90 Church

by Dean Unkefer

  A PLEA FOR HELP

  The office’s anger grew. Supervisors like Pike and Blanker, who never understood the cases in the first place, listened patiently but said there was nothing they could do. I knew they really didn’t care if a few drug-dealing informants got killed. For the first time, Michael was called in for an interview with Flowers. Again, Flowers asked me to watch through the two-way mirror. After the fiasco with Dewey, I wondered why I was invited to watch again. Michael came in and sat down and Flowers started in on him. “We’ve already interviewed Agent Dwight Paris; now it’s your turn. What do you think?”

  Michael smiled at Flowers. “Agent Paris is weak. It was a good place for you to start.”

  The Justice Department lawyer nodded with satisfaction, but Flowers knew better. “You’re the mastermind behind all of this, aren’t you?” He glared at Michael. “I’m going to get you. I’m going to send you to the penitentiary for twenty years. You’ll have lots of friends there.”

  Michael said softly, “Is there a point to all of this?”

  “You know what I’m doing in the street? Do you know what my people are finding out? Finding out about you?”

  Michael lit a cigarette, and I noticed his hands were shaking. He said, “I know that six people are dead because of you. Six people who trusted this office. Six people who risked their lives to give information so we could put drug dealers behind bars and solve major cases. Six people who trusted me … and they’re dead because of you and your stupidity.”

  The Justice Department lawyer sat there blinking. Flowers turned red. “My people are conducting an investigation! We have a right to interview everybody! We are led by one of the most prominent federal judges in the country – Judge Carl Wineburg. He’s newly appointed from New York so he knows what’s going on.”

  I remembered meeting Judge Wineburg when I had lunch with Regina Medalley.

  Michael shouted back, “Wineburg was appointed by senators who got elected by union block voting and teamsters and longshoremen’s money. Who do you think controls the union? Angelici, Louis Turko, that’s who! Did you give Wineburg Louis Turko’s files so they could find and kill Danny Cupp? Or how about Manasso’s file so they would find out about Agent Jerry Ramirez and kill him?”

  Flowers exploded. “You’re a corrupt agent. You’ve taken money from the underworld. You’ve lied in government reports. I’m going to put you behind bars and I’m going to do it in a fair and honorable way, not with lying informants and illegal wiretaps, but with sworn truthful testimony and evidence gathered by the law and presented fairly in court. Judge Wineburg is an honest man; you will not smear his name. By law he had to give Turko’s lawyer the file. It’s too bad Cupp’s name and where he was living was in it. It was an oversight, a mistake, that’s all.”

  Michael shot back. “It could have been withheld until trial. Wineburg knew that. You got Danny killed. And what about Manasso, did his file go to the Mafia too?”

  Flowers was visibly shaken, but managed to say, “I’m not afraid of you like the rest of the people here. What do you think of me?”

  I knew that was the wrong question for Flowers to ask. Michael, with his cigarette bobbing in his mouth, replied. “I think you are an ambitious, sanctimonious, little man who has been given too much power. I also think you’re very dangerous because you really have no idea what you’re doing.”

  The young lawyer sat there blinking. Flowers said nothing. Michael got up, picked up his cigarettes and walked out of the room.

  Before I could go back to my desk Flowers pulled me into a small conference room. “Please help me,” he said as he grabbed my arm. “I know you know right from wrong. I’m trying to clean up things here. I’m sorry about Cupp and Agent Ramirez. I believe Judge Wineburg is honest, we didn’t realize, but I will look into Wineburg’s mob connections. We just want justice. But you must choose. If you work with me, things like that wouldn’t happen again. You like Michael and Dewey, don’t you?” He reached into his pocket and handed me a photograph, a mug shot of a woman. I recognized her immediately; she was at the bar in the Manasso case. She was supposed to be waiting for Michael, yet she didn’t know Michael.

  “They suckered you on your own case, the Diplomat case, remember?” He smiled.

  “I’ve seen her; so what?”

  Now Flowers was enjoying himself. “You gave her nice presents from Saks Fifth Avenue, didn’t you? All wrapped up pretty. They were presents from Michael, weren’t they? Right under your nose, Michael played you.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Think about it. Michael’s little scheme in the street with the cab running over the luggage and Dewey finding five kilos of heroin in the diplomat’s suitcase, just like Manasso had said. Except it wasn’t heroin, was it? No, it was talcum powder. Michael knew Pike didn’t trust Dewey and he knew Pike would grab the evidence himself. You and Pike and the Bureau would look like fools when there was no evidence at all, just talcum powder. I’m going to tell you what really happened. Michael knew Manasso was too smart for you, Michael knew all along we could not make a case against a diplomat and the heroin would be wasted.”

  I was completely bewildered. “What the hell are you talking about? Michael turned the case around and we got Belonconi with a search warrant the next day. It was my case!”

  Flowers put his hand on my shoulder and talked close to my ear. “When you call me an idiot, think of this: Dewey carried five bags of talcum powder to the Sherry Netherland Hotel and when the cab split open the suitcase Dewey planted the talcum powder and pretended to find heroin. Pike seized the five phony bags and told Dewey to carry the broken suitcase down to the Bureau, but the heroin was still in the suitcase. Then Dewey walked a block down to Saks Fifth Avenue and had the five kilos of heroin gift-wrapped. Michael told you to take the pretty little presents to the woman at the bar. Who is she? You didn’t know her, did you? I’ll tell you who she was – she’s Lollipop’s girlfriend. And what did she do? She sold the dope to Belonconi. She told him she worked for the diplomat and was delivering the dope, all neat and clean, and everyone makes money.”

  “This is bullshit.” I said, pulling away from him.

  “Is it? I’ll tell you how we know, because we followed you, we saw you give the pretty presents to the girl, we saw Dewey go from the hotel to Saks. It took us a while to figure things out. We’re watching you.” He smiled again. “Dewey baited poor stupid Pike to take charge of the phony evidence. Michael knew you didn’t have control of the case. The only thing we don’t know is how Manasso knew when the diplomat would be checking out of the hotel. Who told Manasso? Only you and Pike and Ed Silkey knew when he would be leaving the hotel to fly back to South America. We know Manasso killed the diplomat. We have ballistics. It was the same gun that Manasso used to try to kill you, but how did Manasso know? Did you tell Manasso? Was it Michael? You know what’s going on here; please, I’m begging you to help me.”

  My guilt started to choke me. I tried to stop my face from turning red and my throat from drying up. I knew how Manasso knew when and where to shoot the diplomat – the same way Manasso knew Jerry Ramirez was an agent.

  “You can’t prove a thing.”

  I started to walk away. Then I heard him say, “Not now, but you know I’m right, and sooner or later you’re going to help me get these killers. You know what is right and what is wrong. You know I stand for justice.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  A GUILTY CONSCIENCE

  DADDY’S GIRL

  About a week after Flowers’ meeting with Michael, and his talk with me, Flowers’ fifteen-year-old daughter was busted in Queens with drugs. She had met a new friend, smoked a joint, then he gave her a bag of pot and cocaine for free. She said she had never seen the man before and only knew his nickname, Zipper, because he carried a leather pouch with a big zipper on the top of it. The arresting officer had gotten a tip that she was working for Zipper. She was charged with intent to sell and transferred
to Women’s Detention at the Tombs in Manhattan.

  Despite Flowers’ efforts with the police department, it took three days before he could get his daughter released. She had been imprisoned with whores, lesbians, and junkies who had beaten and sexually assaulted her. She was in a state of shock and couldn’t speak. When Flowers collected her personal things, there was a copy of his memo to Judge Wineburg recommending that charges be brought against agents Winkler and Brown stuffed in her purse. No one took any pleasure in what happened to Flowers’ daughter, but everyone knew it was war.

  Dewey said that setting up the daughter was stupid, that it would only make Flowers enraged and more determined. It would be better if Flowers remained arrogant and confident, since he would be easier to manipulate and predict. Eventually the ridiculous illegal-gun charges against Winkler were dropped. Agent Brown pleaded guilty to the pot charge and got a suspended sentence with probation. But both agents were fired from the Bureau and their careers ruined because of Flowers.

  The tragic incident with Andy Flowers’ daughter was a mistake. I knew that neither Michael nor Dewey had anything to do with it, but Flowers was sure they did. Dewey believed that it was the work of the police department. They had reason to hate Flowers as much as we did. The memo to Wineburg put the blame on 90 Church and away from the cops. Michael agreed, but the end result was that Andy Flowers changed dramatically. He no longer wore the starched shirts and pressed suits. He was obsessive, irritable, silent, and moody. He shouted and accused Blanker, Pike, and the other supervisors of not helping him. First to go was his snotty, tight-ass secretary. Flowers became just like Michael; he even began to look like him – dark wrinkled suit, unshaven and seemingly shy. Everyone – even Blanker, Pike, and the supervisors – feared him. The body count of dead informants continued to rise as Flowers’ men threatened to expose them unless they cooperated to set up the agents.

  The Investigative Task Force tried to make cases on the weakest agents first, then turn them into informants to get the more experienced agents, especially Michael and Dewey, who were their real targets. Their strategy was exactly like the one we used in the street. All they wanted to know was which agents took drug money. Flowers had been promised he would head the New York office if he was successful, but what happened to his young daughter changed him and how he did his job. He didn’t care about a promotion; all he wanted was revenge for his daughter. I remembered how he begged me to help him. It was too late now. Finally he got the weakest agent.

  Flowers visited Tony Roma, “Tony from Roma.” The shy, quiet, Agent Roma who became my friend while I was recovering from my LSD trip. He spent all of his time in the Library, doing research on international crime. He was the best connection to the CIA, Interpol and foreign law enforcement. After the darkest, coldest, most tragic night of my life, I took the three-by-five card from the file that read “Twigs” and gave it to my friend Tony Roma. All I said was, “Find her.” I knew he would never stop until she was located.

  Flowers told Roma that the Bureau was tired of protecting him and if he didn’t make a case on Michael, Dewey, or me, they would force him into a high-publicity case and the Mafia would know where to find him. “Tony from Roma” – the shell-shocked agent from years undercover in Europe – went to his little one-room apartment only five blocks away from the office, slit his wrists and bled to death in the bathtub. On the day he killed himself I found the file card on my desk. There was an address scribbled on the back. But for now, Rachel would have to wait.

  Soon after Roma’s suicide, Del Ridley openly joined Flowers. None of the agents trusted him; he was too religious and too idealistic. I warned Del at his dinner party not to get involved with the investigators, but he said he “wanted to do what was right.” He met with them and volunteered information that he had overheard in the office, but none of it was of any use. Flowers’ investigation came to a halt, and his Task Force got desperate.

  Pike became a frightened stooge eager to please them, obeying every order and agreeing with everything they said. Blanker became a helpless drunk. His secretary would often find him asleep on his desk in the morning, having gotten too drunk to drive home the night before.

  There were no new cases being made. The Bureau was coming apart and everyone knew it. Like Michael had said, they had no idea what they were doing. Every day, informants called Dewey or the other agents, afraid for their lives. I wasn’t worried about my informants – I only had a couple – but I saw a look of worry on Dewey’s face. He worked day and night trying to hold things together, trying to save his people. Since there weren’t any cases being made I didn’t have much to do, except sit back and watch Pike and Ridley and the others become more and more desperate, trying to find information to feed Flowers before he turned on them.

  THE RUSSIAN

  In the midst of all this, Tony Degaglia, my Mafia informant, called and said he had set up a buy for me. He said it was the Russian Mafia in Brooklyn. They were ready to deal for ten thousand dollars and had good-quality heroin. I was anxious to get back to work, if only to restore some sense of normality to my life and the office. I requisitioned the cash and Tony Degaglia and I drove to Brooklyn. Degaglia said he knew the dealer well. The three of us met at a bar in Coney Island. The Russian was big, strong, smiling, and wore an expensive open-collar shirt. I told Degaglia to wait in the car so we could get better acquainted.

  The Russian told me he had five ounces of excellent-grade heroin. He wanted ten thousand dollars cash and was prepared to deal immediately.

  After many undercover buys, and Michael’s teachings, I thought I had pretty good instincts. Something felt wrong. I began studying the Russian. He had very good teeth – unusual for anyone coming from Europe. He carried his handkerchief in his back pocket like an American and he kept asking me if I wanted to try the heroin to be sure it was good quality. High-quality, uncut heroin is instantly lethal. I studied his shoes and the way he walked; one pant leg was longer than the other, so he had a gun on his belt. When I showed him the money he didn’t have the excited expression on his face that I had seen so often. He never once looked me in the eyes. I said I wasn’t interested in making a buy today. I wanted to think about it, but would call him later, one way or the other. I left the bar and Degaglia and I drove back into Manhattan. It was a set-up – and I knew my informant Degaglia had arranged it.

  Back in the office, Pike asked me how the buy went. I told him it didn’t go well and he kept asking why and whether there was a chance we could go back and try again. Pike had never cared about any other case I worked on. If it didn’t go down, it didn’t go down. I met with Dewey and Michael and told them what had happened. Incredibly, Michael opened up his briefcase and pulled out a notebook of photographs. Most of them were headshots like the kind used on government credentials. Michael said, “These are from McDermott.” On the third page, I picked out the Russian. His name was Jake Bellows. He was an investigator for the Justice Department. He had to be working with Flowers. “They’ve got Tony Degaglia,” I said, “and I think they’ve got Pike.”

  Michael laughed. “They’ve had Pike for months. Flowers has sent someone to get inside of one of our cases to see if we lie on the reports, or skim money, or make strange deals with the informants or suspects. This is how they get cops. They put someone in the inside and wait for you to do something wrong.”

  The next day, Degaglia called me again and asked if I was ready to deal with the Russian. I said I had thought about it overnight and wanted to go through with it. I then told Pike that I was going to buy the heroin from the Russian in Brooklyn. He seemed pleased.

  I met Degaglia in Midtown and we drove to the bar in Brooklyn. On the way, I again asked him about the Russian. I said I was almost certain that he was carrying a gun, and appeared very dangerous. Degaglia said he had known him for a long time, that he did carry a gun and was dangerous. I met the Russian at the bar and asked him if he had the drugs. He pointed to a duffle bag next to his chair
. I reached over and grabbed the bag, pulling it to my chest as if I was going to run with it.

  The Russian pulled out his gun and pointed it at me. “You don’t touch anything until I get the money. Put the bag down!”

  There were other people at the bar so he tried to keep his voice down and hide the gun. Degaglia kept pleading for us to calm down. Then I yelled, “He’s got a gun on me, he’s got a gun, he’s going to shoot! Please don’t shoot me!”

  Before the Russian could put the gun back in his holster, Ed Silkey came up from behind and picked up a chair and hit him with it. He fell to the floor. I leaned over close to Degaglia and started yelling again, “He has a gun! He’s going to shoot us! He’s going to shoot us! Look out! Look out! Oh my God, oh my God!”

  Dewey, who was also at the bar, came over and kicked the Russian too. Ed and Dewey kicked and beat him until they found the gun and he lay on the floor in a pool of blood. I kept yelling, “Be careful, be careful. He’s going to shoot!” The bar had cleared out and it was just the Russian and us.

  I grabbed Degaglia and threw him against the bar and ripped open his shirt. There was a recording device strapped to his back with a wire running down between his legs and up to the top of his chest. I ripped it off. We handcuffed the Russian, opened up the bag, and found the heroin. We then put him in the back of the car and drove to the Bureau. Silkey had broken the Russian’s nose and he was bleeding down the front of his face.