Dirty White

by Brian Freemantle

  “I’m sure he did,” said Harrop. “Just as you’re sure he did. I’m considering what we’re going to manage to get through in court to convince a jury—which is all that matters.” The district attorney turned to Webster. “I know your commitment; your belief that you had a good case,” he said. “Try to look at it from my point of view—independently. I’m concerned not with beliefs and commitments but what I can produce in court and legally be expected to succeed with …” He hesitated, enumerating the points. “The meeting with two men called Scarletti and Gomez is, as I’ve said, deniable. The photocopy of power of attorney with signatory authority is doubtful because it’s not an original. I’ve got Lang linked with Farr in a series of tax-avoiding maneuvers but Lang is a subsidiary target. Right?”

  Before the FBI attorney could respond, Brennan said, “OK! To date we’ve traced close to two hundred and thirty million dollars from that one source. Where does Lang get two hundred and thirty million dollars? Tell me that!”

  “I wish I could. And I’d like to hope that we could persuade Lang to tell us, when he’s arrested. But I can’t be sure of doing so. We’ve got to look for evidence beyond that.”

  “I can’t get you any more evidence,” protested Brennan.

  “What’s the point of my seeking an indictment against a man called Jorge Herrera Gomez when we don’t know who the hell he is or where the hell he is!”

  Farr was bewildered by the exchange. He’d arrived expecting nothing more than a formal discussion and found—not for the first time—that Brennan’s confidence was misplaced and that everything was a long way from the conclusion he’d imagined. It couldn’t affect Howard, he decided—not now. Schuster had agreed to a postponement of any court case, before the decision to let Howard leave Eastham and try for Harvard. So Howard—for a while at least—was OK. What about him and Harriet? The delay, if there was to be a delay, couldn’t affect him and Harriet. Not having entered the conversation before, Farr said to the district attorney, “What, exactly, is it that you want?”

  “Ideally, an arrest,” said Harrop simply. “A seizure in a situation of provable malfeasance—”

  “Come on!” interrupted Webster, as exasperated now as the other FBI man. “You’ve heard how careful these bastards are …” He indicated the dossier before the district attorney. “It’s all written down there, for God’s sake!”

  “I was asked, exactly, what I wanted,” reminded Harrop, stiffly. “I’m well aware I was asking practically the impossible. Short of that, I want to know who and where Gomez is—as I’ve already explained—and something more substantial linking both him and Scarletti with Lang.”

  “You’re not prepared to go ahead on what we’ve got!” demanded Brennan.

  From the man’s side Farr could see that Brennan was white with anger, hands gripped with matching whiteness against his legs.

  “Your linkage is too weak at the moment,” insisted Harrop. “On what I have here”—he patted the folder in front of him—“I’d say we could proceed against Lang but that there was a chance of Scarletti getting himself removed from the indictment. I don’t think I’d consider moving against Jorge Gomez, whoever he is—which would be a telling point in Scarletti’s favor.”

  Farr’s Manhattan office was the most convenient place for them to go after the meeting with the district attorney and Brennan succeeded, just, in restraining himself until they got into the broker’s rooms.

  “Son of a bitch!” he exploded. “More evidence! What the fuck more does he expect—a written confession before we charge the bastards!”

  “His objections were good ones,” said Webster, more controlled. “He’s young and he’s nervous and this would be his first major national case. So we’re unlucky in drawing him: there’s no way we could have foreseen that. But his points were valid. I think we let ourselves get a little off balance, by the success of some parts of the operation, without properly considering the weakness of others. I think there’s enough on Scarletti. But not on Gomez. And he’s right about what he says. We can’t seek indictments against one without the other.”

  “None of this is my fault,” said Farr, determined their internal foul-ups wouldn’t affect himself or Howard. “I did everything and more than I was asked.”

  “No one’s blaming you,” said Brennan irritably.

  “In fact,” said Farr, “you misled me. I thought we were coming here to get everything signed, sealed and delivered.”

  Brennan didn’t speak, looking instead at Webster. “That’s my fault,” admitted the lawyer. “It was my decision to go ahead.”

  “So where are we now?” asked Farr. “I don’t know if you’ve realized it yet, but at the moment what we’ve done is create the perfect launder for millions of dollars of drug money and just been told by a district attorney to do nothing about it!”

  “I’m going to do something about it,” said Brennan, so quiet he was almost speaking to himself. “If that frightened bastard wants Scarletti and Gomez, then I’ll give them to him.”

  Brennan wanted him to go to Washington but Farr refused, further angering the already angry FBI man, arguing that Brennan had already agreed to his going instead to Boston for Howard’s release, and that anything decided upon at the FBI headquarters could be discussed between them later. They parted, hostile and unspeaking, at La Guardia, Farr turning right for the Boston shuttle, Brennan and Webster left for Washington. Farr strapped himself into the belt for takeoff, feeling an anger of his own. He fully believed now that Howard had been trafficking on the scale they’d first claimed, but they had entrapped him into setting up the financial outlet. And then, over the months, taken him for granted, treating him as if he were some contracted employee. So it was right that he should have made a stand. Farr thought—hoped—that he’d rebuilt some sort of relationship between himself and the boy, but he accepted that it was fragile and he didn’t intend it to be endangered by his leaping to Brennans’ finger-snap. Gathering evidence was FBI work, for FBI operatives; he’d done—and done bloody well—all he’d been asked to do.

  Farr saw Halpern first, in the director’s office. Halpern agreed that nothing had happened since their last conversation to make him think that Howard’s recovery wasn’t successful—conceding, rather, that it was everything they could have hoped for—but repeating that he would still have liked to have had more time, to be sure. Farr said again why more time wasn’t available and thanked the director. Halpern said he’d be available any time, if something arose that Farr was worried about.

  Howard was waiting, his few belongings already packed. He was polite and grateful to Halpern and the rest of the staff and there were jokes about neither of them wanting to see the other again.

  “Looking forward to getting back?” asked Farr.

  “Sure,” said Howard. “How come I’m not appearing in court?”

  “I got the district attorney to agree to a postponement of the hearing, for reports on the degree of your rehabilitation,” said Farr, scarcely lying, hoping his story was better prepared this time.

  “So I’m still due in court?” demanded the boy.

  “Not necessarily,” said Farr, seeing a danger of Howard trying to run if he feared fresh incarceration. “If Halpern’s reports are satisfactory—and I understand that they are—and if your progress back at school is satisfactory, the possibility is of a suspended sentence, which is like probation. There’s a record of conviction but you don’t go to jail. In your case, you could continue on at school.”

  “For what I was caught for!” asked the boy disbelievingly.

  Farr was conscious of Howard looking at him across the vehicle. “It hasn’t been easy getting them to agree,” he said.

  Howard did not speak for several moments. Then he said, still doubtful, “It can’t have been.”

  Gratefully Farr saw the signposts to Boston. He said, “There’s something I want to tell you. Talk to you about.”

  “What?”

  “I’
m getting married again.” Farr blurted the news out, feeling oddly embarrassed.

  “You’re doing what!” The tone of Howard’s voice suggested surprise, nothing more, Farr decided.

  He repeated, “Getting married. Her name’s Harriet Becker …” Quickly, to preempt the question, Farr added, “Met her through work.” When Howard didn’t respond at once, he went on, still quickly, “I want you to meet her. Get to know her. You’re not offended?”

  “Offended!” said the boy. “Why should I be offended?”

  “Happens sometimes,” said Farr. “Kids think their parents are being untrue or unfaithful to a mother or father who died. That isn’t so, in this case. It couldn’t be …” He stole a glance across the car. “You know that, don’t you? Getting married has got nothing to do with your mother—doesn’t mean I’ve stopped feeling for her the way I always will.”

  “For Christ’s sake. Dad!” said the boy. “Stop apologizing to me! I think it’s terrific.”

  22

  To have met in the Cayman suite of offices would have meant an automatic recording of their conversation, because the system could not be overridden, so the day Farr returned from America they gathered instead at the bungalow, where the devices could be turned off. Brennan’s anger was still visible and it affected the others in different ways. Seymour became angry, too, but Batty and Jones showed uncertainty, believing they had wasted their time. That seemed to be Mann’s attitude, as well. Only in Harriet’s case did Farr, who did not have to concentrate on the New York account and had time to study them all, have difficulty in gauging a feeling.

  “Madness!” erupted Seymour, when his partner finished. “Absolute bloody madness.”

  “Of course it’s madness,” said Brennan. “I tried every way by which to get the case switched to a different district attorney …” The man hesitated at the moment of admission. “And failed,” he said. “Harrop’s got the case, which means we’ve got a weak prosecutor who won’t go forward on what we’ve got.”

  “So it’s all been for nothing?” said Batty, expressing the fears of himself and the other technician. “All of this.”

  “No!” said Brennan. “I’m …” Hurriedly he corrected himself. “… Washington, isn’t going to let this go”

  “But it’s a Catch-22,” said Harriet. “We’ve given the district attorney all we’ve got, he won’t proceed on it, we can’t get any more. So where do we go from there?”

  “We get more,” said Brennan simply.

  “That wasn’t what Harrop wanted,” pointed out Farr, glad he’d been at the New York meeting. “Harrop wanted Gomez—whom we know from what Lang told me doesn’t live in the United States—and he wanted more, if possible, on Scarletti. Seizures, he said. How does the FBI intend to get that?”

  “They intend to get it through us,” said Brennan, looking directly at the broker. “Through you.”

  “Me!” said Farr. He raised his hands, a warding-off motion. “Now wait a minute. I did everything you asked for, maybe more. There’s nothing else I can do. It’s detective work now.”

  Brennan glanced around and said, “I wanted this meeting where it couldn’t be recorded because I think we’re coming close to what we’ve always tried to avoid. Entrapment.” He said to Farr, “What do we know about Lang and Scarletti and Gomez? The motivating factor?”

  Farr thought for a moment. “Money?”

  “Money,” nodded Brennan. “And greed. We want you to set up something that’ll trigger that greed. It’s got to be so big and so enticing that it’ll lure them—Gomez—out from wherever they are and into a situation where we can jump them.”

  “Entrapment, like you said,” rejected Seymour.

  Brennan shook his head. “I told you we looked at this every way but which in Washington. This got as high as the deputy director. Webster’s boss, too. Of course they’ll plead it; they’d have pleaded it if that bastard Harrop had let us proceed on what we’ve got. Webster’s view—the view of the entire legal department—is that we can win an argument against entrapment.”

  “It was Webster’s view—and presumably that of the entire legal department—that we had enough to proceed with as it is,” reminded Farr. “And Harrop threw it out.”

  “This has been thought through very clearly,” urged Brennan. “Believe me.”

  He had, earlier, thought Farr. “You told Harrop that we’d moved something close to two hundred and thirty million dollars for Gomez and Scarletti. You underestimated. The actual figure is two hundred and eighty million dollars; I’ve got forty-two million dollars commission in an escrow account for when this is all over that’s going to make the operation self-financing! If you’ve thought everything through very clearly, then tell me what sort of scheme will be big enough bait.”

  “You’re the financial expert,” said Brennan, too glib. “We’re just the investigators.”

  “Who don’t seem to be having a great deal of success with their investigations,” said Farr.

  Brennan’s face tightened, but only briefly. “OK, I deserved that,” he said. “I didn’t expect it to shake out this way either. I’m asking you to think of something, so that we can get this thing back on course.”

  “This wasn’t part of the original deal,” insisted Farr.

  “Yes,” said Brennan.

  “No,” said Farr, as quickly. “I’ll create something but I want all charges quashed against Howard. Schuster can have a medical report from the clinic saying that he’s rehabilitated. So I want the charges dropped. That’s the deal.”

  “Give me a scheme first,” demanded Brennan.

  “No. Give me Schuster’s written agreement. And the agreement of the court and the judge …” He paused momentarily, unable to recall the woman’s name. “…Telford,” he remembered. “The agreement of Judge Telford. That’s what I want.”

  “You’re not in a position to make demands,” said Seymour, trying to come to his friend’s aid.

  “Yes, I am,” said Farr, as the awareness came to him. “In fact, you’re not in a position to refuse them. If you, or Schuster, bring Howard to court, then the name becomes public. Just how long do you think Lang would remain dealing through my firm, on behalf of Gomez and Scarletti, if it all came out? What would you say, Brennan, when the defense counsel I employed asked why the case had been in suspension for so many months?”

  Brennan went white, as white as he had been in the district attorney’s office. “You wouldn’t!” he said, his voice very quiet.

  “Put Howard through a court and see,” said Farr. He was exultant at the thought of protecting Howard completely; protecting his schooling completely, too.

  “I’ll not deal,” argued Brennan. “Not as simply as that. I’ll get the written orders. From Schuster and from the court. And then I’ll want to hear what your scheme is. If it won’t work—if I think it won’t work or Washington thinks it won’t work—then the papers get torn up.”

  He couldn’t expect any more, Farr decided; without his threat of exposure, the broker didn’t think they’d risk someone named Farr getting into the newspapers while everything was unresolved anyway. “I agree to that,” he said.

  Brennan appeared suddenly to realize that the confrontation had occurred in front of everyone else. He said, “So it had better be good!”

  “It will be.”

  Later, when he felt out familiarly for her, Harriet shrugged him away, an unaccustomed refusal. “What’s the matter?”

  “I don’t like it,” she said.

  “That I faced him down? The bastard deserved it: he’s been taking me for granted for weeks,” said Farr, remembering the reflection on the Boston shuttle and glad the opportunity had arisen so quickly.

  “Of course not that,” she said impatiently. “I’ve been waiting for something like that to happen for a long time. What I don’t like is your further involvement. You were right. You’ve done what you were asked. Why the hell can’t the damned Bureau get its act together!”
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  He felt out again and she let him this time. Her shoulder was tensed under his hand. “Don’t worry,” he said. “It’ll all work out OK.”

  “How can you say that!” she demanded beside him in the darkness. “According to Brennan, things have been going to work out OK for weeks. Months even. Only they haven’t. There’s always a fuck-up or something somebody hasn’t thought of. I’ve seen it happen time and time again. People outside—ordinary people—imagine the FBI and CIA and their police forces as always efficient, super-running organizations where everyone knows what they’re doing and there are never any mistakes. You know what the truth is! There are a damned sight more mistakes and foul-ups than there are successes. Believe me, I know. Because I’ve been involved in a lot of them.”

  “I think you’re overreacting.”

  “I wish I were,” said Harriet. “Just like I wish you hadn’t had to go up to Boston to get Howard from the clinic and had been able to get to Washington with Brennan to see what really happened.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I told you before that Brennan intends making his reputation on this,” reminded the woman. “However and whatever. He’s in too deep to let it go and he’ll twist and turn anything that Washington says to keep it alive, and go for his glory.”

  “You really don’t like him, do you?” said Farr, lightly mocking, trying to lift her feeling.

  “It’s not a question of liking,” said Harriet, refusing to react. “I just don’t trust the bastard.”

  “You won’t have to bother, not much longer. Soon you’ll be out of the Bureau and out of headquarter politics and out of everything. You’ll be Mrs. Walter Farr. I told Howard about us getting married, incidentally. He thought it was terrific.”

  She came to him at last, turning her face into his shoulder. “I’m not going to have any secrets from you,” she said. “Not ever. So I won’t keep one now. I’m frightened, darling. I lost, once before. I’m terrified of losing again …” She began to cry, shuddering against him. “I couldn’t bear to lose you, my darling. I love you so much.”