Scores

by Blutrich, Michael D. ;

  I turned back to Sipperly, but when I casually raised my hand in a gesturing move to punctuate a point, I noticed it was visibly shaking. So much for my nerves of steel, honed by decades of court battles. Lowering my hand with the hope no one had noticed, and tightly gripping my thigh, I asked, “And how long do you think this undercover work will go on?”

  “There’s no way to answer that,” Sipperly returned. “The more successful you are, the longer it will go. In my opinion, for what it’s worth as a guess, probably between a year and two years.”

  Her answer surprisingly settled me down a bit; at least I would have almost two years at status quo to figure things out, to plan for myself and my people. “And what about our Florida problem?”

  “Listen to me, Michael,” Carol responded. “If your undercover work bears meaningful fruit, I believe your Florida case will become part of a plea agreement here in New York, and that’s the best news you could ever hope to hear. Cooperators receive far more lenient treatment from our judges because they understand and appreciate the dangers and risks you’re undertaking.”

  I couldn’t resist a little further probing; the issue was just too important. After all, I’d only agreed to entertain the whole concept of cooperation when I learned from my attorneys that the Orlando prosecutors were of a particularly vicious and spiteful ilk, and would undoubtedly be going for my jugular—seeking a frighteningly long sentence. “Carol, you’re choosing your words very carefully, saying you ‘believe’ that the Florida matter will transfer here, but can you quantify for me the chances that you’ll be able to deliver on these promises?”

  “You mean in terms of a number, a percentage?”

  “Any way you can answer it.”

  Sipperly smiled benignly. “I would put the chances of moving your case to our district from Florida at about 99.9 percent.”

  “And you’ve discussed this with people who can make this happen? Because, and I’m being really honest with you, without that understanding I’m not sure I have the courage or the incentive to take all this on. For God’s sake, just the thought of doing all this is making me shake.”

  “Rest assured we’ve had all those necessary discussions at the highest levels.”

  After a brief silence, I raised my head. “And what happens if I fall into the 0.1 percent?”

  The whole room laughed in reaction—except me. “I really wouldn’t waste my energy thinking about something so ridiculous,” Sipperly barked back.

  “Can I ask one last question?”

  Sipperly now laughed and tipped her head back, signaling for me to proceed.

  “When this is all over, when your targets are arrested and convicted, what happens then? Is there any way I can stay in New York?”

  “Not a chance.” Carol spiked her voice sharply. “Get that thought forever out of your head. You will be a marked man, heading straight for the Federal Witness Security Program, WITSEC. You’ll be a target of the mob, probably with a ‘dead or alive’ bounty on your head, and you’ll need a new name, new birth certificate, and new social security number. If you stayed in New York, you’d be murdered as a warning to others not to cooperate.”

  Sipperly’s words sent my mind reeling again. Try as I might, I simply couldn’t take in the scope and gravity of this information. Cameras back in the office; videotaping armed mobsters; wearing wires; keeping everything secret from family, partners, friends; spending two years at risk; leaving the greatest city in the world for Buttfuck, Iowa. And what happens to Scores and its millions of dollars in annual profits? This was a horror show.

  I forced my mind to cut off all thought, convincing myself it was pointless to break down in front of these strangers. My bottom-line analysis was short and simple. A carrot I desperately needed had just been dangled in front of me by none other than the United States of America. I decided I would snap it up.

  I stood, purposely looking into the eyes of each government representative. “You’re all asking me to trust you, to put my life in your hands. You’re asking me to rely on a 99.9 percent promise.” I stopped for a deep breath. “OK, I’m yours. But don’t let me down, that’s all I ask.” Turning to Weinberg, I added, “And you’re down with getting none of these promises in writing before we begin?”

  Before Sandy could react, Sipperly interrupted. “No promises in writing ever, Michael! Join us, believe we’ll do the right thing, or walk out the door right now. Ask Sandy; he was a prosecutor in our office, a very respected prosecutor. Ask him how many times cooperators had to take his promises on faith. The Southern District of New York lives and dies by its word, otherwise no one would ever agree to do what we’ve asked you to do. It’s a matter of reputation—and ours is stellar.”

  Sipperly, who was walking toward the coffee urn, stopped midstep. She turned back, smiled, seemingly to herself, as she apparently made a personal decision. Then, she looked straight at me. “I never say things like this, but I know you’re not savvy in criminal law and you’re worried about how the criminal justice system works. So here’s reality: if your undercover work actually winds up convicting major players in the Gambino family, I’m confident you’ll never see the inside of a jail cell. Take that one to the bank.”

  Just as I began feeling a welcomed stream of relief pour over me from the lead prosecutor’s final words, she again rained on my parade. “But understand this as well. We’re not interested in Mike Sergio or his son Steve, or your bouncers, or Willie Marshall. They’re bit players in the real drama we’re investigating, and we don’t need you for them; we’ve already got them nailed on wiretaps. You’ll have to take serious risks with dangerous people, high-level members and captains, even the head of the family if you want the kinds of rewards we’ve been talking about. This is no game, and we want to capture bosses in the act of admitting or committing crimes.”

  My sense of momentary relief vanished as quickly as it had appeared. My stomach started to hurt as I wondered what the hell I had actually gotten myself into.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Hello Cooperation, Good-bye Sanity

  SATURDAY, DECEMBER 21, 1996

  A biting and bitterly cold wind blew without relent toward Manhattan’s East River down East Thirty-Third Street. Alone, I huddled in the alcove entrance of a commercial stationery store, underdressed in a light leather coat. My eyes shuttled back and forth between Park and Lexington Avenues, searching for the appearance of the team of FBI operatives. It was only 7:20 AM on a dreary Saturday morning, and the timetable for re-bugging the office was behind schedule.

  After the first proffer, I’d participated in an FBI-initiated conference call with Karst and Pearlstein. The agent’s instructions had been uncomplicated: the office’s landlord was to be advised contractors would be arriving on Saturday to install wiring for networking between the law firm’s and Scores’ computer systems. We were to meet the installation team on East Thirty-Third Street, and were to be prepared to recommend areas for placement of cameras and recording equipment—the most likely places to capture the mafia plying its extortionate trade.

  In preparation, Andrew and I conducted an impromptu walking tour of the offices and drew up a list of suggested bugging spots. We also agreed Andrew would pick me up at ten to seven and we’d travel together. But in what would turn out to be the opening volley in an unrelenting pattern, the phone rang as I was readying myself for the excursion.

  “Hey, Andrew,” I answered.

  “I’m not coming. Keri is giving me all kinds of shit, accusing me of running out to cheat on her. If I don’t go back to bed, she’s just gonna follow me.”

  The sour taste of bile began bubbling in my throat. “She thinks you’re cheating at seven in the morning? So let her follow you, all she’s going to see is we’re meeting workmen at the office.”

  “Don’t sweat it. I ran the problem by Karst before I called you and he said as long as you meet them, it’d be all right. He doesn’t want to get Keri involved.”

 
Disconnecting, I thought, This is such bullshit. He’s going to use his wife as an excuse all the time, just wait and see. Keri would be even more suspicious if he cancelled going to the office because of her accusations. Bad omen.

  As I was deciding whether to page Karst, I spied a caravan consisting of two panel trucks and a nondescript, dark-colored sedan coming down the street. Following the parade as the vehicles parked across the street, I was relieved when Karst popped out of the lead car. Stepping out from the shadow of the alcove, my eyes met his and he offered a stern nod.

  Taking in Karst’s tall frame, muscular torso, short hair brushed to one side, chiseled facial features, and thick black glasses, I began laughing inwardly. I have to get over this Clark Kent thing, otherwise I’m never going to take this man seriously. We shook hands and he quickly started walking up the street, turning right at the corner toward the entrance to Three Park Avenue.

  After clearing matters with lobby security, the landlord’s written approval thankfully on file, we walked together through the otherwise empty and echoing lobby and boarded an elevator for the offices. “Is Andrew’s wife going to be a constant headache?”

  I pondered for an instant and decided to be honest. “The woman is completely without self-control and extremely emotional. If Keri somehow discovers what’s going on, she’ll blow our cover the first time she gets mad at Andrew, which is at least twice a day.”

  “Well that’s certainly a disaster waiting to happen.”

  “We just have to be careful and work around her. Andrew manages to carry on behind her back with some of the Scores dancers and she’s never caught him. Of course, she’s doing the same thing behind his back and he’s also in denial.”

  After entering the law firm, we quickly looked around. Satisfied we were alone, Karst pulled out his cell phone and dialed in a code when his call was answered. Waiting for the team, Karst turned to me. “You know we’ve met before, years ago.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Not at all. Before the FBI, I was a New York state trooper assigned to the governor’s detail. I remember you from your visits to the Governor’s Mansion in Albany.”

  “You mean you were one of those state troopers who were ever-present in the Mansion, acting like human furniture? Those troopers were so spooky.”

  “That was me, at least part of the time. Small world, huh?”

  I shook my head in agreement, pining just a bit for those days of yore in my life.

  My thought processes were interrupted when a sharp knocking at the firm’s front door grabbed our attention. Bouncing up from my chair, I walked to the door and opened it. What I observed took my breath away. Standing before me were five gigantic men wearing ski masks. Momentarily forgetting the day’s purpose, my lungs emptied in fear, instincts telling me the mafia had discovered what was afoot and sent an assassination team.

  I only started breathing again, feeling pathetically stupid, when Karst stepped to one side and motioned to the group’s leader, “Follow me.” With Karst leading, we entered the law firm and walked down the long central corridor to my private office. When we reached my secretary’s workstation, the masked assemblage started unloading their gear.

  While everyone else was busy, I motioned Jack into my office and closed the door. I stared directly into his eyes with a mixed look of amusement and disbelief. “Why are these guys wearing masks? Don’t you think that’s just a bit overly dramatic?”

  “Not really. They don’t want you to see their faces. This group is on contract to the FBI; they also work for the CIA and Army Intelligence. They guard their identities jealously to ensure anonymity.”

  “From me? I thought I was part of the team?”

  “Not their team. To them, you’re just a snitch.”

  Karst and I and the masked leader traversed the offices. I showed them all the spots we’d pre-selected as potential recording areas. At each stop, the leader signaled a thumb sign, up or down, never speaking aloud. If conversation proved necessary, the leader and Karst exchanged words outside earshot. The group reached final consensus on multiple areas.

  The next order of business was to find a closet where VCRs and recording supplies could be safely and secretly stored. I suggested the closet behind my secretary’s station. As everyone approved of the choice, the workmen emptied out the closet and secured its contents in a corner of the hall.

  “Make sure you call your secretary, what’s her name?” Karst asked.

  “Casey.”

  “Well, make sure you get in touch with Casey and give her some explanation for why her closet is suddenly locked and her belongings in the hall. The last thing we need is her running around the office on Monday asking everyone for the key to her closet. And by the way, for evidentiary purposes later on, you’re not gonna have a key to the closet, so come up with a reason for that too.”

  As I walked into my office, mulling over possible scenarios for Casey, Karst followed. “One more thing, Michael, we can’t have you around today. So we need you to work up a letter explaining we’re authorized to be in the space doing ceiling wiring between computers. I want to have something in my hand in case any of your people show up unexpectedly and challenge us.”

  After typing the requested letter, I handed it to Jack, stapling a copy of the landlord’s approval notice to it.

  Karst looked over the letter. “Thanks. Now be back here in about six hours. Don’t go far though. I’ll beep you if something comes up.”

  Exactly six hours later, I returned to discover Karst sitting at my desk. “Everything go as planned?” I inquired.

  “Perfect. All systems installed and tested. Now let me show you something.”

  He jumped up, pushed my leather desk chair to one side, and motioned for me to join him behind the desk. We dropped to our knees and he opened the doors to a medium-sized storage cabinet at the bottom center of the room’s wall unit. Now we had to lie flat on our stomachs as Karst pointed inward and upward to a series of concealed color-coded switches. It was absolutely impossible to catch a view of the switches from any other vantage point.

  The agent’s instructional lecture began on the floor. “Each colored switch controls the recording equipment in a different area of the office. Each time you want to record a target, you’ll have to get down here and turn the correct switch north. When you’re finished filming, turn the switch south.”

  Standing back up and brushing myself off, I was puzzled. “You mean every time a camera is turned on or off, I have to lock my office, move the chair, lie flat on my stomach, reach up, and throw the switch? Jack, I’m a chubby, middle-aged lawyer who wears three-piece suits. This will kill me! Isn’t there an easier way? Ever hear of remote control?”

  “You’ll be just fine.” Karst laughed. “Once you get accustomed, it’ll be reflexive. Think of it as exercise.”

  For the next few minutes, with Karst’s tutoring, I memorized the colors of the switches and corresponding areas each controlled. When Karst wasn’t looking, ignoring his admonition that the switch locales had to be memorized, I scribbled the information on the back of one of my business cards and slipped it into my pocket.

  As we prepared to leave, Karst opened Casey’s closet and revealed the display within: VCRs stacked floor to ceiling, one atop the other, crowned with a box of blank tapes. All the units were turned on and displayed the time of day in bright neon colors. Karst took tapes from the waiting supply and loaded one into each of the VCRs. He then secured the closet and dropped the key into his jacket.

  “You’re locked and loaded, ready to record. We’re gonna have a meeting with you and Andrew to go over operational ground rules. But until that meeting, stay away from those switches; don’t tape anyone.”

  Karst exited first, leaving me behind. As I waited to head home, allowing him a bit of lead time, I pulled out the business card in my pocket.

  “White is my office, blue is Andrew’s office, green is Casey’s station . . .”

 
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  I Think I’m Gonna Puke

  DECEMBER 23, 1996—THE CORINTHIAN, APARTMENT 56E

  Standing alone in my oval-shaped living room, my right arm casually draped around one of the oddly intrusive Corinthian columns plainly conceived to ratify the name of the condominium complex, I stretched my eyes due north to Westchester, past the awe-inspiring sprawl of Manhattan’s unique landscape. I was making every effort to remain calm, but my efforts weren’t succeeding—maybe even making things worse. I knew it was only a matter of time until the spectacular view before me was no longer my own, until the city that had been my only real home would become a matter of memories.

  As for cooperating, the bullshit was now over, and procrastination no longer possible. The FBI demanded the surreptitious taping begin this night, and I was waiting for Karst, Ready, and Andrew to arrive for the first pre-briefing session. The half-expected call had already come from Andrew, saying he would be late to the briefing because of a problem with Keri, and I was finding it increasingly difficult to suppress my growing frustration at being defaulted into the lion’s share of the supposedly “joint” cooperation.

  Minutes before, the concierge called on the intercom and, turning my television to cable channel 120, I watched the team checking in at the front desk. To my surprise, in addition to the usual two agents, an unknown third gentleman was in the group. Leaving the serenity of the living room behind, I reluctantly walked to the front door and peered through the security peephole. Waiting for the trio to appear from the direction of the elevators, I kept visualizing the morning just before Thanksgiving when I’d looked through the very same peephole only to find a crew of federal agents, replete with battering ram, waiting to warmly greet me.