Gold Coast

by Nelson DeMille

  I went on with my description of Bellarosa as if I were introducing him for a Knights of Columbus award. “He has deep roots in his former Brooklyn neighborhood, having lived within a mile of his birthplace all his life. Recently, he has become my neighbor, and I know this man personally.’’ This brought a few murmurs from the crowd, but having started on this tack, to use a nautical term, I had to sail with it. “My wife and his wife are friends. We have entertained at one another’s house’’—sort of—“and I’ve met some of his family—’’ Oh, shit. Wrong word. Everyone laughed again, and the gavel crashed down again. “Order!”

  I recovered nicely and went on, “Your Honor, I will personally guarantee that my client will not leave the Southern District of New York and that he will appear in court to face this charge on the date assigned to this case. I repeat, Your Honor, my client, despite all innuendos and allegations and public smears to the contrary, is a substantial, taxpaying citizen, a man with friends and fami—and relatives all over the metropolitan area, a man who counts among his friends many prominent businessmen, clergy, politicians—’’ More chuckles from the peanut gallery, though I could see I had made a few more points, but was anyone keeping score? I said, “And further, Your Honor—”

  Ferragamo couldn’t stand not hearing himself talk for this long, so he cut me off again. “Judge, this is ridiculous. This man is a known gangster—”

  It was Judge Rosen’s turn to interrupt. “The charge before the court is murder, Mr. Ferragamo, not racketeering. If the charge were racketeering and he had these roots in the community, I would have already set bail. I’m not interested in allegations of racketeering. I’m interested in the question of whether or not this man will flee a drug-related murder charge.”

  Ferragamo was annoyed. He looked at Bellarosa, and their eyes met for the first time. Then he looked at me, as if to say, “Who the hell are you to get in the middle of this thing between Ferragamo and Bellarosa?’’ Ferragamo said to the judge, “Then let’s concentrate on that aspect; this is a man who has vast resources, not only in this country, but in foreign countries, and it is not inconceivable that—”

  “Your Honor,’’ I interrupted, since this seemed the way to get the floor with Mr. Ferragamo, “Your Honor, I stated earlier that I have here my client’s passport—”

  Ferragamo interrupted by yelling at me directly, “Your client, Mr. Sutter, can buy fifty passports!”

  I found myself, for the first time in my life, shouting in court. “Mr. Ferragamo, I gave the court my word! I am personally guaranteeing that—”

  “Who are you to personally guarantee—?”

  “Who are you to doubt—?”

  And so it went, degenerating very quickly into courtroom histrionics. Everyone loved it. Except Judge Rosen, who banged her gavel. “Enough!’’ She looked at me. “Mr. Sutter, the court appreciates your personal guarantee and is impressed with your foresight in dragging a suitcase full of money into court’’—laughter—“and acknowledges your offer to turn over the defendant’s passport. However, your request for bail is deni—”

  “Your Honor! One more thing, if I may.”

  She rolled her eyes, then motioned wearily for me to go on.

  “Your Honor . . . Your Honor . . .”

  “Yes, Mr. Sutter? Speak. Please.”

  I took a deep breath, caught Bellarosa’s eye, and spoke. “Your Honor, regarding the charge itself . . . the charge as read . . . the charge states that the alleged murder of this Juan Carranza individual took place on January fourteenth of this year in New Jersey. Well, Your Honor, my client has an alibi for that day, and I didn’t think it appropriate or advisable to introduce that alibi at this time, but it’s obvious that I must address myself to that alibi. So, if I may approach the bench . . .”

  There was a silence in the courtroom, broken by Ferragamo’s voice. “What kind of alibi, Mr. Sutter? I want to hear what alibi you have.’’ He looked at the judge. “Your Honor, I have five witnesses who have testified under oath in front of a grand jury, who have implicated Frank Bellarosa in the murder of Juan Carranza. The grand jury voted to indict the defendant based on this testimony. What possible alibi could the defense counsel present here . . . ?’’ He threw up his hands in a dramatic gesture. “Oh, this is inane. Really, Mr. Sutter. Really. You have wasted my time and everyone’s time.”

  He really looked pissed off. Really. But I was more pissed off. In fact, the more this jerk spoke, the more I realized he was a ruthless, egocentric media hound. I said to him, loud enough for everyone to hear, “Mr. Ferragamo, I have the license plate numbers of four cars that attempted to delay my appearance here in court. I believe that when I run those numbers through the DMV, I will find those cars are registered to the U.S. Attorney’s office. I believe that you engaged in an unlawful act to keep—”

  “How dare you? How dare you?”

  “How dare you?’’ I shot back, doing a little word stressing of my own. “How dare you obstruct—”

  “Are you insane?”

  I mean, I was really hot now. Needless to say, it’s not a good idea to make an enemy of a man like this, but what the hell, I had enemies in many high places now: the IRS, the FBI, The Creek, the Stanhope dynasty and their attorneys, and so forth. What was one more? I said, “I’m not the one displaying aberrant behavior in open court.”

  “What?”

  The crowd loved it. I mean, really loved it. There they sat, only ten minutes before, bored out of their minds with pro forma early-morning arraignments, and suddenly, in walks Frank Bellarosa, then his button-down attorney, who turns out to be a little bit nuts, and the ambitious Alphonse Ferragamo, who has completely lost control of himself. I glanced into the courtroom and saw reporters scribbling furiously, artists looking up and down between their pads and the bench as though they were following a vertical Ping-Pong game, and the rest of the crowd, smiling attentively, like people who had been sitting through a dull opera only to discover there was a nude scene in the second act.

  Bellarosa and I made eye contact again, and he smiled at me.

  Meanwhile, Alphonse and I were getting in good jabs at each other, not really addressing any issue except the issue of egos. Judge Rosen let us spar for about a minute, not wanting to be thought of as a killjoy, but finally she rapped her gavel. “That’s enough, gentlemen.’’ And she used the term loosely. “Mr. Sutter,’’ she said, “that is a serious accusation, but even if it were true, it has no bearing on this discussion. And regarding any alibi you say your client has for the day of the alleged crime, Mr. Sutter, such alibi evidence may be considered by the court in determining whether to set bail or not. However, I don’t see how I can give your argument any credence unless you happen to have witnesses in this court. And even if you did, Mr. Sutter, I am not prepared to delay this morning’s arraignments by swearing in witnesses at this time.’’ She added, “I’m sorry, Mr. Sutter, but the question of bail must be decided at a future session—” The gavel went up again.

  “Judge,’’ I said quickly, “Judge, on the day in question, January fourteenth of this year—”

  “Mr. Sutter—”

  “My client, Your Honor, was, in fact, inspecting property adjacent to my property on Long Island. And though he was unknown to me personally at that time, I recognized him from newspapers and television, and I realized that I had, in fact, seen Mr. Frank Bellarosa.”

  Judge Rosen leaned toward me and waited for the gasps and all that to subside. “Mr. Sutter, are you telling me that you are Mr. Bellarosa’s alibi?”

  “Yes, Your Honor.”

  “You saw him on January fourteenth?”

  “Yes, Your Honor. I was home that day. I checked my daybook.’’ Actually I hadn’t, but I should have before I committed perjury. I continued, “I was riding my horse and saw Mr. Bellarosa with two other gentlemen walking around the property that he subsequently purchased. I saw them and they waved to me and I returned the wave, though we did not speak. I was not
more than thirty feet from Frank Bellarosa and recognized him immediately. This was at nine A . M ., then I saw them get into a black Cadillac at about noon and leave. Mr. Carranza was murdered at about noon as his car left an exit of the Garden State Parkway in New Jersey, about eighty miles from where I saw Mr. Bellarosa at the same time.”

  What could Alphonse Ferragamo say? Only one word and he said it. “Liar.”

  I gave him my best withering Wasp look, and he actually turned his oyster eyes away.

  Judge Rosen sat quietly for a full minute, probably wondering why she had wanted so badly to be a judge. Finally, she asked me, “How much money do you actually have there, Counselor?”

  “Five million, Judge. Four in assignable assets, one million in cash.”

  “Good. I’ll take it. See the clerk downstairs.’’ She banged her gavel as Ferragamo bellowed. Judge Rosen ignored him and said, “Next case!”

  • • •

  On the way to see the district clerk down in the basement, Bellarosa said to me, “See, I knew you could do it.”

  My stomach was churning, my head ached, and yes, my heart ached. Never in a billion years would I have imagined that I would perjure myself in court for any reason, let alone to spring a Mafia don.

  But neither did I ever think I would be charged with criminal tax fraud for a stupid misjudgment. Nor would I have imagined that a U.S. Attorney would frame a man because of a personal grudge, or try to obstruct justice by delaying me on my way to court, then trying to send me on a wild-goose chase to Brooklyn. Yes, I know that two wrongs don’t make a right—that’s one of the first ethical lessons I learned as a small boy—but part of life and part of growing up is the ability to do what has to be done to survive. When the stakes go from baseball cards and pennies to life and death, then sometimes you make adjustments. Concessions, I guess you’d say. Sometimes you lie.

  The history of the world is filled with dead martyrs who would not compromise. I used to admire them. Now I think that most of them were probably very foolish.

  Bellarosa said to me, “See what a prick that guy is?”

  I didn’t reply.

  He went on, “You pissed him off. I didn’t want you to do that. It’s personal for him, but it’s not personal for me. Capisce?”

  “Frank. Shut up.”

  • • •

  I was still sort of in a daze as I moved through the corridors of the courthouse, reporters with pads and pencils swarming around us. They can’t bring cameras or tape recorders into the courthouse, but why they let these crazy people inside at all is beyond me. Freedom of the press is one thing, but blocking the hallway is inconvenient and probably a misdemeanor.

  Finally, out on the courthouse steps, minus my heavy briefcase and my virginity, we ran into the press again, who had fallen back to regroup and join up with their cameramen and photographers.

  Reporters were asking all sorts of pertinent and dangerous questions, but all they were getting from the don in return were wisecracks, such as this: “Hey, what’re you all doing here? No autographs. You want me to smile? Get my good side.’’ And so forth.

  Also, he knew some of the reporters by name. “Hey, Lorraine, long time. Where’d you get that tan?’’ Lorraine smiled at the charming man.

  “Tim, you still working for the paper? They don’t know about your drinking?’’ Ha, ha, ha.

  A TV reporter got his microphone under Bellarosa’s nose and asked, “Is there a power struggle going on between the Mafia and the Medellín cartel over the control of the cocaine trade?”

  “The who and the what over the which? Talk English.”

  A more sensible reporter asked, “Do you think Alphonse Ferragamo is pursuing a personal vendetta against you?”

  Frank lit up a big cigar, Monte Cristo number four. “Nah. People lie to him about me, and he’s got to follow up. He’s my good goombah.”

  Everyone laughed.

  “You happy to be free this morning, Frank?”

  He puffed on his stogie. “I gotta tell ya, I had the worse breakfast of my life in there. That’s what I call cruel and unusual punishment.”

  That got a good laugh, and as it became obvious that Mr. Bellarosa was not going to make any newsworthy statements, the emphasis shifted to the entertainment value of the story. Frank was good entertainment. Someone asked him, “How much did that suit cost you, Frank?”

  “Peanuts. I go to a little guy on Mott Street. I don’t pay uptown prices. You could use a good tailor yourself, Ralph.”

  So the don held court for a few minutes as we made our way down the forty-six steps toward the street, surrounded by about fifty members of the press, including cameramen and photographers. Worse, a crowd of several hundred onlookers had materialized. It doesn’t take much to draw a crowd in New York.

  I was not being completely ignored, of course, and reporters who couldn’t get the don’s attention were settling for me, but I was just reciting my mantra, which was, “No comment, no comment, no comment.”

  We were near the bottom of the steps, but the crowd around us was so thick now, I couldn’t see any way to get to the street where Lenny was supposed to meet us with the car.

  A reporter asked me, “How much does five million dollars weigh?”

  It seemed silly to say “No comment’’ to a silly question, so I replied, “It was heavy enough for me to think that it was excessive bail.”

  Well, you should never encourage these people, and by answering one question, I opened myself up for a lot of attention. I was really getting grilled now, and I glanced at Bellarosa, who gave me a look of caution through his cigar smoke.

  “Mr. Sutter,’’ asked a newspaper reporter, “you said in court that you were delayed by four cars on your way here. How did they delay you?”

  “No comment.”

  “Did they cut you off?”

  “No comment.”

  “Do you really think those cars were driven by people from Alphonse Ferragamo’s office?”

  “No comment.”

  And so it went. I seemed to have a permanent microphone under my nose now, recording my “no comment’’ for posterity. I spotted the Cadillac parked illegally in the square about fifty yards away, with Lenny behind the wheel. Then I noticed Vinnie approaching the courthouse with two patrolmen in tow.

  Meanwhile, the press were really getting on my nerves. I glanced again at my client and saw that he was still smiling, still puffing away, and still at ease despite being surrounded by aggressive A-type personalities. But though he was at ease, Bellarosa did not have the reputation of being a publicity hound. He could handle it, but he did not seek it out as did some of his predecessors, certain of whom were—partly as a result of their fondness for talking too much to the press—dead.

  A particularly persistent and pesky female reporter, whom I recognized from one of the TV networks, was bugging me about the alibi. She asked me, “Are you certain it was Frank Bellarosa you saw?”

  “No comment.”

  “You mean you’re not sure it was Frank Bellarosa.”

  “No comment.”

  “But you said it was Frank Bellarosa.”

  And on and on she went, as if we were married or something. “Mr. Sutter,’’ she said very snottily, “Mr. Ferragamo has five witnesses who put Frank Bellarosa at the scene of the murder. Are you saying they’re all liars? Or are you the liar?”

  It must have been the heat, and I guess my own state of mind, or maybe that woman’s tone of voice finally got to me. Anyway, I snapped back, “Ferragamo’s witnesses are liars, and he knows they are liars. This whole thing is a frame-up, a personal vendetta against my client, and an attempt to start trouble between—’’ I got my mouth under control, then glanced at Bellarosa, who touched his index finger to his lips.

  “Trouble between who? Rival mobs?”

  Someone else, a Mafia groupie or something, asked, “Trouble with his own mob? Trouble with his underboss? With Sally Da-da?”

  Mafia p
olitics were not my strong point, but obviously the initiated knew all sorts of underworld gossip and they thought I did, too.

  “Trouble with who?’’ asked someone else. “With the Colombian drug kings? With Juan Carranza’s friends?”

  “Is it true that the Mafia is trying to push out the Colombians?”

  “Mr. Sutter, did you say in court that Alphonse Ferragamo ordered people to run you off the road?”

  I thought someone already asked that question.

  “Mr. Sutter, are you saying that the U.S. Attorney is framing your client?”

  Mr. Sutter, blah, blah, blah. I had this image of the television set over the bar at The Creek. I wonder if people really do look heavier on TV. I hope not. I could hear my pals now. “Look at him.’’ “He’s getting fat.’’ “He’s sweating like a pig.’’ “His tie is crooked.’’ “How much is he getting paid for that?’’ “His father must be rolling over in his grave.’’ My father is actually alive and well in Europe.

  Finally, the two cops, with Vinnie encouraging them on, got through to us. Frank bid the press fond adieu, waved, smiled, and followed Vinnie and the two cops through the throng with me bringing up the rear. We got out to the street, and Lenny inched the car closer through the onlookers. I was annoyed that the government could set the stage for a media circus, then not provide crowd control. Actually, I never realized how many annoying things the government did.

  Vinnie got to the Cadillac and opened the rear door. Bellarosa ducked inside, and one of the cops said, “Take it easy, Frank.”