His words were no longer troubling me because I had unconsciously been distancing myself from him. We had once been friends, but Mark was now trying to make me a criminal. That made it easier for me to regard him as nothing more than just another crooked lawyer who was about to get what he deserved. So I said, “I don’t want any money, I’ll take care of the case for you because you’re my friend.”
“You’re doing us a favor, you should get something.”
“It’s not necessary to pay me, all right?” I said with surliness.
“Why are you so sore?”
“I’m not sore, I just had a rough day.”
We arrived at the theater late and the packed audience was hooting with every punch on the screen. I discovered that Mark and Cardoni had bought nearly a dozen tickets at seventy-five dollars each and passed them out to court clerks and bailiffs who might be useful someday. In the mood I was in, I wouldn’t have enjoyed the fight even if it had ended in a fifteenth-round knockout. As it was, we headed for the doors when Duran refused to come out for the eighth round, saying “No mas, no mas”—no more, no more. Maybe he was just a quitter, but I left the theater thinking the whole world was phony.
Frankie Cardoni, looking as always like a ladies’ man, was waiting for us at a pricey restaurant. He immediately asked if Mark had talked to me about the PCP case. I nodded, and he looked pleased. So they had it planned all along that they were going to bribe me. We left the place close to midnight, but Mark brought the case up again in his car. It was as though the only way he could trust me was by making sure I was corrupt, and not merely dropping the case out of friendship.
“Don’t worry,” Mark assured me. “The sun is gonna shine for all of us on this one.”
“I still don’t want any of the money,” I said. “Just tell Bob Silverman I’m okay.”
Mark had been using me, and now I was using him.
The very next morning I told Megary about the bribe offer. Then it was back to work presenting cases to Olson and watching fixers going in and out of his chambers. Sometimes they stood in line. They always exchanged pleasantries with one another, and often they went to dinner and out drinking together. But generally they distrusted and disliked each other because they were rivals for the same money and favors, and perhaps because they didn’t care for reminders of what they had become.
This was made clear to me in the last days of October when dope peddler *Leon Hester had a problem with representation after missing a court date. His bond was raised to twelve hundred and fifty dollars to keep him from skipping the next one. When Hester appeared, I wanted to see if Olson would transfer this honey pot of a case to the bar association attorney as he was supposed to, and therefore receive nothing in return. But there was no doubt. Olson was not dealing with anyone for just one-third anymore. He was smelling six hundred and twenty-five dollars as his share if he gave the case to Costello for an even split.
I stepped over to the diagonal bench to announce that the state was ready to proceed, and Costello asked for a time out. While Olson called another case, Jim led Hester to the hallway to explain his services and fee—that is, to shake him down. After a few minutes, Jim complained to me in his megaphone whisper that he wasn’t able to sign up Hester, and so he needed me to request a continuance that would give him time to pressure the drug dealer into coming up with more money.
“The cop has the lab report on the drugs in his hands,” I told him. “What excuse can I give without being obvious?”
“It’s okay, Ter. We’ll think of something.”
When Olson called the case again, Hester said, “Your Honor, you gave me to Mr. Costello here, but do I have to take him?”
“What do you mean?” Olson asked, annoyed that someone should question one of his arbitrary decisions.
“Mr. Costello wants too much money.” That is, for the more than twelve-hundred-dollar bond money, Jim was proposing to do the same things he would have done for the usual one-hundred-dollars bond.
“Obviously you are not properly communicating with counsel,” the judge burst out. “I’m going to continue this case for one month.”
The policeman in the case was glad to go home because he had worked the midnight shift and needed sleep, and Hester went off to find the bar association attorney for that day, Jay Messinger. I could tell this because Costello was walking toward me with a steady step instead of his usual lope. This showed that “Big Bird” had some plan in mind.
By now I had recovered enough from my two close calls to be wearing a recorder again, but no longer near my armpit. And I didn’t trust it in the curve of my back, where the bulge would show when I bent down. I was keeping the pouch where I had more control, right behind my belt buckle. That hide-in-plain-sight location was safe under most circumstances, since men stay clear of the groin.
“Terry,” Jim said, “go tell Messinger you’re going to take this fucker’s case to the grand jury so I can keep him. Can you do that for me?” Costello felt that Messinger was unlikely to follow Hester’s case through an indictment and a trial. Bar association attorneys worked for the cash bonds and, like hustlers, made more money from dismissals or knocking out cases on motions to suppress the evidence.
“No problem, Jim.” I did not tell Jim, but my supervisor had already told me to indicate Hester.
I found Messinger conferring with Hester in the back of the courtroom and told them of my intention to seek an indictment. “If you want to talk about this anymore, see me in my office,” I added.
After a few minutes, Hester entered the long, narrow office I shared with two other ASAs, something unusual for a defendant. “Man, why you jackin’ me around?” he complained. “Why you callin’ a grand jury, I don’t even have a record.”
“You weren’t ready for the hearing,” I said. “You refused to hire the lawyer the judge recommended to you.”
“Mr. Costello?”
“This is a serious felony charge, and you’ve already forfeited your bond once. There will be no more delays. We are not playing a game here, Mr. Hester.”
“I’m tellin’ you, all that guy care about is money. He don’t give a shit about me.”
“That’s your problem,” I said. “Now, please excuse me, I have to leave.”
Hester followed me into the hallway, then exchanged grimaces with Costello. A moment later they walked away together with their heads lowered as they discussed finances. In a few minutes Jim almost pranced over to me and said, “I signed him up! This is going to be the easiest six hundred I ever made. I’m getting the case called again this afternoon. Get this—since the arresting officer is gone for the day, I’ll demand a trial. With no witness, you’ll have to drop the case!”
I had to admire the quick flexibility that fixers developed to stay in competition. Before I could reply, Costello clapped a hand on my shoulder and added, “Don’t worry, Ter, we’re all going to make money on this one.”
Another ASA working in Narcotics Court that day was Frank Speh, a quiet man who would stay home on weekends to watch television, and in court he was incorruptible. Not that this stopped him from becoming friends with Costello, who managed to have him go to places with other lawyers and look as if he were having a good time. Jim once explained the difference between Speh and me. “I taught Frank how to be a man,” he said, “and I taught you how to steal.”
So when Hester’s case was called for trial that afternoon, Speh raised his head like a deer whiffing a scent. “This case was continued just this morning,” he whispered to me. “Something’s wrong here.”
Since I had to appear honest for my colleague and yet dishonest for Costello, I told Olson, “Your Honor, I would request a continuance in the matter. The arresting officer has left for the day.”
Everyone but Speh was in on the game, and Olson played it well. He looked over the file, frowned in concentration, then responded with the illusion of fairness, “Motion to continue denied.”
“Then Your Honor,” I c
apitulated, “in the absence of my witness, I respectfully dismiss the charges against Mr. Hester.”
“All right, case is dismissed. You’re free to go, Mr. Hester.”
There was no surprise on the defendant’s face. He got what he had paid for, several times over.
Two days later Olson was practically singing on the bench in anticipation of his month-long vacation in Florida. All week he had been inviting court workers and lawyers to the party he was planning for Thursday.
Nearly two dozen clerks, sheriff’s deputies, lawyers, and friends crowded into the booths and around the tables at Febo’s, at 25th and Western. The Chianti and the cheerful prattle were getting to Costello. He foghorned to Olson’s clerk, “Hey, Frankie, what the hell does Terry have to come over to my house for? I paid you so much money you ought to be the one raking my leaves!”
Frankie turned red. They were surrounded by fellow thieves, but Costello had violated the one taboo by openly mentioning bribes. Laughing at his own joke, Costello told us he had dropped twenty dollars on a clerk in the court of honest Judge Zelezinski that morning to get a file on a defendant, then discovered that the man had a bond of only thirty-five dollars. With the other fixers glaring at him with tightened jaws, Costello slapped the table and chortled at himself.
Judge Olson was also drinking more than usual. Actually, the word going around the courthouse was that Olson could have been one of the great drinkers of the criminal courts but held himself back because of his family, and maybe because of the memory of that fatal bar quarrel he had years ago.
As waiters bustled around us, a court clerk mentioned that he was looking over houses for sale. The judge joked with his friendly abrasiveness, “So, how much money did you pocket today? You know, you guys make more money under the table than I do.”
The silence that set in was even deeper than when Jim had made the same sort of faux pas moments before. We didn’t know whether to laugh or be shocked.
“Well, you’re the one with a Florida condo, Wayne,” one of the fixers said, to lighten the mood and redirect the conversation.
“You guys are welcome to come by any time you’re over there,” Olson said, adding, “It’s great fishing.”
After our plentiful and delicious dinner was over, our waiter stepped up to Olson, as the leader of the party, and handed him a brown plastic tray with a bill for more than six hundred dollars. The judge kept stalling by telling one anecdote after another, obviously waiting for someone to pay it. His bemused expression told us that this had really been our party for him, only we didn’t know it until now. Glances circled the table in a six-way standoff. Somebody had to give in, and it couldn’t be me because I was a lowly assistant prosecutor. And it wouldn’t be one of the clerks, who were bribed only five dollars at a time. That narrowed the field down to the defense attorneys, who were uneasily wiping their hands on napkins or brushing bread crust from their silk shirts in hopes a colleague would make the grand gesture. After a ripple of nervous laughter at the awkward pause, Costello and another attorney said something to a third lawyer, and that man reluctantly drew out his American Express card.
But the day was far from over. As we were starting to leave, Olson, a little unsteady from the wine, said, “Let’s go to Jeans.” He wanted to get drunk on more intimate ground on his last night before vacation. So at eight forty-five p.m. we piled into our cars and drove back to the courthouse neighborhood.
Once there, Costello had some more wine and half a dozen martinis until he was in a haze. By now I could tell his alcohol content just by the sound of his voice. When Assistant State’s Attorney Mike Kress approached us on his way to say goodbye to the judge, I could feel negative energy radiating from Jim. I don’t know why he hated Kress, but it was more than just dislike.
“Get out of here, you motherfucking Jew,” Costello snarled.
“The hell with you,” Kress snarled back, “I’m saying goodbye to Wayne.”
Costello pulled off his glasses and tossed them on the table as a silent threat, but Kress said, “Fuck you, Costello!”
Moving between them, I told Kress, “You have to ignore Jim, he’s had a little too much. You better leave.”
As Kress walked to the shabby back door, Costello called out to his back, “You God damn cocksucker!”
Judge Olson stood up and said, “Don’t you talk to my friend like that.”
“What the hell d’you have friends like that kike for?” Costello asked.
“Jim, you’re an ass,” the judge said.
Costello understood that to mean he would never be anything but a hallway whore, which everyone knew, including Costello himself. I could hardly believe it when the one-time tough street kid and cop grabbed the heavyset judge by the wrist and shoved him against some chairs.
Regaining his balance, Olson said, “Never touch me again!”
“Screw you,” Costello said and plopped down. As Olson kept shouting and flailing his arms at him, Costello pretended to be indifferent to the tirade although his face was flushing. Then he said, “Why don’t you just shut the fuck up?”
Olson seemed about to explode with the kind of rage that had already killed a man, but you could see he was holding himself back. Instead of throwing a fist at Costello, he contemptuously snatched a glass of wine and poured it down Jim’s expensive white shirt.
“Big deal,” Costello said and looked around at his fellow lawyers. “Look who’s the ass now.” He pinched the sodden front of his reeking shirt and flapped it a few times to dry it.
Having failed to make Costello angry, Olson grabbed Jim’s expensive eyeglasses off the table and hurled them against the wall.
We all knew what Costello wanted to do, you could see it in his face. But lawyers do not manhandle judges, so Jim wrapped his large hand around a decanter and flung it all the way to the other side of the restaurant. The bottle sailed over three tables before it shattered with a spray of wine and glass.
Several lawyers had to rush in and separate the two men. As Olson was being yanked back, he sputtered at Costello, “I’m calling Chief Judge Fitzgerald tomorrow. You’ll be thrown out of the courthouse and I’ll make sure you never come back!”
“What the fuck do I care,” Costello muttered.
“Come on, Jim,” I said and took his arm. “Everything’ll be all right. Hey, I’ll drive you home.”
My immediate thought was that I didn’t want Jim to kill himself driving recklessly halfway across the city. But I also thought I was seeing the end of Operation Greylord, because Costello had been my only link to Olson. But the judge put his hand on my shoulder, and I had to make a decision—whom should I give up? Should it be Costello, who was my closest friend in everyday life at court, or Olson, the most important target so far in my undercover work?
With the short rasps of a heavy man who has overexerted himself, the judge told me, “Don’t bother to drive that bastard home, Terry.”
“But he’s too drunk—”
“Serves him right,” Olson said. “You have to work in my courtroom, I don’t want you to be with him. I’ve already told Costello, ‘I like this kid so much that I don’t want you to corrupt him. If you do, I’ll kill you.’”
That caught me by surprise. How could I do anything else but stay inside the restaurant and let Costello drift from my undercover life? But I kept the back door open and watched Costello pathetically stagger alone toward his prized black Thunderbird. His marriage was falling apart, Olson had renounced him, and now I was turning my back on him. As I let the thin black rear door close, I knew Jim would soon be leaning on his car and fumbling through his mass of keys.
“Christ, look at the place,” said Carl, the bartender. “What the fuck’s the matter with you people? Terry, you’re the sensible one, can’t you keep them settled down?”
“It’s all right,” Olson said beside me. “We always hated that son of a bitch Costello. I don’t know why in the hell we let him hang around with us. Don’t worry, you’
re like a son to me. I’ll take care of you.”
My God, I wondered, what had happened? Instead of witnessing the demise of Greylord, I had just been dragged by the collar to the next level.
The next morning was Halloween, and the third anniversary of my being sworn in as an attorney. I awoke with a terrible hangover, and my apartment seemed to be rocking. I had a headache, and I didn’t want to finish dressing or shaving. But I forced myself to drive to a meeting near North Avenue and Wells Street to give FBI contact agent Bill Megary my latest tape. Since it had run out before the drinking session at Jeans ended, I filled him in on the split between Costello and the judge.
“The whole point of bugging Olson’s chambers is to prove the steady payoffs,” I said, “but Olson claims he’s getting Jim banned from 26th Street.”
Megary didn’t even blink. “Things like this don’t last long,” he said.
“But they hate each other.”
“Yes, but they need each other. You’ll see.”
He was right. When I saw Costello less than an hour later, he was squinting to see without his glasses, his bustling spirit was gone, and his hangover was worse than mine. I thought he would ignore me for forsaking him, but he actually was glad to see me in the hallway. He clamped his hands on me with an expression of bewilderment and panic, then pulled me closer to his bloodshot eyes.
“I gotta talk to you,” he growled. “What the fuck happened last night?”
“You don’t remember?”
“Would I ask you if the fuck I did?”
“You and Wayne almost got into a fistfight. Don’t you even remember him throwing your glasses against the wall?”
“Jesus, so that’s what happened to them. I hate it when I’m like that. This is Friday, isn’t it? That means I owe Wayne a thousand bucks from bonds he assigned me. What the hell am I gonna do?”
Operation Greylord Page 11