Bellarosa moved out of the doorway, and Mancuso walked a few paces into the palm court, looked at me, then saw Vinnie, then Lenny. He glanced around to make sure he hadn’t missed anyone.
Bellarosa said, “Benvenuto a nostra casa.”
Mr. Mancuso replied in Italian, and though I couldn’t understand what he’d said, it didn’t sound like “Thank you.’’ In fact, if I didn’t know firsthand that Mr. Mancuso didn’t use profanity, I’d swear he said, “Fuck you.’’ Maybe he only swears in Italian. Anyway, whatever he said caused Frank, Vinnie, and Lenny to be unhappy with their paesano.
Frank kept his smile in place, excused himself, and climbed the stairs to the second floor.
Mr. Mancuso turned his attention to Lenny and Vinnie. He said to them, “Carrying?”
They both nodded.
“Licensed?”
Again they nodded.
Mr. Mancuso put out his hand. “Wallets.”
They both put their wallets in his hand, and he rummaged through them, letting money and credit cards fall to the floor as he retrieved their pistol licenses. He compared their faces to the photos and said, “Vincent Adamo and Leonard Patrelli. What do you do for a living, boys?”
“Nothin’.”
He threw their wallets to them and said, “Get out.”
They hesitated, then scooped up their money and cards from the floor and left.
Mr. Mancuso turned his attention now to his surroundings, looking up at the birds, the hanging plants, and the mezzanine and balconies.
I asked him, “Would you like some coffee?”
He shook his head and began ambling around the palm court, checking on the health of the potted palms, making sure the birds in the lower cages had food and water, then contemplating a pink marble column.
This was indeed a different Mr. Mancuso than the one I’d gone sailing with. He turned and looked at me, then motioned me to a big wicker chair.
I sat, and he pulled another chair over and sat across from me. We listened to the birds awhile, then he looked at me and asked, “What’s the problem, Mr. Sutter?”
“Problem? What problem?”
“That’s what I asked you. You have to have problems or you wouldn’t be here. Family problems? Money problems? Wife problems, life problems? You’re not going to solve any problems here. Are you trying to prove something? What’s making you unhappy?”
“You, at the moment.”
“Hey, I’m not in the happiness business.”
“Are you in the priest business?”
“Sometimes. Look, I’ll let Bellarosa call his attorney, Jack Weinstein. Weinstein will meet him at Federal Court. I’ll give you five minutes with Bellarosa to explain to him any way you want that you don’t want to represent him or, in fact, ever see him again. Believe me, Mr. Sutter, he will understand.”
“You’re not supposed to try to come between a lawyer and his client.”
“Don’t tell me the law, Mr. Sutter. You know, it doesn’t matter to me, as a federal agent making this arrest, who Bellarosa’s attorney is. But it matters to me as a citizen and as a man that his attorney is you.”
I thought about that for a moment, then replied, “I truly appreciate that. But I cannot walk away from this, Mr. Mancuso. Only I know how I got here, and why. I have to see it through, or I’ll never break out on the other side. Do you understand?”
“I have always understood. But you should have explored your alternatives.”
“Probably I should have.”
We sat in silence for a few more minutes, then I heard Bellarosa’s heavy tread on the staircase.
Mancuso stood and met him at the bottom step, cuffs in hand. “Ready, Frank?”
“Sure.’’ Bellarosa extended his hands, and Mancuso cuffed him. Mancuso said, “Against the post.”
Bellarosa leaned against the marble stair post, and Mancuso frisked him. “Okay.”
Bellarosa straightened up, and Mancuso said to me, “As long as you’re here, you tell him his rights.”
I didn’t really remember the wording of the so-called Miranda warning, which was a little embarrassing. (I do mostly taxes, wills, and house closings.) Anyway, Mancuso and Bellarosa helped me out, though Mancuso had a little cheat card with him. He said to me, “Okay? Your client understands his rights?”
I nodded.
Mancuso took my client’s arm and began leading him away, but I said, “I’d like to see the arrest warrant.”
Mr. Mancuso seemed annoyed, but fished it out of his pocket and handed it to me. I studied it carefully. I’d never really seen one, and I found it rather interesting. I figured I was earning a little of the fifty large already, and making up for the Miranda thing, but I could sense that Mancuso and even Bellarosa were a little impatient. I handed the warrant back to Mancuso, but I wondered if I was supposed to ask for a copy for my files.
Mancuso led Bellarosa to the door and I followed. I said to Mancuso, “Are you going directly to the FBI office at Federal Plaza?”
“That’s right.”
“How long will you be there?”
“As long as it takes to book my prisoner.”
“And after the booking, will you be taking my client directly to the Federal Court at Foley Square?”
“That is correct.”
“At about what time, Mr. Mancuso?”
“Whenever I get there, Mr. Sutter.”
“Will there be newspeople there?”
“That’s no concern of mine, Mr. Sutter.”
“It’s a concern of Alphonse Ferragamo, who is going to stage a media circus.”
“It’s still no concern of mine.”
I said, “I plan to be with my client every step of the way, Mr. Mancuso. I expect everyone to behave properly and professionally.”
“You can count on that, Mr. Sutter. May I remove my prisoner? I’d like to get on the road.”
“Certainly.’’ I said to Frank Bellarosa, “I’ll see you at Federal Plaza.”
Bellarosa, trying to look very nonchalant despite the cuffs and Mancuso’s hand on his arm, said to me jokingly, “Don’t forget the briefcase, and don’t stop for coffee, and don’t get lost. Capisce?”
I noticed that Frank Bellarosa was not as eloquent with his hands cuffed, but I understood him. “Capisco.”
He laughed and said to Mancuso, “See? Another few months and I’ll have him cursing in Italian.”
“Let’s go, Frank.’’ Mancuso led Bellarosa out the door.
I stood at the open door, and Lenny and Vinnie joined me. I watched Mancuso take Frank Bellarosa down the long drive toward the gate where Anthony stood watching. There is something about that scene that I won’t ever forget. But I don’t think that Anthony, Vinnie, or Lenny were as profoundly impressed with the scene, nor would they make the logical deduction that crime doesn’t pay.
Lenny said to me, “Ready to go, Counselor?”
I nodded and retrieved my briefcase as Lenny went out to bring the Cadillac around front.
I found myself standing with Vinnie, who still seemed annoyed that the house hadn’t been surrounded by SWAT teams and paratroopers. “We shoulda offed the motherfucker. You know? Who the fuck does he think he is?”
“The law.”
“Yeah? Fuck him.’’ Vinnie stomped out the door.
I started to follow, but heard a noise behind me and turned. Coming down the winding staircase, wailing at the top of her big lungs, was Anna, wearing a robe and slippers. I started to back out the door, but she saw me. “John! John! Oh, my God! John!”
Madonn’. Do I need this?
“John!’’ She came rushing toward me like a ’54 Buick with oversize bumper guards. “John! They took Frank! They took him away!’’ She collided with me—Boom!—and wrapped her arms around me, which was all that kept me from sprawling across the floor. She buried her face in my chest and gushed tears over my Hermès tie. “Oh, John! They arrested him!”
“Yes, I was actually here.”
She kept sobbing and squeezing me. Madonna mia. Those tits and arms were crushing the air out of my lungs. “There, there,’’ I wheezed. “Don’t cry. Let’s sit down.”
I steered her over to a wicker chair, which was like trying to manhandle a side of beef. She wasn’t wearing much under her robe, and despite the circumstances and the early hour, I found I was a wee bit cranked up by her proximity. An incredibly insane thought passed through my mind, but I got it right out of there before it got me killed.
She was sitting now, clutching my hands in hers. “Why did they take my Frank?”
Gee, Anna, I can’t imagine why. I said, “I’m sure it’s a mistake. Don’t worry about it. I’ll have him home by tonight.”
She yanked me down to my knees and our faces were close. I noticed that, as upset as she was, she’d dallied upstairs long enough to comb her hair, put on a little makeup, and that nice scent she used. She looked me straight in the eye and said, “Swear to me. Swear to me, John, that you will bring Frank home.”
Mamma mia, what a morning this was going to be. I never had these problems at a house closing. I cleared my throat and said, “I swear it.”
“On the grave of your mother. Swear it on the grave of your mother.”
As best I knew, Harriet was still alive and well in Europe. But a lot of people think my parents are dead, including me sometimes, so I said, “I swear on the grave of my mother that I’ll bring Frank home.”
“Oh . . . dear Lord . . .’’ She kissed my hands and blubbered awhile. I managed to get a look at my watch. “Anna, I have to go meet Frank.’’ I stood, her hands still grasping mine. “I really have to go—”
“Hey, Counselor! Got to move!’’ It was Vinnie, who, seeing Anna clutching me, said, “Oh, hi, Mrs. Bellarosa. Sorry about this. I gotta take Mr. Sutter to court.”
I disengaged my hands and said to Anna, “Call Susan and she’ll come over to keep you company. Maybe you can go shopping, play a little tennis.’’ I hurried toward the door, snatched up my briefcase, and left quickly.
• • •
On the expressway into Manhattan, Lenny, behind the wheel, said, “Did you see how cool the don was?”
Vinnie, also in the front seat, replied, “Yeah. He ain’t afraid of nuthin’.’’ He looked back at me. “Right, Counselor?”
I was a little annoyed with these two, who had been singing Bellarosa’s praises for the last ten miles, as though he’d been arrested by the KGB for prodemocracy activities and was on his way to the Lubyanka for torture. I said, “There was nothing to be afraid of except bad drivers on the expressway.”
“Yeah?’’ snapped Vinnie. “I’ve been arrested twice. You got to show balls or they fuck you around. How’d you like to be looking at ten or twenty years?”
“Hey, Vinnie,’’ I replied, “if you can’t do the time, don’t do the crime. Capisce?”
Lenny laughed. “Listen to this guy. He sounds like fucking Weinstein now. Hey, Counselor, how’d you act if you was thrown in a cell full of melanzane and spics?”
“I might prefer it to being in a car with two greaseballs.”
They thought that was very funny and they laughed, slapped their knees, pounded the dashboard, and Lenny hit the horn a few times while Vinnie whooped. The Italians, I’d discovered, were pretty thick-skinned when it came to ethnic humor at their expense. But there were other kinds of jokes they didn’t find so amusing. You had to be careful.
Vinnie said to me, “The don is lookin’ forward to lunch at Caffè Roma today, Counselor. He’s gonna be there, right?”
“I hope so. If not, we’ll get Caffè Roma to deliver to his cell.”
Now there’s an example of the kind of joke they don’t find funny. In fact, Vinnie said, “That’s not too fuckin’ funny.”
Lenny said, “If you don’t walk out of that court with the don, maybe you should find another way home.”
That wasn’t quite a threat, but it had possibilities. I replied, “Let me worry about that. You worry about driving.”
No one spoke for a while, which was fine with me. So there I was, in a black Cadillac with two Mafia goons, heading into the maws of the federal criminal justice system.
It was just nine A . M . now and the worst of rush hour was over, but traffic was still heavy, so I didn’t think there was any chance that we’d overtake Mancuso, and in fact, I didn’t even know what sort of vehicle he was driving. But as it turned out, though we never saw the car that Mancuso and Bellarosa were in, I began to realize that the same four nondescript gray Fords had been keeping pace with us for some time.
Lenny said, “Look at those cocksuckers.”
So I did. Each car held two men, and they were staring at us as they played a game of changing positions around us. The car to our front suddenly slowed down, and Lenny hit his brakes. “Cocksuckers!”
The gray Fords to our sides and rear boxed us in, and they slowed us down to ten miles an hour, causing the other Long Island Expressway motorists behind us, who are not known for road courtesy in the best of times, to go nearly hysterical. Horns were blaring, insults hurled, drivers pounded their foreheads against their steering wheels. They were really upset back there.
So we caused what they call on the radio “major delays’’ approaching the Midtown Tunnel.
This wasn’t just harassment, of course, but a rather unethical attempt to separate me from my client. I saw Ferragamo’s hand in this and began to suspect that it wasn’t the FBI in those cars, but Ferragamo’s men from the Justice Department. I said to Lenny, “Go right to Federal Court in Foley Square.”
“But the don said to meet him at the FBI headquarters.”
“Do what I say.”
“He’ll kill us!”
“Do what I say!”
Vinnie, who had about half a functional brain, said, “He’s right. We gotta get straight to the court.”
Lenny seemed to understand. “Okay. But I ain’t takin’ this fuckin’ rap, Vinnie.”
I settled back in the seat and listened to the horns blaring around us. I didn’t think Mancuso was in on this, and as best I could figure it, Mancuso would get a call over his car radio instructing him to go straight to Federal Court. Bellarosa could and would be booked there instead of at FBI headquarters. Then Bellarosa would be whisked in front of a judge for arraignment, and the head of New York’s largest crime family would be standing there in his nice suit without an attorney. The judge would read the charge and ask Bellarosa to enter a plea. Bellarosa would say, “Not guilty,’’ and the judge would order him held without bail. Frank would put up a big stink, but to no avail. Murder is a tough charge, and it would take me about two weeks to get a bail hearing. Actually, I would be well-advised to just head on down to Rio and send a postcard.
I looked at my briefcase beside me. Some of the paper assets were negotiable, and there was a cool million in cash. The Brazilians didn’t ask many questions when you deposited a million U.S. in the bank, except maybe what color checks you wanted.
I looked at my watch. They were probably at Foley Square by now, but the booking process, even if it was speeded up, still had to be done according to law; there would be a body search, fingerprinting, photographs, a personal history taken, and forms to fill out. Only then would they haul Bellarosa in front of a waiting judge. So it was possible for me to charge into the courthouse, find out where Bellarosa was to be arraigned, and get into the courtroom on time. It was possible.
I remember I had a house closing in Oyster Bay once, and my car broke down . . . but maybe that’s not a good comparison.
Well, but what could I do? I took down the license plate numbers of our escorts, stared back at them, then picked up a newspaper lying on the seat. The Mets had beaten Montreal and were two games out of first place now. I said to my friends up front, “Hey, how ’bout them Mets?”
Vinnie said, “Yeah, you see that last night?”
We did baseball chatter awhile. I knew we had to have some
thing in common besides the same boss and the fear of our lives.
There was a car phone in the rear, and I could have called Susan, but I had no desire to. The next time she heard anything of me would be on the afternoon news. But then I remembered she didn’t read, hear, or watch the news. But maybe she’d make an exception in this case. Thanks for the challenge, Susan.
We approached the tunnel tolls, and I looked at my watch. This was going to be very close.
Twenty-seven
We lost our escort at the Midtown Tunnel and got on the FDR Drive. Lenny turned out to be a better driver than a conversationalist, which is saying very little, and he got us quickly into and through the narrow, crowded streets of lower Manhattan. But the closer we got to Foley Square, the slower the traffic was moving. I looked at my watch. It was nine-forty, and I estimated that Mancuso and Bellarosa could have been at Foley Square for as long as thirty minutes. The wheels of criminal justice move slowly, but they’re capable of a quick grind if someone such as Alphonse Ferragamo is standing there squirting oil on them.
But the wheels of the Cadillac were not moving fast at all. In fact, we were stalled in traffic near City Hall Park, and the first arraignments would begin at ten A . M . Damn it. I grabbed my briefcase and opened the door.
“Where you goin’?’’ asked Vinnie.
“Rio.’’ I exited the car before he could process that.
It was hot and humid outside the air-conditioned Cadillac, and it’s not easy to run in wing-tip shoes despite their name, but all lawyers have done this at one time or another, and I headed up Centre Street toward Foley Square at a good clip. On the way, I practiced my lines. “Your Honor! Don’t bang that gavel! I got money!”
The streets and sidewalks were crowded, and many of the people in this section of town were civil servants of the city, state, or federal government who, by nature, were in no particular hurry. However, there were a few other Brooks Brothers runners whom I took to be attorneys on missions similar to mine. I fell in behind a good broken-field runner, and within ten minutes I was at Foley Square, covered with sweat, my arms aching from the weight of the briefcase. I’m in pretty good shape, but running through Manhattan heat and carbon monoxide in a suit is equivalent to about three sets of tough tennis at the club.
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