“It’s an institution on the East Side, man. It’ll survive without me.”
“I imagine so, but someone’s gotta run it.”
“That’s true, and someone will step forward.”
“Like you did when Skinny died. ʼCourse, you had his endorsement and help.”
Marshon saw an opportunity to insure Morgan’s support for the next day or so, even if he had to lie. “And my endorsement would be important, because I got equipment stored that’s worth maybe a couple hundred thousand, replacement value. In addition, a list of employees I can trust. Hell, I’ve even got the names, addresses, phone numbers and e-mail of high rollers, so I can put the word out about when and where The Wheel is about to spin. But the crucial list contains the names of all those cops and city, county and state elected officials and bureaucrats who got to be kept greased, and what their current price is.”
“That’s valuable information.”
Marshon wagged a finger of correction. “No, Rinaldo, that’s invaluable information. Without it, The Wheel don’t spin.” He knew what he had to say next, to guarantee his safety. “But you’re right. I need a new manager. I’d be willing to make a deal as long as I retain a percentage of the action for several years. Just like Skinny did when he picked me. You interested?”
“What about Jemmy Shoemaker? I figure he’d be your number one pick.”
Marshon believed firmly that there were few, if any, absolute truths in life. Even if one thought he was telling the truth, it might turn out later to have been a half-truth. “Jemmy’s a lifelong friend and he’s got a lot of experience with The Wheel. I’ve talked about him taking over. Things have changed now that Widja is out of the picture. Jemmy may be happier managing my apartment building. I’ll try to broker a deal between you two guys, unless you’re totally against that, Rinaldo. You don’t want to start a war, if it can be avoided.”
“Well, I’m sure as hell interested, Marshon, and I got my own security detail, which has dealt with about everything. On the other hand, I ain’t gonna fuck with Jemmy Shoemaker, so I’m willing to listen to any offer. Let’s talk.”
“Great, but now’s not the right time, Rinaldo. I got to talk to my lawyer first before I can talk finances with you. However, I need to sleep in today. Give me that time and I’m certain we can work something out. Whoever has an interest in The Wheel gets rich.” Marshon hoped that possibility would keep Morgan on the hook just long enough. Also, Marshon figured Morgan would never sell him out until he had all the invaluable information necessary to run The Wheel effectively.
“What else can I do for you right now, Marshon?”
“I need a disguise. Could you find me some silver dye for my hair and beard? Some old clothes like some old retired guy might wear. A fedora. Maybe a cane.”
“There’s a drug store over in The Shops where we can get the dye and cane. We got a whole room full of clothes that customers left behind. I’ll find something. I’ll have one of the maids bring everything by.”
“One more favor, Rinaldo.” Marshon handed Morgan a piece of paper with Mort Saperstein’s name and phone number on it. “Send my lawyer a text from a neutral cell phone saying MJ will meet him tomorrow about noon at the usual place. Ask for a confirmation. Call me on the house phone when he responds.”
The maid showed up about one o’clock with the dye, the cane and clothing. She even had a pair of dark glasses. Marshon immediately dyed his hair and beard stubble gray. While his hair dried, he examined the clothing, which consisted of shoes, pants, shirt, sweater and overcoat. The gray pants were shiny with wear and repeated washings. Marshon put them on to discover they also were several inches too large in the waist. However, when he cinched up his belt, the bunched waistline gave him the slovenly old man look he wanted to create. The solid blue shirt was nearly threadbare, and also was too large. There were several visible snags in the material of the yellow sweater, which also sported the remains of a stubborn stain. The shoes were size thirteen and the leather uppers stiff and cracked with age. Similarly, the tweed overcoat had seen better days.
Marshon laid the overcoat on the bed and used a sharp breakfast knife to loosen the inner lining enough so that he could slip his Marcus Jones identification inside, along with the two flash drives, both of which had a sixteen-gigabyte capacity. He couldn’t take a chance and leave these items in the hotel room, even in the safe. That identification was a key to his new life in the islands. The computer files were equally important. He could use them to deal, if the cops picked him up. Marshon sewed the lining shut with a sewing kit the hotel provided for guests. Marshon wished he had the new identification Jemmy was in the process of getting, but he couldn’t wait for that.
The room phone rang and Morgan announced a positive response from Saperstein.
Marshon hung up his new wardrobe and used the burner phone to call Jemmy. Jemmy had gotten rid of the BMW. The cops had shown up at the apartment building and Jemmy told them Marshon was traveling out of state. Maleeka Mankin said the fake I.D. would be ready tomorrow noon. Marshon told Jemmy to bring it to the hotel tomorrow about two o’clock.
When the call ended, Marshon again went back to bed and slept until six a.m. Thursday morning. When he got out of bed, he felt for the first time that he would survive the gunshot wound.
About eleven a.m., Marshon put on his disguise and stood before the bathroom mirror, assessing the finished product. The clothes and the dye job on his hair and beard looked to be a good disguise. Marshon thought about taking the thirty-eight, but decided against it. He put the gun in the room safe. He opened up the mini-laptop and took out the hard drive, which he put into his pocket. He threw the laptop case into the trash. Then, Marshon put on the dark glasses and the fedora. He picked up the cane and left the room.
Marshon made his way to the elevators, walking stooped over, as if his joints were old and creaky. He even got his gait in rhythm with the cane. He thought the whole image made him look old and sick, which was how he felt, anyway. The overcoat was about the right size, but it smelled of the previous owner’s body odor. He adjusted the hat lower on his forehead. If anyone stopped him, he’d claim to be on his way to a doctor’s office in the medical building across from the Hyatt. He’d act confused and claim to have lost his billfold.
Since Marshon didn’t think the safe in his room was safe, he carried the zippered pouch in an overcoat pocket. It contained about $15,000 cash. He had no idea how he’d explain that.
Out front, Marshon got into a cab and told the driver to take him to a downtown eatery, where Mort Saperstein usually ate lunch. Marshon waited across the street until he saw the old lawyer enter the deli. Saperstein walked a lot like Marshon’s character. Marshon waited about ten minutes to make sure no suspicious-looking suits showed up and patrolled the sidewalk in front of the deli, or across the street. While he waited, he took out the laptop hard drive and crushed it with his heel, after which he threw it into a storm sewer drain. Marshon reminded himself to ask Jemmy if he’d done the same with the hard drive from Marshon’s other laptop, which Jemmy was supposed to remove from the apartment.
Inside, Saperstein sat alone at a booth at the back. Marshon walked over and sat down. Saperstein eyed him keenly and said, “Glad you could meet me for lunch.”
The frail, wizened old Jew wore an ugly brown plaid suit that hung on his bony frame. Marshon was willing to take this chance because Saperstein had a mind like a steel trap and could outwit most cops and prosecutors.
“As your lawyer, and an officer of the court, I must advise you to present yourself to the police and answer their questions concerning any involvement you may have had in connection with the death of Michael Williams,” Saperstein said, for the record. He didn’t actually say Marshon’s name, in case someone was listening.
“Duly noted.” Marshon had paid Saperstein a $5,000-a-month retainer for several years. He began his defense in a low voice, so that old lawyer had to lean forward to hear. “It was self-de
fense and I got a gunshot wound in my back to prove it.”
“That would be helpful.”
“He said he had a brain tumor and wasn’t long for this world.”
“If the autopsy substantiates that, it would be another point in your favor.”
“He tried to strangle a prostitute last Saturday night and I have video proof.”
Saperstein took a bite of his deli sandwich, chewed and thought. “That could be a plus in pre-trial discussions, but the judge might rule it inadmissible in a jury trial. If I were involved in the defense, I might not even want it admitted into evidence during a trial. The prosecution could use it to prove extortion, which would be a step in the direction of convincing the jury that Williams was legitimately defending himself. Extortion resulting in death is a Class A felony, punishable by up to life in prison.”
“There’s no proof of extortion, since no money changed hands.”
“Probably irrelevant, since it’s the intent that’s important. The prosecution might bring in other witnesses to establish such a pattern and suggest that was the purpose of your visit. Of course, I would object vigorously to all such insinuations that extortion was intended.”
Marshon pictured Virginia Krebs on the witness stand. “So what are all the alternatives?”
Saperstein chewed on the answer for a few moments. “Take your chances in court. You could allege you were simply confronting Williams for his assault upon your renter, and that it led to a fight in which he shot you. You killed Williams in self-defense. Or, I might arrange a plea.”
“What would I plead to?”
“I’d try for a Class A Misdemeanor, punishable by a significant fine, probation, community service. Or, we might deal for involuntary manslaughter, Class D, same type of punishment, with perhaps some minimal jail time. A year, more or less.”
“You think they’d go for that?”
Saperstein sipped from his coffee. “Anything else they are trying to pin on you?”
Marshon knew Saperstein knew about the killings at The Wheel. The legal grapevine. “There’s a grand jury looking into two robbers who were killed at The Wheel by a player. I wasn’t involved at all. There’s surveillance video and hundreds of witnesses to prove that.”
“But you didn’t report the homicides to the police?”
“No one did. I helped the families with burial costs.”
Saperstein sighed. “Technically, it doesn’t seem to rise to the level of aiding and abetting, and I don’t think it meets the legal definition of conspiracy. It’s a misdemeanor. I don’t think the prosecutor would couple these two cases. They’ll stick with the Williams incident, for now. It’s their strongest case.”
“What if my renter, Boudra, testified about how Williams assaulted her?”
Saperstein nodded. “I think I could somehow open the door to that, which would cause many people to pause and reconsider. The County Attorney, Williams’s family, city officials. They wouldn’t want that dirty laundry displayed in public. The feds might even back out of the museum deal.”
“And if I have other video of many city officials, including some staffers in the County Attorney’s office, visiting women who live in my apartment building, would that be useful?”
Saperstein chuckled. “You mean, to openly blackmail the city, court, and its officials! I’d lose my license if I were a party to such tactics.” The old lawyer paused. “Although I’d never be involved in such efforts, that information might arise, somehow, and become a factor in pre-trial negotiations.”
“So, you’re hopeful?” Marshon asked. “You foresee a positive outcome?”
“Generally, but you are a thorn in the side or law enforcement and the judicial system, Marshon. You flaunt the law on so many levels. They may decide on all-out war. If I stymie them on the Williams case, they might switch tactics and maintain that you have formed a criminal enterprise, and prosecute you under the RICO Act or some similar state statute.”
“Okay, back to the plea. What if I agreed to pay a big fine, say $100,000, sever my ties with The Wheel, and move out of my apartment building? Move out of town? What then?” These were all things Marshon planned to do, anyway.
Saperstein nodded. “If you pleaded to reckless endangerment regarding the Williams case, paid a significant fine, and did some community service, I might be able to sell that. But, for the record and as a matter of fact, I can’t guarantee anything, other than that I always defend all my clients vigorously, and to the best of my ability.”
Saperstein used his napkin to dab at his lips, signaling he had finished eating and offering legal advice. He slid out of the booth, stood and took his coat and hat from a clothes tree. He put them on and said, “Let me know what you decide.”
Although it was mainly a pick-up-and-carry eatery, the deli had a roving waiter. He approached Marshon and asked, “Can I get you something, sir?”
“Yeah. Coffee and a bacon, egg and cheese croissant,” Marshon said. He had to get some food into his stomach to absorb the antibiotics. He hadn’t eaten anything off the breakfast tray delivered to his hotel room.
While he waited, Marshon considered Saperstein’s advice. The possible punishments weren’t as bad as he feared. Still, there would be plenty of landmines in either negotiating a plea agreement or during a trial, which surely would drag out for months, maybe a year or more. Community service would keep him in town for another year or more. He’d be in limbo, and the opposition would have plenty of time to build various other cases against him. What if they froze his assets and he couldn’t make bail!
If they caught Widja and really went after Jemmy, or even Gail, any one of them might give the cops some leads, if only inadvertently. No one knew the exact whereabouts of his Caribbean bank account and home, but he’d told Gail just enough that she could, under the right pressure, point them in the right direction. Richey was the only one who knew his island home was in the British Virgin Islands. In time, good and thorough investigators might turn up the identity of Marcus Jones, and then all truly would be lost. That information would lead to his offshore bank account and his multi-million-dollar island home.
So what if he burned a dozen officials by releasing videos of them gambling and sexing? Might the governor or a federal prosecutor bring in a new special prosecution team that was squeaky clean, and dedicated to go after him with a vengeance? Not caring about the collateral damage they caused.
What if he pleaded innocent, went to court, and won? Might they prosecutors file new charges on another issue? That he conducted an illegally gambling operation? Conspired with Ace Semanski? Extorted whoremongers? Ran a house of prostitution. He should have asked Saperstein about all those possibilities.
Worst of all, what if he went to court, lost, and was sentenced to a lengthy term in prison? What were the odds? Marshon struggled mentally, but only concluded that any possibility was too scary a bet for him.
Marshon was confident no one currently knew about Marcus Jones or his offshore bank account and real estate holdings. Jones had been a real person about Marshon’s age and size. In fact, they looked a lot alike. When someone murdered Marcus nearly four years ago, Marshon astutely bought the dead man’s birth certificate and Social Security card from Marcus’s father, a ne’er-do-well gambler gunned down himself a few months later.
Marshon had bribed a clerk in the city’s Bureau of Vital Statistics to make certain Marcus’s death was not reported to various state and federal agencies, including the Social Security Administration. That, plus a copy of Marcus’s original birth certificate, cost $2,500 at the time.
He’d initially changed Marcus Jones’s legal address to a postal box downtown, but later switched it back to Marcus’s home address, where he’d lived with his parents until his death. After visiting with Marcus’s mother, Marshon concluded that she didn’t know her late husband had sold her dead son’s identity. He offered to pay her $500 a month if she allowed him to receive mail at her home addressed to her dead so
n. Marcus’s mother didn’t ask a single question.
Over time, Marshon had rehabilitated the dead man’s bad credit rating. Marcus Jones now had a local bank account, new driver’s license, new credit cards, and a valid United States passport — all of which Marshon now carried precariously in the lining of his borrowed coat. Marcus paid his bills on time every month, always via deductions from a local bank account balance. Marshon even acquired a real estate license in Marcus’s name, so that he appeared gainfully self-employed. Within a few weeks, depending upon events, he’d revise Marcus’s various I.D. to reflect his new address on Scrub Island. Then, Marcus Jones would sell the island home to a new buyer created by Nassau lawyer Phillip Dahlgren.
If they picked him up on the street now, he’d have to run, to generate time to ditch the Marcus Jones identification. Get rid of the entire coat. The odds of that possibility caused Marshon to become nauseous.
Back at the Hyatt, Marshon stopped in one of the shops on the mezzanine level and purchased a package containing three five-gigabyte flash drives. He also purchased a small pack of stationery, and two prepaid cell phones. He then went to the hotel business center to use a computer. Marcus Jones also had a G-mail account. He sent an e-mail to Dahlgren, saying, “I plan on being in Miami Sunday or Monday to conduct important business. If your boat or airplane could be in Florida, I could use a ride. Let me know.”
Marshon tore loose enough threads to retrieve the flash drives hidden inside the lining of his overcoat. Using both of the computer’s USB ports, he copied several documents to the flash drives he’d just purchased, although he varied the contents. One was for Rinaldo Morgan, one for Jemmy Shoemaker, and one to be held in reserve.
Although these actions indicated Marshon had rejected Saperstein’s advice, Marshon would have denied that. He was just being cautious, developing all options on parallel paths until he decided which one to follow.
There was just one more connection Marshon wanted to make — with Gail. It could put both of them in danger, since they were a well-known couple. A thousand people had seen them together at the recent fund-raiser for mayoral candidate Dewhurst.
The Money Game Page 34