to lie to you and tell you no, would you believe me?”
“You ain’t going to lie to me, Sandro, I know that. And more than these Government scum bags having me by the balls as far as the conspiracy is concerned, I fucked myself with my friends, to boot. I can talk to you about this shit. You know the score. I get out of this miserable jail, my hash is fried in the street. Even I don’t get out of it, my hash is fried in the joint as well. Billy Legs’ll have a contract on me, for someone to hit me over the head. Not because of his kid so much, but because I was dealing with that thing, you know what I mean? It was against the rules. Whether someone comes to hurt me or not, I got to be looking over my shoulder every minute, worrying that someone is going to try, which is not such a good way to live the rest of my life. And to top it off, I’m a fuckin’ laughin’ stockin’ because of those tapes with my wife. Minca, those dopey fuckin’ tapes. She didn’t do nothin’ with the guy, but still—” Tony Balls voice trailed off in disgust and resignation.
Once again, Sandro felt helpless to help a client, which was a feeling he detested. He had felt the same way a few short weeks ago when he visited Red Hardie in this same M.C.C.
“You think this scumbag Becker wants to talk to me?” said Tony Balls, looking squarely at Sandro.
“Talk to you, like you cooperating?” said Sandro, taken aback.
“Yeah, like me cooperating. You think he’ll want to talk to me?”
“Are you serious?” said Sandro.
“I’m fucked, right? Inside or out, I’m a fuckin’ laughin’ stockin’ cornud, because of them tapes, right? I gotta live like a hunted rat, inside or out. I disgraced myself. So what the fuck I got to lose? I can only win, right?”
“Are you telling me that you want me to talk to Becker, tell him that you want to cooperate?” said Sandro.
“It can’t hurt to know all our options, right?”
After Sandro left the M.C.C, he contacted Michael Becker and inquired if he’d be interested in having Tony Balls cooperate. Becker was at first skeptical, then delighted wi
th Sandro’s inquiry. He was the more delighted, because he gloated over the fact that he brought down, humbled, and now wanted to humiliate the audacious, preening, smart ass, fresh mouthed Tony Balls. Becker told Sandro absolutely, he’d be very interested in speaking to Tony Balls. If he was willing to sign a cooperation agreement—which meant full cooperation, including testimony in open court—there was a certain amount of help that the Government would extend to him. Sandro made an appointment to meet with Dineen, the D.E.A. and Tony Balls.
At the United States Attorney’s office, Dineen met Sandro at the reception desk, then led him to a small conference room. Michael Becker and Pete Mulvehill were already there. Tony Balls was not.
“Your client will be here in a minute,” said Dineen. “Agent Geraghty went over to the M,C.C. for him. You surprised us when you called,” he added. “Nobody thought Tony Balls would be interested in cooperation.”
“How low the mighty have fallen,” chortled Becker. He was beaming, anticipating the joy of seeing Tony Balls, brought to heel, seeing Tony Balls grovel before the majesty of the law.
Marty Geraghty opened the conference room door. Tony Balls, in his orange jump suit, was behind him. He sat next to Sandro, across the table from Dineen and Becker.
“Hello, Tony,” said Becker with a triumphal smile.
“Hello, Mr. Becker,” said Tony Balls quietly.
“I’m Assistant United States Attorney Dineen,” began Dineen. “You know Supervisor Becker. This is Pete Mulvehill, D.E.A., and, you know Marty Geraghty.” There were nods all around the table. “Mr. Luca has advised us that you might be willing to cooperate with the Government in connection with your indictment, is that correct?”
“If you guys need help, so do I,” said Tony Balls. His attitude was a quiet, subdued contrition.
“You willing to testify in open court?” said Becker, leaning forward, “because without that—”
“Let me handle this, if you don’t mind, Mike,” Dineen cut in.
“I just want to make sure that this, this—” Becker glared at Tony Balls, venom, almost literally, dripped from his lips.
“Let’s take it easy,” said Dineen calmly. “I know there’s been some bad blood here. But if Mr. Spacavento wants to assist the Government, the Government is very interested in all that he might have to tell us.”
“I apologize to you, Mr. Becker, if I gave you a hard time,” Tony Balls said softly, looking directly in Becker’s eyes.
Becker’s bony nose and lips twitched with a dislike he tried very hard to contain as he stared directly back toward Tony Balls. “Apology not accepted,” spat Becker, almost childishly.
“Look, I came here to try to cooperate, okay? I apologized. That’s as far as I can go. I ain’t here to give any of youse a blow job.”
“Let’s keep it calm,” said Dineen, looking at Tony Balls, then Becker. “If you sincerely want to cooperate, the Government is more than happy to have you do so. But, let me advise you of this, your cooperation has to be complete, completely truthful, and you can’t hold anything back. You have to be willing to tell us everything that you’ve done, practically take a bath, because if we can’t trust you, if we feel you’re holding back anything, then we can’t use you. Are you willing to cooperate fully and completely?”
“Yeah. Let’s get it going,” said Tony Balls. His entire mien was one of abject surrender.
“You’re willing to testify against the Russians?” said Dineen.
“If you want.”
“And Sally Cantalupo?”
“If you want me to.”
Dineen pursed his lips, nodding. “Let’s get started at the beginning.” Thereafter, Dineen asked Tony Balls questions, and Tony Balls responded, about the case, about Sally Cantelupo, about his own background, all of which questions Tony Balls answered openly and candidly. Sandro was amazed at what he was hearing come from Tony Balls’ mouth. While Dineen didn’t start to de-brief Tony Balls concerning organized crime, Sandro was sure that at the next session, there was no question but that the Government was going to milk Tony Balls dry—the subject of the associations that Tony Balls had in organized crime was going to be a major subject of discussion.
After about an hour and fifteen minutes of Dineen asking questions and Tony Balls giving complete and open answers, Sandro said:
“I have a matter in the Eastern District at 1:30. I didn’t anticipate that this was going to go on so long.”
“Would you have any objection if we continued in your absence?” said Dineen, “We’re going along so well.”
“I really would prefer that we do this when I’m present,” said Sandro.
“Could you come back after you finish in court? How long are you going to be tied up?” said Dineen.
“I don’t think it’ll be long. It’s a plea in front of the Magistrate.”
“Maybe we could reconvene, say around two-thirty? Would that be feasible?” Dineen asked Sandro.
Sandro looked at Tony Balls. Tony Balls shrugged. “I guess that would be possible. Depending on how long it takes in court.”
“Let’s tentatively say we’ll come back here at two-thirty. If something comes up, call us,” said Dineen.
“I’d like to ask you a favor,” Tony Balls said to Dineen.
“What’s that? If we can accommodate you—”
“I always wear my scapula medals, and my St. Jude. When I got arrested, I didn’t have them on, because I took them off the night before and put them on the night-stand in my house.”
“What’s a scapula medal?” said Dineen.
“That’s a—it’s hard to explain,” said Geraghty. “It not really a medal, they’re like cloth prayers, prayer things, on string, it goes over your head, one goes in the back, one in the front. Is that what you’re talking about?” he said to Tony Balls.
“That’s it. I don’t know if you guys believe me, but I’m religious. Down beneath this gruff exterior, is a guy that’s deeply religious. I’d like, since we got some time, to have someone take me home—it’ll take twenty minutes—so I can and get my scapulas and my St. Jude. It’s very important to me.”
“What is this, a joke?” said Becker.
“I don’t know that anyone’s religious beliefs are a joke,” said Sandro.
“I’m not talking about religious beliefs, I’m talking about being a car service for this—this, mug.”
“Look,” said Sandro, “is there any doubt that Tony has been open and truthful this morning? Is there any doubt that the information that he’s given, and is going to give this afternoon, is singular and significant?”
“Can’t you have your wife bring them to the M.C.C.?” said Dineen.
“She can’t give them to me. They got rules and channels. I wouldn’t get them for a month, if that. And, I tell you the truth, St Jude is my guide, he walks with me through thick and thin. I need him to get me through what we’re going through. I don’t know about you, but this is very difficult for me. Cooperating is going against my whole way of life, my whole life.”
“Can’t someone go to your house and pick them up?”
“No one is home. My wife and kid work,” said Tony Balls. “Look, if it can’t be done while we wait for Sandro to get back, it can’t be done. But I don’t think I want to go on without my medals, not today, anyways. I’m beggin’ you, please. I want to do this thing, but it’s hard, real hard.”
“Michael, would you permit two of your men to take Tony to his house, just to pick up the medals, and bring him back?” asked Dineen.
“Are we all crazy here?” said Becker.
“Let me talk to you a minute, outside,” Dineen said to Becker. Once outside the room, Dineen said to Becker, “this is probably the most frank and open channel to organized crime that you’ve had for a long time. I know it is for me. I’m not even talking about this case. I’m talking about a direct line to whatever organized crime is still out there. It could be stupendous. Another Joe Valachi. And you want to shu
t the door because of a couple of religious medals.”
“If you want to, it’s up to you. You’re the boss,” said Becker exasperated.
Geraghty and Castoro took Tony Balls, in his baggy orange jumpsuit, sneakers, and handcuffs, to Sunnyside. There was a spare front door key under a rock on the front lawn. Geraghty retrieved the key, and Tony Balls clumsily opened the door. Both Geraghty and Castoro accompanied him inside the house, and up the stairs. They stood outside the door watching Tony as he went into his bedroom. They watched him retrieve scapula pads and a gold St. Jude medal, and put them around his neck.
“Can I go to the john?” he asked, nodding his head toward a door to the side of the master bedroom.
“I’ll check it out,” said Castoro.
“You think, maybe I had somebody stashed in my bathroom waitin’ for this moment?”
“You never know,” said Castoro. He looked inside the bathroom, into the medicine cabinet, opened the door under the sink, looked out the window, then nodded his head. Tony Balls went into the bathroom and shut the door behind him. Once inside, Tony Balls stood silent for a few moments, then flushed the toilet. He turned one of the faucets in the sink full blast, letting the water splash noisily. He wriggled the two arms of the toilet paper holder until it came out of the wall. Inside the recess, there was a wash cloth wrapped around a .38 caliber snub-nosed revolver. Tony Balls opened the cylinder. There were five live shells in the cylinder.
“Hey, you fall in or something?” said Geraghty, knocking hard on the door three times. He twisted the handle from side to side. “Open up!”
“Yeah, yeah, okay,” said Tony Balls hurriedly. He opened the button front of his jump suit and placed the revolver inside his under pants, rebuttoning the jump suit. He opened the door.
“What’s the hell’s going on in here?” said Geraghty, looking around inside the bathroom.
“I hadda jerk off,” scoffed Tony Balls.
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