Scores

  Moments later, with Andrew holding two large cups, he and Willie Marshall strode into my office. Andrew opened, “Michael, Willie and I have been discussing the opportunity his wedding presents to wash clean a bunch of his cash. Here’s the plan: Willie brings cash to the office, you deposit it into your attorney escrow account, and we issue back-to-back checks to Willie as wedding gifts from Scores, or you, or myself.”

  “I wanted your opinion about all this,” Willie said, pointing his chin at me. “I’d like to be able to use the cash I’ve got in the house, but I don’t wanna get in no trouble.”

  I feigned a measure of deep thought. “It’s virtually foolproof. Cash going through my escrow account in reasonable amounts would raise no eyebrows, and checks as wedding gifts are not taxable to the happy couple. I’d say you’ve got a rock-solid money laundering plan at no cost to you.”

  Everyone smiled knowingly.

  Exactly one week later, the “Marshall Money Laundering” episodes began in earnest. With the office properly prepared for filming, in a scene that would be repeated over and over, Marshall entered my office and, after locking all doors, removed cash from a paper bag. He counted the stacks and I double counted him. The cash was then placed in my wall safe and I pulled out the escrow checkbook. On some checks on some days, we filled in “wedding gift,” and on others we substituted “reimbursement of expenses.”

  “And I won’t have to put this on my returns or pay no tax on it, right?” Marshall was recorded asking.

  “Not at all, neither gifts nor recovery of expenses are taxable events. Don’t get me wrong, none of this is legal—obviously—but I can’t see you getting caught either. All in all, a reasonable risk.”

  After each cash delivery and check disbursement, the FBI photographed the currency overnight and returned it to me the next morning for deposit in the bank. When all was said and done, Willie was signed up for forty thousand dollars in money laundering and tax evasion charges.

  It was a hot, muggy, New York summer afternoon, and I was in line at the Citibank ATM machine on Park Avenue, near the office. As I waited my turn, the beeper at my belt began vibrating. When I casually removed the machine from its holder, the message startled me. The message was from Bill Ready and it read “911.”

  Staying in line at the bank, I grabbed my cell phone and dialed his number. He answered after several rings. “Are you on a landline?”

  When I said I was not, he shot back, “Go to a pay phone immediately and call me from there.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “No danger, just some unexpected activity in Florida.”

  It turned out Judy Hunt, the Florida prosecutor, had unsealed an indictment that morning in Orlando for the Heritage insurance case and Andrew and I were named among the listed defendants.

  It was an unexpected event as it was clear Hunt wasn’t anywhere close to being ready for an immediate trial; her case would require a great deal more investigation and preparation. Rumors abounded through the local defense bar in Orlando that Hunt, fearing New York would indict Pearlstein and myself on Heritage counts in New York in order to insulate us from any Florida prosecution, jumped the gun to ensure we could not be wrestled from her control. Of course, New York never considered any such course of action, but Hunt had no way of assuring herself of this.

  Hunt seemingly couldn’t have cared less about the New York undercover case against the mafia or our safety. Her exclusive priority seemed to be that her prosecutorial powers would be preserved. But the indictment was dangerous; it would place us under intense mafia scrutiny as potential cooperators.

  According to the New York agents, it was only at New York’s insistence, and over Hunt’s objections, that we weren’t physically arrested. Instead, we were, along with all the other defendants in the new case, directed to surrender the following week in Florida for bail hearings. Again with New York’s intervention, our bail hearings were severed from the rest—announced by the court clerk as a matter of simple administration. The severance was imperative to avoid any possibility of inadvertent discovery of our cooperation status, and immediate slaughter.

  When Andrew and I arrived in Florida on the morning of the bail hearing, our retinue of attorneys in attendance had much to share. There were going to be two hearings that day: a sealed, secret hearing where the magistrate would be advised of our status as undercover cooperating witnesses in New York, and a public hearing at which bail would be set. The unexpected news was that Judy Hunt was demanding one million dollars collectively in bail for us, secured by real estate.

  The Hunt bail demand was extraordinary. In normal legal discourse, white-collar covert cooperating defendants are always released on signature bonds—with no requirement for posting of collateral.

  Waiting for the sealed hearing to conclude, and as we had been excluded from attending, Andrew and I shared a swim in the pool on the roof of our hotel. Pearlstein was agitated because it had been discovered that an outstanding warrant was pending against him out of Nevada for his failure to pay a small casino marker in a timely manner. Unless the misdemeanor warrant was cleared by the end of the bail hearing, he would be held overnight in county jail.

  “Why didn’t you pay that marker, Andrew?” I joked. “Did you think Steve Sergio owned the casino?”

  “Screw the jokes! Why aren’t you making sure the warrant gets cleared? You don’t care if I spend a night in jail?”

  Remembering our similar conversation in my law firm library on the day of the New York search warrants, when Andrew had failed to lift a finger to ensure I wasn’t under arrest, I simply turned to him, and repeated back his own words, “I’m just leaving the issue of your freedom to the lawyers.”

  And then I swam away, already aware the warrant had been cleared, but with no intention of informing him of that fact just yet.

  The attorneys appeared after the sealed hearing looking agitated. They related that New York had sent an impressive letter to the magistrate informing him of the ongoing undercover investigation and the importance to the government of setting reasonable bail, if any. Hunt vehemently opposed any bail below her million-dollar demand, claiming we were multimillionaires, arguing the amount sought was “chump change” to ensure our court appearances.

  Sadly, we again failed to recognize the power we had at our fingertips, waiting in vain to be exercised. If we’d simply refused to post the extraordinary bail and voluntarily surrendered into custody, New York would have busted a gasket and gone running to Washington for intervention. More importantly, since Hunt wasn’t anywhere close to finishing her investigation and was years away from being able to commence a trial, our surrender would have invoked “speedy trial” rules and she would have been ultimately required to dismiss the indictment at great cost and embarrassment to her office. But of course, and still hoping to receive fair treatment, we plodded along, ignoring the inconsistent rumblings of a government now seemingly fighting itself.

  The public proceeding lasted well into the night. The magistrate allowed everyone with something to say to say it—at length and repeatedly.

  While the fact of our cooperation remained a guarded secret and a taboo subject, the magistrate decided at the close of argument to “split the baby.” He ruled bail would be set at three hundred thousand dollars for each of us, a bit more than half of Hunt’s request.

  The magistrate went on to shock the tired and exhausted defense team by announcing, of his own accord and with no request from Hunt, that he was imposing bail conditions on our conduct: there would be a 10 PM nightly curfew and a daily requirement to report to a federal probation officer.

  “Is this man trying to get us killed?” I whispered to Sandy. “We’ll tell the mafia guys all dinners have to be over by nine. Before they start!”

  No cries of foul or dissent could move this magistrate, who apparently hated cooperators—or just us. He wouldn’t relent, even after being reminded no such conditions had been imposed on any defendants in the
case the week before by another magistrate in the same building. It seemed, in the Middle District of Florida, magistrates treat undercover cooperators more harshly than non-cooperators.

  As these bail restrictions would both seriously impede the New York investigation and actually endanger our lives, the New York prosecutors quickly advised us that the magistrate’s conditions had been amended. The curfew would be monitored and regulated by the FBI (which meant it no longer existed) and the daily reporting requirement was changed to weekly by phone (as imposed on all the other defendants). I suspected these modifications were worked out with a helpful probation office in New York, the Florida magistrate never becoming the wiser.

  I could no longer think clearly as my world had turned irrational. In my mind, no one could be believed, no one could be trusted. Everything I did for New York pissed off Florida, but if I stopped what I was doing in New York, I would lose all my support for sentencing leniency in Florida.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Cooperation Complications, and How Leonardo DiCaprio Saved My Life

  Steve Kaplan, owner of the Gold Club in Atlanta, was a Gambino associate of standing. He was also the man who’d spearheaded an unsuccessful coup to wrestle control of Scores from us through an ill-conceived sit-down presided over by Gotti’s chief advisor, Mikey Scars. Yet, despite this attack aimed at our lives and livelihoods, Kaplan was now working with a new agenda. After his brief afternoon conversation at Penn Station with Andrew, he quickly arranged a more substantive meeting with both of us at the Scores executive office. He explained he was making a pressing quick trip back to Atlanta, and would be available to stop in for a short meeting on his way to the airport.

  His choice was, from an investigatory perspective, perfect. It would allow for utilization of the ceiling cameras, and the conversational exchange would be captured and preserved on film without the necessity of employing F-Birds. On the other hand, it was also the first time we’d be engaging in undercover work without a familiar face in attendance. At least with the Sergios, Marshall, and DePalma, there’d been history, a time-tested period where trust had been built and securely implanted. Between Kaplan, Pearlstein, and myself, there was only a blank page, with the exception of the prior nasty ambush. Kaplan was sure to be more suspicious and guarded than our usual targets.

  Karst and Ready were more than pleased over this latest unexpected expansion of investigative horizons. Long suspecting Kaplan to be an important mafia associate, and believing him to be actively involved in significant money laundering, the opportunity to turn him into an active target could potentially catapult us even further into organized crime’s usually unreachable “royalty.”

  Realizing we would have to be especially convincing in this night’s episode, nervousness began coursing through me when Pearlstein’s beeper rang out, signaling Kaplan’s arrival. Andrew rose and made his way toward the elevator banks to intercept our guests, and I began the ritual of starting up the cameras.

  With everything in readiness, I found myself alone, pacing in Pearlstein’s office behind the familiar desk. Looking out through the array of windows at a Manhattan skyline bursting with lights and color, I hadn’t the slightest inkling the scene about to unfold was destined for notoriety. Had I suspected the next thirty minutes of dialogue would be repeatedly scrutinized and reviewed for interpretation of every word, with lives hanging in the balance, and that the film of the encounter would be replayed hundreds of times on international television, in courtrooms, and at grand jury proceedings, my attitude and demeanor may have been severely altered, and my performance and the value of the evening greatly diminished.

  For me, it was honestly just another uncomfortable evening sponsored by the friendly neighborhood FBI. All I wanted was to get things done, run through a quick debriefing, and head out for dinner.

  Kaplan entered the room, along with two unexpected sidekicks. He looked typically mafioso: medium height, dark hair and eyes, five o’clock shadow in full bloom. Wearing a nylon running suit, gold chain, watch, and bracelet, he could just as easily have been heading out to a casting call for The Sopranos.

  Our guest seemed instantly at home, taking one of the seats in front of Andrew’s desk, leaning back, and spreading his arms as if it was a comfortable and familiar spot. One sidekick plopped himself into the other chair facing the desk, while the second commandeered a chair on the far wall beside an immense fish tank. Andrew grabbed his own seat and I elected to remain standing, steadily pacing up and down the side aisle of the office.

  Kaplan introduced himself and his associates. Smiling continuously, he opened with regrets for being a bit late and for needing to push on to the airport very soon. His smiles and self-deprecating attitude notwithstanding, I unexpectedly found myself alarmed by his projected aura. There was something about Kaplan’s eyes; while his lips were smiling and his body language was intended as familiar, his eyes were piercing, hard, and most of all, dead. Unlike DePalma, who betrayed vibes of a sociopath fighting for control to contain his inner demons, Kaplan was definitely in total control. I was convinced this man could not be trusted, and I was dealing with someone with a hidden, and potentially malignant, plan.

  Our guest’s presentation began with a profuse apology for the long-ago sit-down, and his assembled coterie immediately joined in. Looking to change the negative conversation into a positive field, Kaplan now revealed he’d secretly been visiting Scores as a customer over the past few weeks, explaining he’d taken time “as a friend” to evaluate the operation through professional eyes. “By the way,” he smiled broadly, repeating what he’d told Andrew at Penn Station, “I have a million-dollar idea for you.”

  As the entire room waited in expectation, he went on to suggest every cab driver delivering a fare to Scores be handed a five-dollar tip by the doorman—compliments of management. “You can bet the next time that cabbie is asked to recommend a club, he’ll be pushing the hell out of Scores—and only Scores.”

  I looked at Andrew and he stared back, smiling. We both turned back to Kaplan, and Andrew said, “That is a million-dollar idea.” And from that night forth, every taxi driver delivering a fare to the club received a tip and, indeed, the club was the talk of the Big Apple’s Yellow Cab world for some time to come.

  It was clear Kaplan was leading up to some kind of business proposition, but first wanted to impress us with his strip bar acumen. In practiced remarks, he informed us we were “missing the boat” on millions of dollars in potential revenues, and he was willing to share “special” practices he’d invented in his own club. According to Kaplan:

  Dancers are required to solicit and cajole patrons into buying expensive cocktails for them, which, unbeknownst to the customers, are severely watered down. In this way, liquor profits soar.

  Patrons are too intimidated to solicit sex from magnificent lithe exotic dancers, most of whom are lesbians anyway. Instead, the Gold Club employs a bevy of “cocktail waitresses,” with the emphasis on “cock,” who are readily available for sexual encounters. “They’re a bunch of cows,” he proudly declared, “but any customer can fuck the crap out of any one of them all night long for the right price.”

  The “right price” is paid to the club when a customer secures a booth in the rear of the establishment and purchases a mandatory bottle of champagne for each thirty minutes of occupancy. The benefit to the club is that a one-hundred-dollar bottle of mediocre bubbly is sold at a price of one thousand dollars.

  It is prudent practice to allow celebrities use of these booths without charge, as it encourages others to follow suit. He shared that his “celebrity booth policy” is regularly taken advantage of by NBA, NFL, and MLB professional athletes.

  I silently stared back at Kaplan in horror. While he probably believed we were rendered speechless by the dollar signs dancing in our heads, quite the opposite was true. First, everything Kaplan proposed was grossly illegal. Aside from the obvious disregard for prostitution and solicitation laws, New Y
ork statutes specifically prohibited any club employee from “pandering” to a customer for the purchase of drinks. I casually mentioned this fact in passing to our guest, who showed no reaction to the information.

  This man is just nuts, I thought. Why would we ever commit untold numbers of felonies, and thereby endanger the most profitable club in all of Manhattan? With vice cops in Scores every night, we’d be closed in ten minutes.

  More significant, however, was the fact Kaplan was unexpectedly and voluntarily confessing on videotape to untold numbers of crimes. Without the slightest prodding, he was eloquently digging a hole from which he could never extricate himself. Talk about being in the right place at the wrong time, I thought. This is the unluckiest night of his life.

  After completing his self-destructive soliloquy, and asking the Scores owners to mull his suggestions over, Kaplan reminded the assembled group of his need to get rolling to the airport. He proposed a follow-up dinner to continue discussions, but took time to cover one further matter.

  Kaplan extended an invitation to us to travel to Atlanta two weeks hence for a major weekend he was sponsoring where there would be tons of “friendly” strip club owners to meet from across the country. He promised us a complete tour of his club, and an opportunity to see his profit suggestions in action.

  We immediately indicated our gratitude and intention to attend, subject to clearing existing appointments.

  Karst and Ready were stunned as I described the night’s events at the formal debriefing. When their incredulity persisted, I just sat back and said, “Guys, just go to the videotape!”

  The next day, Karst called to say the prosecutors were “blown away” by the Kaplan recording. “The man actually confessed to a mind-boggling number of felonies,” Karst added, sounding borderline giddy. “We’re reaching out to the United States Attorney in Atlanta to see if he wants us to accept the invitation for the weekend.”