by Don Winslow
“I would just as soon put you behind bars for betraying your oath, your badge and the public trust,” Paz says, “but we have higher-value targets to go after. That being the case, I’m just going to hold my nose and work with you.”
She opens a file. “Let’s get down to business. You will have to make a proffer, during which you will admit to any and all crimes you committed up to this moment. If you lie, by omission or commission, any arrangement we make will be null and void. If you commit any further crimes that go beyond the scope of this investigation and do not have our specific approval, any arrangement we make will be null and void. If you perjure yourself in any sworn affidavit or in testimony, any arrangement we make will be null and void. Do you understand?”
Malone says, “I won’t go after cops.”
Paz looks over at O’Dell and Malone sees it—he didn’t tell her about that part of the deal. O’Dell looks across the coffee table at him. “Let’s cross that bridge when we come to it.”
“No,” Malone says. “There is no bridge that goes there.”
“Then you go to jail,” Paz says.
“Then I go to fucking jail.”
And fuck you.
“Do you think this is a joke, Sergeant Malone?” Paz asks.
“You want me to bring you lawyers, I’ll hold my nose and work with you,” Malone says. “You ask me to work against cops, you can go fuck yourself.”
“Turn off the tape,” Paz snaps at Weintraub. She looks at Malone. “Maybe you have me confused with one of your usual Southern District, prep school Ivy League dickwads. I’m a PR from the South Bronx, tougher streets than you came from, hijo de puta. I’m the middle child of six kids, my father worked in a kitchen, my mother sewed knockoffs for the Chinese downtown. I went to Fordham. So if you fuck around with me, you donkey asshole, I’ll send you to a federal supermax where you’ll be drooling your oatmeal inside of six weeks. Compréndeme, puñeto? Turn the tape back on.”
Weintraub turns the tape back on.
“This tape will be filed securely and only accessible to the people at this table,” Paz says. “There will be no transcript. Agent O’Dell will summarize these proceedings in a report, which will be accessible only to authorized Southern District, New York State and FBI personnel.”
“That 302 could get me killed,” Malone says.
O’Dell says, “I guarantee its security.”
“Right, because there are no crooked feds,” Malone says. “No lawyer upside down on his house, no secretary whose husband is behind on the vig—”
Paz says, “If you know names—”
“I don’t know any names,” Malone says. “I only know 302s have a way of winding up in social clubs next to espresso cups, and that the reason there won’t be a transcript is so the bureau can put its own spin on what I’ve said.”
Paz sets down her pen. “Do you want to make a proffer or not?”
Malone sighs. “Yes.”
No proffer, no deal.
She swears him in. Malone promises to tell the truth, the whole truth . . .
“You’ve seen evidence of yourself accepting a payment for referring a defendant to legal counsel,” Paz says. “Do you acknowledge that?”
“Yes.”
“You also appear to be entering a conspiracy to bribe a prosecutor to fix a case on behalf of that defendant. Is that accurate?”
“Yes.”
“Is that called ‘buying a case’?”
“That’s what I call it.”
“How many times,” Paz asks, “have you ‘bought a case’ or facilitated in such?”
Malone shrugs.
Paz looks at him with disgust. “So many you’ve lost count?”
“You’re mixing two things,” Malone explains. “Sometimes I’d refer a suspect to a lawyer for a fee. Other times I would help approach a prosecutor to buy a case and get a kickback from the prosecutor for that, too.”
“Thank you for the clarification,” Paz says. “How many simple referral fees have you accepted from defense attorneys?”
“Over the years?” Malone asks. “Maybe hundreds.”
“And from prosecutors who’ve been paid off?”
“Probably twenty or thirty,” Malone says. “Over the years.”
“Do you deliver the payment to the prosecutor?” Weintraub asks.
“Sometimes.”
“How many times?” Paz asks.
“Twenty?”
“Are you asking me or telling me?” Paz says.
“I didn’t keep records.”
“I’m sure you didn’t,” Paz says. “So roughly twenty. I want names. I want dates. I want everything you can remember.”
So this is crossing a line, Malone thought. If I start naming names, there’s no going back.
I’m a rat.
He starts with the oldest cases, giving them people he knows are retired or have moved on to other jobs. Most prosecutors don’t stay in the job for too long, but use it as an apprenticeship to get to the more lucrative defense bar. This will still jam them up, but not as bad as the guys still on the job.
“Mark Piccone?” O’Dell asks.
“I took money from Piccone,” Malone says. Because what the fuck, they all heard it.
“Is that the first time?” Paz asks.
“Did it look like the first time?” Malone says. “I’d say I’ve referred Piccone probably a dozen times.”
“How many times have you taken payoffs to prosecutors for him?”
“Three.”
“Were they all with Justin Michaels?” Paz asks.
Michaels is small potatoes, Malone thinks, why all this for little routine shit? Michaels isn’t a bad guy—he’ll take money on lowball busts that aren’t going anywhere anyway, but he’s stand-up on the assaults, the robberies, the rapes.
Now they’re going to jam him up.
No, Malone tells himself, now you’re going to jam him up.
But fuck it, they know anyway.
He says, “Two of them were with Michaels.”
“Which cases?” Weintraub asks. He’s angry.
“One was a dope case, a quarter key of coke,” Malone says. “Guy named Mario Silvestri.”
“That motherfucker,” Weintraub snaps.
It draws a wry smile from Paz.
“What was the other one?” Weintraub asks.
“It was a dogshit gun charge on a smack slinger named . . .” Malone says. “I don’t remember his real name, his street name was ‘Long Dog.’ Clemmons, maybe.”
“DeAndre Clemmons,” Weintraub says.
“Yeah, that’s it,” Malone says. “Michaels jacked up the chain of evidence, the judge threw it out in the evidentiary. You want the name of the judge?”
“Later,” O’Dell says.
“Yeah, later,” Malone says. “And I’ll bet that somehow won’t make it into the 302.”
“So Silvestri and Clemmons,” Paz says. “And now Bailey.”
“You weren’t going to get convictions on those guys, anyway,” Malone says, “so what difference does it make if someone other than drug dealers made a little money for a change?”
“Are you really trying to justify this?” Paz asks.
“I’m only saying that we fined these skels a few grand,” Malone says, “which is more than you could have done.”
“So you distribute justice,” Paz says.
You’re damn right I do, Malone thinks. More than the “system” does. I distribute it on the street when I beat some creep who’s molested a child, I deliver it in the courts when I “testilie” about some heroin dealer you’d never convict if I didn’t, and yeah, I deliver it when I fine these motherfuckers some money you’d never get out of them.
He says, “There’s all kinds of justice.”
“And I suppose you donate this money to charity?” Paz asks.
“Some of it.”
Every now and then he takes an envelope of cash and mails it off to St. Jude’s, but these m
otherfuckers don’t need to know that. Malone doesn’t want their dirty hands touching something clean.
“What else have you done?” Paz asks. “I need full disclosure.”
Jesus shit, Malone thinks.
It’s Pena.
This has all been a setup for Pena.
But do you think I’m going to volunteer it? Malone thinks. You think I’m some junkie skel in the interview room who’s going to go for anything just to get well?
“If you ask questions, I’ll answer them,” Malone says.
“Have you ever robbed drug dealers?” Paz asks.
This is about Pena, Malone thinks. If they know anything, they’ll press on it. So keep it short, don’t give them an opening. “No.”
“Have you ever taken drugs or money that you haven’t vouchered?” Paz asks.
“No.”
“Have you ever sold drugs?”
“No.”
“You’ve never given drugs to an informant?” Paz asks. “Legally, that constitutes selling.”
I have to give her something, Malone thinks. “Yes, I’ve done that.”
“Is that a common practice?”
“For me, yes,” Malone says. “That’s one way I garner the information that gets me the arrests I bring to you.”
And have you ever seen an addict suffer? he thinks. Seen one jones? Shake, cramp up, beg, cry? You’d fix them, too.
“Is it common practice among other cops?” Paz asks now.
“I’m speaking for myself,” Malone says. “Not other cops.”
“But you must know.”
“Next question.”
“Have you ever beaten a suspect to obtain information or a confession?” Paz asks.
Are you fucking kidding me? I’ve whaled the living shit out of them. Sometimes literally. “I wouldn’t say ‘beaten.’”
“What would you say?”
“Look,” Malone says, “maybe I’ve slapped a guy. Shoved him into a wall. That’s about it.”
“That’s all?” Paz asks.
“What did I just say?” You ask but you don’t want to know. You want to live on the Upper East Side or in the Village or up in Westchester and you don’t want the shit leaking into your nice neighborhoods. You don’t want to know how that happens for you. You just want me to do it.
“What about other cops?” Paz asks. “What about your teammates? Are they in on selling cases?”
“I’m not talking about my teammates.”
“Come on,” Weintraub says, “you expect us to believe that Russo and Montague aren’t in on this with you?”
“I don’t have any expectations about what you believe or don’t.”
“You make all that money by yourself?” Weintraub says. “You don’t cut them in? What kind of partner are you?”
Malone doesn’t answer.
“It’s unbelievable on the face of it,” Weintraub mutters.
“The proffer requires full disclosure,” Paz says.
“I already made it clear,” Malone says, “I won’t go after cops. Here’s what you got now, chica. You got one defense attorney for capping, you got one cop for bragging he can buy a case. You can get Piccone disbarred, you can take my shield and maybe put me inside for a couple of years, but you and I both know your bosses are going to look at that and ask, Is that all we get for our money? You’ll look like an asshole.
“So now let me tell you how it’s going to go,” he continues. “It’s as simple as ABC. Anyone But Cops. I’ll get you Michaels. I’ll get you a few defense lawyers and a prosecutor or two. I’ll even throw in a couple of judges if you have the balls. In exchange for that, I walk. No jail time, I keep my shield and gun.”
Malone stands up, walks to the door and puts his fingers to his mouth and ear, like Call me.
He’s waiting for the elevator when O’Dell comes out.
It must have been a quick meeting.
“All right,” O’Dell says. “We have a deal.”
Yeah we do, Malone thinks.
Because everyone can be bought.
It’s just a matter of finding the right coin.
Claudette’s sick.
Nose-running, body-shaking, bone-aching junkie sick.
Malone has to give her credit, though—at least she’s trying to kick again.
But she quickly disabuses him of that notion. “I tried to score but I couldn’t find my guy. Did you do something to him?”
“I didn’t hurt him, if that’s what you mean,” Malone says. “You get a doctor to give you something? Because if not, I got a guy—”
“Trauma doctor gave me some Robaxin,” she says.
“You’re not afraid he’ll dime you to admin?”
“After the shit I seen him do?”
“Is it helping?”
“Does it look like it’s helping?”
He’s heating up water to make some herbal tea. The herbs will do exactly shit, but the tea might warm her up a little.
“Let me take you to detox.”
“No.”
“I get worried, you know?”
“Don’t,” she says. “Alcoholics die in withdrawal, not heroin users. We just get sick. And go out and use again.”
“That’s what I’m worried about.”
“If I was going to, I would have,” she says.
She finishes the tea. He wraps a blanket around her and then holds her, rocks her like a baby.
It was another guy, he’d have told him to cut this woman loose. A junkie, what you do is you hold a funeral like she’s dead, you grieve, and then you move on, because the person you knew ain’t there anymore.
But he can’t seem to do that with Claudette.
Chapter 13
Next morning, Malone goes into Rand’s down the street from the courthouse with a copy of the New York Post under his arm. A few minutes later, Piccone slides into the booth across from him and sets the Daily News on the table. “Page Six is good today.”
“How good?”
“Twenty thousand dollars good.”
It costs more to buy some cases than others. Simple possession, a couple of grand. Possession with intent to sell, you’re looking double digits. A heavyweight with intention could go six figures, easy, but then again, if the defendant has that kind of weight, he has that kind of money.
Weapons charges these days, it gets up there, especially if the defendant has a yellow sheet. Fat Teddy could be going for five to seven years, so this is a bargain.
Malone has to pin Piccone down, they told him. Pretend the conversation is being played for a jury. “If I get Michaels to sell the case for twenty, you good with that?”
Malone takes the Daily News, sets it down beside him.
“Only if you get him to drop, decline to prosecute.”
“For twenty K I can get him to say it was his gun.”
“What are you having?” Piccone asks. “The pancakes are sort of edible.”
“No, I gotta move.” He gets up with the Daily News, leaves the Post for Piccone. He goes into the men’s room and cuts $5K from the envelope inside the paper, puts that in his pocket and goes on the street.
Malone’s always thought that 100 Centre Street is one of the most depressing places on earth.
Nothing good ever happens in the Criminal Courts Building.
Even when the rare good, like a bad guy getting convicted, sneaks through the bad, it’s always behind a tragedy. There’s always a victim, at least one grieving family, or a bunch of kids whose daddy or mommy is going away.
Malone finds Michaels in the hallway. Hands him the paper. “You should read this.”
“Yeah, why?”
“Fat Teddy Bailey.”
“Bailey, he’s fucked.”
“Fifteen K get your dick out of his ass?”
“Did you take a finder’s fee?” Michaels asks.
“You want this money or you don’t?” Malone asks. “But it’s for a pass, not a plea.”
Michaels puts th
e paper in his canvas bag. Then he starts the show. “Goddamn it, Malone, this gets tossed on a Dunaway.”
Probable cause.
A couple of people glance over as they pass by. Malone glances over to make sure they’re watching and then for their benefit he yells, “Known felon, and I saw a gun bulge!”
“What kind of coat was Bailey wearing?”
“The hell am I, Ralph Lauren?” Malone says, playing it out.
“A down coat,” Michaels says. “A North Face down coat. You gonna stand there and tell me—no, you gonna tell a judge—you could see a .25 under that? I’m supposed to go in there and look like an asshole? A racist asshole, to boot?”
“You’re supposed to go in there and do your job!”
“You do yours!” Michaels yells. “Make a goddamn bust I can work with.”
“You’re going to put this mook back on the street.”
“No, you’re going to put him back on the street,” Michaels says, walking away.
“Pussy,” Malone says. “Jesus Christ.”
People look at him standing in the hallway. But it’s not unusual—cops and ADAs get into it all the time.
Malone goes up to the third floor of the old textile building in the Garment District where O’Dell has set up his operation.
A couple of desks and the hello-phone. Red boxes of files. Cheap metal cabinets, a coffeemaker. Malone hands him the five grand, shucks his jacket, rips off the wire and sets it on the desk.
“Did you get it?” O’Dell asks.
“Yeah, I got it.”
Weintraub grabs the tape, fast-forwards it to the conversation with Michaels. Listens and then says, “God fucking damn it.”
“This gonna do it?” Malone asks. “I put them both in the shit for you?”
“What, you feel bad?” Weintraub says. “You want to take their place?”
“Shut up, Stan,” says O’Dell. “You did a good job, Denny.”
“Yeah, I’m a good rat,” Malone says, heading for the door and out of that sickening fucking place, literally a rat-hole. And what’s this fucking “Denny”? he thinks. We friends now or something? It’s all “Stan” and “Denny,” like we’re on the same team now? And patting me on the head, “You did a good job, Denny”? I’m your fucking dog now?
“Where are you going?” O’Dell asks.
“The fuck is it to you?” Malone asks. “Or what, I’m not free to leave, you’re afraid I’m going to go warn the guy? Don’t worry, I’d be too ashamed.”
