“It looks that way.”
“Good. You should. That bastard Fred. How dare he say those things about you?”
She catches me up on family news. My nephew, Carlos, is safely away at sea in the Navy. A few old girlfriends have called, asking if they can come visit. My high school wrestling coach sends his regards. Mary says she spoke to Mailer and to my friend and attorney, Channing Godfried. “You have a lot of support, Rick. We’re all behind you. Do whatever you think is right. This whole thing is ridiculous. It’s only pot, for goodness sake. You haven’t murdered anyone.”
No, but people close to me did die—although, I’m sure, even if I had personally killed them, Mary would still find me blameless.
A WEEK OR two slip by. Time becomes a whole new concept when you do it one day at a time. Law books are delivered to my cell. The language seems opaque at first, almost foreign, or like reading Shakespeare. But, once I get into it, I find that at its best there is poetry in artfully worded legal writing, beauty in well-reasoned and articulated dialectic. I begin writing out my argument, drafting it in longhand on yellow legal pads like a real lawyer, then typing it up on the portable typewriter my mother brought me, and which Gilmore has allowed me to place on the steel shelf welded to the bars at the foot of my bunk. I have my own little office here on bound-over yardside where I am occupied concocting my theory of defense. Locked up twenty-three hours a day, with an hour rec time in the enclosed yard, I have plenty of time to write. Soon my legal writing has morphed into a species of fiction. Why not write a novel?
STERN REPORTS THAT an attorney from New York rather than Joe Oteri will join him on the defense team. “I think you know why,” he says during a visit.
Indeed, I do. I have learned that a grand jury has been convened in the Southern District of New York. People, close friends and partners, are concerned. I am the linchpin. If I flip, many heads will roll. There is a lot of interest in my case in the Boston office of the Drug Enforcement Administration as well as the Federal Bureau of Investigation, Stern reports. Texas and California as well have requested to be kept abreast of the government’s developing conspiracy. Oteri mentioned a couple of names: James Bulger, also known as Whitey, who has a famous politician for a brother. And one Michael Capuana. The Grillo brothers. Uncle George, as Stern names him. How about a Texan named Jimmy Chagra, who has been implicated in the assassination of a federal judge? Do I know these men, Stern asks in confidence. I admit I do. These are organized crime figures, serious bad guys; he tells me what I already know. This could elevate my case to a whole new and ugly level that we do not want to approach with the good citizens of Cumberland County in Portland, Maine who will sit as my jury.
Stern tells me the prosecutor has presented him with their first offer: plead guilty to one count of conspiracy to possess with intent to distribute marijuana, and the government will recommend a sentence not to exceed ten years. When I pretend interest in the plea, deputy marshals escort me to the prosecutor’s office to discuss the details of a potential agreement.
Richard Cohen, the US attorney for the District of Maine, is a slight man with thinning, sandy reddish hair; pale skin; and a nervous, officious manner. He is unable to look me in the eye as he informs me that as part of any deal the government would be willing to make, I must agree to forfeit all my property, give up all assets, known and unknown to the government, “disgorge” as he calls it, and to “proffer,” to tell agents of the government everything I know about everyone I know who is or has been involved in the illegal marijuana business or any other criminal activity. And then I must stand before the Honorable Edward T. Gignoux to admit my crimes and declare for all to hear that I recognize the error of my ways and that I am remorseful, truly sorry for what I have done. I must then go on to cooperate fully with the government in any future investigations that are initiated as a result of my cooperation, and I must be prepared to testify at any and all trials resulting from my cooperation. My sentencing will be postponed until after my cooperation agreement has been fulfilled. The US attorney’s office will then provide the sentencing judge with a letter attesting to the truthfulness and value of my cooperation.
Cohen is accompanied by a young assistant by the name of Groff, who I insist on calling Gorf after my favorite video game—the game I was playing when Wolfshein and his DEA posse first brought me to ground at the pharmacy in Farmington, Maine. Cohen goes on to say that Judge Gignoux is not required to abide by the government’s recommendation for the length of sentence. He could go higher or lower. However, in most cases, when there is a plea and display of remorse and full cooperation, the judge will usually go along with the government’s suggested length of sentence.
“Who said anything about cooperation?” I object. “I thought we were talking about a simple plea.”
Cohen and Groff share a look.
I turn to my attorney. “Marshall?”
“Not me,” Stern says and makes ready to leave.
“What about New York?” I ask.
They give me a studied baffled look.
Hmmm. A redheaded Jew from Maine, I’m thinking, what’s wrong with this picture? “We know nothing about New York,” says Groff, the designated liar.
“Well, I suggest you find out,” Stern admonishes. “I mean—how many federal governments are there?”
“We can look into it,” Groff says.
Stern says, “It’s Richard’s decision, but I would be ill-advised to counsel him to plead here in Maine only to have any number of other charges brought in other districts.”
The prosecutor nods. “We will inquire,” he says and gives me a hopeful look.
“And then there is Canada,” Stern says.
Shrugs. Silence from the prosecutors.
Agent Wolfshein is the answer. I ask if I may have a private audience with the DEA agent.
“That could be arranged, of course, if you were willing to cooperate,” Cohen says, and betrays a hopeful smile.
“You want me to testify against Mailer? Is that where we’re going with this?”
Cohen shrugs. “If—”
“C’mon, Marshall, let’s go,” I say and stand. And then to the prosecutors, “See you in court.”
THESE MEN HAVE no idea how much I secretly enjoy these encounters. Yes, we are talking about years of my life that could well be spent behind prison walls. Be that as it may. The talks I have with DEA agents, deputy US marshals, and federal prosecutors are like forays behind enemy lines, an opportunity to gather intelligence and try to wrap my head around the way government functionaries think. The drug warriors have given new purpose to my life. We are discussing serious matters. This is real life with real decisions to be made. Yes, I have been captured, but I have not been converted. I want to be respectful, a gentleman. I sense the presence of my mother and my grandmother Ba Ba, good women that they are, reminding me that I come from a long line of well-bred New Englanders, and as such I should keep up the tradition and always be polite. Respectful. At least pretend that I am entertaining their offers when in truth I am on a fact-finding mission to determine how much they know as a means of marshaling my defense. It’s obvious they are aware that there are other indictments pending in other jurisdictions. Now I know this for certain as well. And it must be factored into any decisions I make.
After we leave Cohen’s office, accompanied by the same two deputy US marshals, Stern pulls me aside and confides. “Look, Richard, whatever you decide to do, that’s your business. But you should know that I will not continue to represent you if you choose to cooperate. And I—”
I stop him. “Please, Marshall, take it easy. You heard me. I have no intention of cooperating,” I tell him.
“Good,” he says. “I thought so. But you never know what a man will do when he’s faced with many years in prison.” He’s repeating a line I’ve heard somewhere before and come to accept as gospel.
“I thought we were clear after our first visit. I intend to participate in my defen
se. That means feeling these guys out, listening to everything they have to say, studying everything they allow us access to. I don’t want to let them know what we plan to do. We’re playing chess here. We might as well participate in the process.”
Stern smiles, nods, happy now. “I was hoping you would say that.”
“It’s only pot, Marshall.” I flash him a hopeful grin.
“Yes, that’s true,” he says. “But all these organized crime characters take it up a few notches.”
“We’ve got to keep that out.”
“That could be tricky,” he says. “They’ll want to get it in.”
“Where’s the relevance,” I say, already talking like a lawyer. “They had nothing to do with any of the charges in this case.”
Stern nods. “Okay. So we must limit the evidence to what happened here in the District of Maine and try to keep any of these other … allegations from coming in. Which could be difficult…. I mean, if you are even considering taking the stand, that would open you up to a whole line of questioning that would inevitably bring in evidence from all these other activities with other individuals.”
My lawyer and I are still waiting for the other shoe to drop. The New York grand jury investigation hangs over the Maine case like a guillotine poised to lop off any hope I have of freedom in the foreseeable future.
Sheriff Gilmore pulls me aside when I am returned to the jail. “What do you feel like eating today?” he asks.
He grins and flashes a box of Cohiba Cuban cigars I had delivered to the jail. Gilmore is a lawman who is a slave to his prodigious appetites. We all are, but Gilmore more than most. He loves to eat. He loves booze. He loves cigars. He loves to talk about pussy, though I suspect he’s not getting much. His girth strains at the seams of his uniform. His fleshy face and pink neck are flushed with an unhealthy tinge, and his skin glistens with a perpetual sheen of hectic sweat. His armpits are ringed with dark stains. But he’s my friend, I like this fat, corrupt cop, and he likes me. We make no pretense of a typical keeper-and-kept relationship. We are buddies, and partners in our mission to eat well.
“How about lobster?” I say. “Maybe some oysters? Shrimp cocktails? After all, we are in Maine.”
“Yes! Lobsters! Steamers?”
“Steamers, definitely. And cherrystones. Let’s do it right, Gilmore. Life is short. We need to eat well.”
The sheriff’s eyes light up and he nods conspiratorially. He sends one of his deputies across the street to Portland’s finest seafood restaurant for takeout.
“By the way,” he tells me with a leer, “Judy is here.”
Gilmore arranges for me to have a private visit with Judy in her cell. A deputy delivers me to the women’s section of the jail. Judy and I hug, we kiss, and I take a seat on her bunk. She says she has decided to plead guilty to one count of conspiracy and will appear before Judge Gignoux for sentencing in the morning.
I say, “That was quick.”
“My lawyer hooked it up while I was on my way here,” she replies, then adds, “Don’t worry, we’re cool.”
“I never doubted that.”
This judge is known to be lenient on female defendants. Judy’s connection to the conspiracy is tenuous at best. Her culpability relies entirely on Fred’s testimony with nothing to corroborate whatever he might say.
“He thinks I’ll get probation,” she says. “All the other women got probation. They asked me about you. I told them I never met you.”
“What about Val?”
“No one has mentioned her,” Judy says and we both consider this odd deficiency in the government’s case. “Fred must have told them about her.”
“He never knew her real name or where she lives,” I remind her. “Fucking Fred. Without him, they got nothing. We walk on this.”
“Oh, God, Fred!” Judy exclaims. “That bastard. I am so disgusted with him. This is all his fault.”
“How is Val?” I ask her.
“Okay … So … you know, I’m worried about her.”
“Me, too.”
“She’s drinking a lot. And doing a lot of … this.” She touches her nose.
I nod in response. This is a large part of my sadness, my guilt. I feel much more remorse over the women I have betrayed, let down, and led astray than I do over the laws I have broken. My wife, Anaïs, still in custody in Canada, and her sister, Avril, their lives forever altered by a chance encounter. And now Judy, facing possible prison time. And Val … strung out.
“How are you doing?” Judy asks. “Damn, guy. You look great.”
“Jail as an alternative lifestyle,” I say. “It has its advantages.”
“Here,” she says and palms me some bud. “This should help.”
Ah, yes, reefer. Where there is dope, there is hope.
SHE’S A SOUTHERN California girl, Judy, born and raised in and around Laguna Beach, and has the blond, almost white hair and tan skin to prove it even after some weeks in custody. A Brotherhood of Eternal Love chick, purebred hippie mafia, she’s faithful, loyal to the cause. I see no need to worry about Judy agreeing to testify against me.
And the reefer does help me cogitate. In my cell at night I get high and continue plotting my defense. Poring over legal tomes high on pot, it is all coming together in my mind. Yes, yes, I see it clearly now. Obfuscate. Bury them with paperwork. Delay … delay. Object. Make motions. Demand additional discovery. Ask for oral argument. Words, words, and more words. Bury the facts with words.
There is a young man in the next cell who killed his wife. Nice guy, actually. Gentle and kind. We have become friends. Call him Roland. He’s well-educated, a former English teacher at a boys’ preparatory school. His father is a noted author. Roland told me his story. He and his wife are both alcoholics. Roland would come home after work each day and they would drink, get drunk, and often end the evening in violent argument. They have two young sons who witnessed their many vicious fights. On his way home from teaching at the prep school one day, Roland stopped at a gun shop and bought a handgun.
“That was the day you decided to kill your wife,” I tell him as he recounts the story.
“Yes,” he says and nods. “I think you’re right—though it never occurred to me at the time.”
“Maybe not consciously. But why else would you need a gun?”
He nods, shrugs. “No reason,” he admits.
Then it happened. One evening, during one of their drunken fights, Roland took out the gun and shot his wife in the head. She died instantly.
“The boys, my sons—they were there.” He swallows hard, and then he cries, he weeps bitterly and prodigiously. I want to hug him and tell him it’s all right, but we both know it is not. It is a tragedy he and his boys will live with for the rest of their lives. “They saw me kill their mother,” he sobs. “How can they ever forgive me?”
Another man who lives on my tier, bound-over yardside, killed his entire family—mother, father, sister, and younger brother—stabbed and bludgeoned them to death and then set the house on fire. A violent, bipolar psychotic, he’s heavily sedated, sleeps most of the time. When he does wake up and is allowed out of his cell, all the other prisoners are locked in as he does what is known as the thorazine shuffle: a slow, zombie-like perambulation dragging his feet as he shuffles up and down the tier. He’s heavy and moves like a beast of burden carrying the souls of his dead kin. The other prisoners have taken to calling him Lurch. He pled not guilty by reason of insanity and will soon be transferred to a facility for the criminally insane.
These men are my neighbors on bound-over yardside.
Chapter Four
THE BEST DEFENSE
A TRIAL DATE has been set. Still I refuse to give Cohen and Groff an answer to any of their proposals. I keep my own counsel, put off my response, ask for more information, more time to think, and demand to speak to Wolfshein without agreeing to cooperate. And it is beginning to piss Cohen off. I tell Stern that I operate under rules promulgated by the Beirut
school of business. Never let your opponent see your hand, and negotiate right down to the wire, even after the deal is in place, keep negotiating, agree to terms, and then, at the eleventh hour, back out and renegotiate.
My request for an audience with Special Agent Bernie Wolfshein has been formally denied. He refuses to see me unless I decide to “debrief” as they like to say. I say, well, let’s talk about it. But I think they know my parrying game, and they are becoming increasingly hard-line. Wolfshein sends a message through Stern. He says he would like to meet with me but he can’t; he’s the case agent on the investigation and it would be improper—unless, of course, I am willing to cooperate. They float the possibility of the witness protection program if it’s my safety I am worried about. Capuana, Bulger, Uncle George—these are bad dudes with notches in their respective belts. But if I were worried about my safety, I never would have become a pot smuggler in the first place. No, it is my conscience I am concerned with, the fact that I have to live with myself for the rest of my life.
I visit with Sheriff Gilmore and write out permission to allow myself to be interviewed by the press. “Why not?” says the sheriff. “This is America. We have freedom of the press. Right?”
“Right,” I say, and Gilmore hands me a couple of Cohibas.
First, I have an interview with a lady from the Portland Press Herald, the local daily, who says she has been covering the case since the original series of arrests. It has been deemed the “biggest drug bust” in the state’s history, she tells me, by the number of people arrested, since there really wasn’t all that much dope seized. Still, the government estimated the street value of the drugs at two-and-a-half million dollars. I assure her I know nothing about any of that.
I look her in the eye and say, “I’m a writer,” the words rolling off my tongue. “A journalist. I’m working on a book about drug smuggling. I was doing research—nothing more. I was never involved in any of this. Now they’re trying to say I was part of some conspiracy because I met a few of these people, really only one, this guy Fred. Now he has implicated me to save himself. That would be like you walking out of here now and being arrested because you interviewed me and I said you were part of a conspiracy. These conspiracy laws are insane. They make no sense in a democracy. They’re un-American. If all it takes is someone else’s word to say you did something illegal, anyone could be guilty.”
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