Tony Costa was the right-hand man of Angelo Mazzi, the head of a crime family in the Bronx. Mazzi failed in his apparent effort to have his people gun down Petrone, and was himself killed by Petrone’s people the same night. Costa was arrested by the FBI and is being held for a few days in an effort to get him to talk, but I doubt that’s going well.
I’m hoping he’ll talk to me, because we have identical interests: We both want to get Petrone.
Cindy said to be at the federal courthouse in Lower Manhattan at 9:00 A.M., so I leave the house at six thirty. Getting to Lower Manhattan from New Jersey during the morning rush hour is like climbing Mount Everest, without the snow and Sherpas. In terms of miles it’s not that far, but it takes forever.
Laurie had told Marcus where and when I was going, but I don’t see any sign of him. That doesn’t worry me; Marcus is never seen unless he needs to be. If he’s supposed to be watching me, then he’s watching me.
I arrive thirty minutes early, which is good because I’m dealing with the Feds. Guards in local jails can be a pain in the ass, but the Feds wrote the book on it. I have to fill out four pages of paperwork, mostly identification stuff.
It twice asks me the purpose of my visit, and each time I write, “I’m hoping Mr. Costa and I can double date when he gets out.” But I also shade the truth by describing it as an attorney’s visit. I am an attorney, though not Mr. Costa’s, but I want to be put in a room where our conversation is not listened in on.
By the time I’m processed and searched twice, it’s almost nine thirty. I’m brought back to what is labeled an attorney’s room, so it’s possible my effort succeeded. Or not. It’s not crucial either way.
I’m the first to arrive, and it’s another ten minutes before a guard comes in with Costa. He’s no taller than I am, and I can barely dunk a doughnut. My guess is he’s about forty, and he doesn’t look at all stressed out by his situation.
Which makes one of us.
Costa’s hands are cuffed in front of him. The guard indicates that he should sit in the chair, and then tells me that he’ll be right outside the door if I need him.
“Tony, I’m Andy—” is how I begin, but he cuts me off.
“I know who you are.”
“I want to talk about Dominic Petrone.”
“Tell me something I don’t know.”
“He killed your boss,” I say.
“Yeah?” is his clever response. He’s quite the conversationalist.
“I want to know why.”
“What do you have to do with any of this?” he asks.
“In addition to killing your boss, he killed Gerry Wright and Denise Atkins, and my client is about to go on trial for those murders.”
“Who the hell are they, and why would he kill them?”
“They were executives with a technology company. Petrone is moving in on territories all over the country, just like he was moving in on you and Mazzi. Mazzi didn’t like it, so he’s dead, and you’re in here. Gerry Wright was helping Petrone, until Petrone didn’t need him anymore.”
“What does any of that crap have to do with me?” he asks.
“You spoke to Gerry Wright the day he died.”
“Bullshit. Is that all you got?”
“That’s all I’m going to share with you. But I’m going to get Petrone. I would think that would interest you.”
“A lot of things interest me. Come back when you’ve got something real.”
So I leave. All in all, it wasn’t the most productive of meetings, but that doesn’t mean I didn’t find out anything. Costa was doing one of two things. He was either withholding information because he didn’t trust me or using the meeting to gather information himself.
I think it was the latter. Costa agreed to meet with me simply because he was told I wanted to talk about Petrone. I think Costa wants to nail Petrone, but isn’t convinced I have anything to help him do so. He’s mostly right about that, so far.
I’ve had meetings go better than this one.
Among the challenges we’re going to face will be the difficulty in getting our evidence admitted. It’s not an urgent problem yet, since the trial hasn’t begun, so at this point there’s not even a jury to see our evidence. A slightly bigger hurdle is the fact that we don’t happen to have any evidence to get admitted.
But when it comes to pointing the finger at Petrone, we will not be able to get by with theories. We are going to have to show a concrete connection between him and the two murders, or the judge will not let any of it in.
The fact that Brian says Denise mentioned Petrone, or the fact that I can claim that two of his goons threatened me, will not carry any weight at all. We are going to have to have substantive, provable facts, and they are going to have to directly tie in to the case before the jury.
Richard Wallace is a prosecutor I like. That is not as rare as you might think; I basically think they are decent people doing their job in the best way they know how. My father, in fact, was a prosecutor, and a damned good one at that.
What is much harder to find is a prosecutor who likes me; they could hold my prosecutorial fan club meetings in a phone booth, if phone booths still existed. Yet Richard, unless I am badly misjudging things, actually likes me.
Part of that is because Richard worked for my father; he learned from him. I got to know him back then, and we just always got along. My father would be proud of him these days; Richard has become a fair adversary who would rather get to the truth than get a conviction. I wish he was prosecuting Brian’s case.
Richard and I have gone up against each other twice in court, once in the Willie Miller retrial, and I’ve won both times. As far as I can tell, he’s never held it against me, which I hope remains true, because I need something from him.
Richard has become the go-to guy in the prosecutor’s office for child pornography cases. Fortunately, it’s not a full-time job, though there have been some successfully brought cases in recent years. But he has become an expert in that area of the law, so cases naturally fall to him.
He is also called in to consult in other jurisdictions, and is privy to all that goes on in the child pornography area through most of the metropolitan area. He has to stay on top of all of it, because he is now part of a tristate task force, created because that kind of garbage really doesn’t respect artificial geographic borders.
I’ve asked to see him today to talk about Joseph Westman, the successful Wall Street guy who recently killed himself by plowing his Porsche into a tree at ninety miles per hour. According to the newspaper accounts, Westman feared that his involvement in kiddie porn was about to result in his arrest, and he took his own life so as not to have to face that fate.
The reason I’m interested in Westman is that he was on Gerry Wright’s call list. Since they were both involved in equity trading in some capacity, his presence on the list is not so surprising. But his suicide is interesting enough that it makes me want to check this box off my list.
I had called Richard and asked if he was involved in the Westman case, and his answer was “to some extent.” I’m not sure what he meant by that, but he agreed to meet me to talk about it. So here I am.
As he leads me back to his office, his colleagues stare at me as if I were Peyton Manning wandering uninvited into the Patriots locker room. If they could think of something to charge me with, I’d be in handcuffs already.
Once I’m in the safety of Richard’s closed office, he gets me a cup of coffee and we chitchat about the old days. I generally think that as a rule the old days are overrated; they only seem great because we’re comparing them to the new days, which are pretty crummy. But talking to him reminds me of my father, which is never a bad thing.
Finally, he says, “So you want to talk about Joseph Westman?”
I nod. “I do. What can you tell me about him?”
“Not much.”
“The media reports were that he killed himself to avoid facing an imminent child pornography prosec
ution. His wife as much as admitted it; she referred to him as tormented and in pain.”
“I know. But if he killed himself because cops were after him, he should ask for a do-over, because he wasn’t on any of our radars. Of course, he is now.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, we never heard of him before he drove into that tree. But we saw the same reports you did, so we started an investigation. We want to see if we can connect him to other people, or to his source. Sure enough, he was guilty as hell; the garbage was all over his computer.”
“Where was he getting it?”
“Normal places; there’s no shortage of slime on the Internet,” he says. “We run them down as best we can, but they can be anywhere.”
“What would make him think you were after him if you weren’t?”
He smiles. “My reputation?”
“You got a second choice?” I ask. “Just in case that’s not it?”
“Nope. Why don’t you ask his wife?”
“You know her?” I ask.
“I do now.”
“Will you call her and suggest she talk to me?”
He thinks for a moment. “What’s your interest in this, Andy?”
“It could be connected to the Atkins case, but basically I’m fishing. But if it means anything, I’m fishing for Dominic Petrone.”
For Richard, the prospect of nailing Dominic Petrone is game, set, and match.
“I’ll call her right now,” he says.
“Where the hell have you been?” The caller is Jimmy Rollins, who is sort of my friend, and definitely my bookmaker. He’s wondering why I haven’t been calling to bet on football. “Everything okay with you? Laurie and the kid all right?”
Jimmy is not worried about his loss of revenue; I don’t bet nearly enough for that to be the case. He’s just genuinely concerned that my absence might mean there’s something seriously wrong.
“It’s a long story,” I say, not wanting to get into the situation with Ricky, and my vow to set a good example. “But nothing to worry about.”
“Good, because you’re one of my regulars, and my regulars aren’t so regular anymore.”
“Why not?” I ask.
“Goddamn Internet is taking over the world.”
“You mean that Costa Rica stuff?” Sports and casino gambling Web sites have been operating offshore for a long time now. Americans use them, though they are technically illegal. Gamblers don’t get prosecuted, probably because of a recognition that the gambling laws in this country are hypocritical and insane.
For example, it’s perfectly legal to bet on horse racing online, but not on other sports. Why one is immoral and dangerous, and the other isn’t, has never been satisfactorily explained, at least not to me. Same goes for why sports betting is okay in Nevada, but not in the other forty-nine states.
So sports betting has gone offshore, where it operates with relative impunity, but without our government getting a piece of the pie in taxes.
“No, that’s yesterday’s news,” he says, referring to the offshore betting sites. “I can deal with that. This is local.”
Bells are clanging inside my head. I’ve been trying to figure out how and why Petrone could be using the Internet. Could it be something as simple as gambling?
“What do you mean by ‘local’?” I ask.
“I mean local. And I think it’s connected.”
“Petrone?”
“That’s the word on the street,” he says. “My self-preservation instinct and I would ask that you don’t quote me on that. I’m an independent operator; I don’t swim in those waters.”
“Jimmy, I need to talk to one of your customers that’s left you, somebody who you think is using this local Internet thing.”
“Why?”
“It may tie in to a case I’m working on,” I say.
He thinks for a few moments. “I don’t know, Andy. I doubt anybody’s going to want to do any talking. They’ll be afraid of trouble.”
“How about for money?” I ask. “You got someone in this situation who can use a couple of thousand dollars? I’ll pay for the information, and I can promise I won’t tell anyone that they spoke to me.”
“A lot of these guys can always use money.”
“Good. I’ll go as high as five thousand,” I say.
“For five thousand, they’d rat out their mother. Let me see what I can do.”
I tell him I need for this to happen quickly, and we hang up. It could turn out that Ricky’s picking up on my gambling will prove to be beneficial to my case.
Ain’t fatherhood great?
I’m now going to be anxiously awaiting calls from both Jimmy, to set up a meeting with one of his gambling ex-clients, and Richard Wallace, who is attempting to arrange a conversation with Joseph Westman’s widow.
Both of these meetings are long shots to have anything to do with the murders, or even Petrone, but I’ve got nothing better at the moment, so in my mind they have more importance than they deserve. In fact, I think I’ll spend some time fantasizing about the possibility that they’ll crack the case wide open.
“We’re ready, Andy.”
So much for fantasy; the words that Laurie has just spoken are a cold dose of reality. She and Ricky are about to leave for Wisconsin, and although it was my idea, I’m dreading it.
The plan was to exercise an abundance of caution and not have me drive them to the airport. In case I am being followed, we would not want the bad guys to have any idea that Laurie and Ricky are leaving town.
So we put the suitcases in the trunk of the car while it was in the garage, thereby making it seem to anyone watching that Laurie and Ricky are not going anywhere special. I wanted to have Marcus follow them just in case, but Laurie vetoed it. She claimed, probably accurately, that she is experienced enough to detect if she is being followed.
I’m feeling both sadness and anger, and I think anger is winning out. This is my family, and they are being temporarily taken away from me by a bunch of assholes. Even worse, they are being deprived of the freedom to live their lives as they see fit. Add to that the fact that Laurie and I are being forced into worrying about the safety of our son, and I can’t remember the last time I was this pissed.
For now I conceal these feelings, and prepare to say goodbye. I have to feign enthusiasm, because Ricky has no idea that he is being shipped out because of any danger; he thinks he’s going on a fun vacation.
“Great!” I say. “Boy, you guys are going to have a terrific time; I wish I was going with you.”
“We’ll call every night, won’t we, Rick?” Laurie says.
Ricky nods. “Sure will.”
“Say hi to Aunt Celia for me,” I say, and Ricky promises that he will.
I give Ricky a big hug, which thankfully he returns in kind. Then it’s Laurie’s turn, and we give each other a hug the likes of which it would be nice if it never actually ended. I can see that she is upset but won’t let Ricky see it.
“I love you,” Laurie says.
“And I you” is my response.
They go, and I watch my family leave, and it raises my anger level a notch higher.
I’m not a particularly tough guy, and my threats are usually empty, but this time I’m making a silent one that only I know about.
Someone is going to pay for this.
I’ve decided to kill two public relations birds with one stone. I’ve been neglecting the PR aspect to the Brian Atkins case, which is uncharacteristic of me. I haven’t spent any time talking to the public, a major mistake since residing in that public are the people who will make up the jury.
My other goal in utilizing the media is to exercise my self-preservation instinct, as it relates to the threat of Dominic Petrone. I fully trust Marcus, but just in case, I want to take out some insurance.
I invited Vince Sanders to lunch, since I want to break the story in his newspaper. I can’t be sure that he’ll think it’s newsworthy, though I’m quite
sure that if I gave it to some other outlet, he would berate me for betraying him.
He’s fine having lunch with me because he’s a friend and he knows I’ll get the check. He would eat horseshit on a bun if he didn’t have to pay for it. But that doesn’t mean he has to be cheery; he’s always going to be Vince.
When he walks in to the diner, the first thing he says is, “You ever tweeter?”
“Do I ever tweeter? You mean, do I tweet? Am I on Twitter?”
“Yeah.”
“No, I don’t and no, I’m not. Why?”
“The publisher wants me to include tweeters in my stories, like from the general public. So in the middle of the piece, I should include what some dope holed up in his room typing and eating cupcakes says about it.”
“Why?”
“Two reasons. One, the publisher is an idiot. Two, he thinks it will make people feel like they’re part of the story.”
“What did you say?”
“I said they’re not part of the story; they’re barely part of the human race. But if you care what these idiots have to say, why don’t you pay them and put them on staff?”
“What did he say?”
“He said why should he do that if he can get them for free?”
“What did you say?” I ask.
“I said he should take today’s edition of the paper and shove it up his ass, and then I walked out.”
“How much of what you just told me isn’t true?”
“Only the part about shoving the paper up his ass. I just thought of that now.”
“Good. Now, can we talk about what I want to talk about?”
“Let’s order first,” he says, so we do.
Once that’s out of the way, he asks me why the hell I dragged him out of his office. “Are we off the record?” I ask.
“Off the record? Are you nuts? What the hell am I doing here if we’re off the record?”
“You’re being given a scoop, but you’re not getting it unless it’s on my terms,” I say. “And if you don’t like that, you can read it in the Daily News, and then you can tweeter about it. And you know what? Daily News reporters pay for their own goddamn lunch.”
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