Mob Rules

by Marc Rainer

  “All the required reports filed with the court?” Trask asked.

  Foote smiled and nodded.

  “We were worried about that, too. Marshall didn’t really have his head on too straight the last year he was here. I made sure he gave me a copy of everything for our files, and I double-checked it. It’s all in the file there: his applications, the periodic reports to the judge, all of it. The t’s are crossed, and the i’s are all dotted. We’re good.”

  “Then we will indict sixty,” Trask said, “assuming that your evidence on all of them is actually in that book of a complaint affidavit. Do you have a drive to give me as well?”

  “Sure do,” Graham said, handing him a thumb drive.

  “Good. How about a list of your targets? In the first section of the affidavit?”

  “It’s there.” Foote was nodding again, still knocked off-balance a bit by Trask’s response that all the defendants would be charged. He now knew that he would be working harder than he had expected. He’d be chasing sixty defendants in a few days, not just a fraction of that number.

  “Great,” Trask said, matter-of-factly. “I can do name searches on them in the affidavit using the drive. Assuming there’s sufficient proof, we’ll name them all in the indictment. I’ll review those this afternoon. If it’s all good, you’ll need to get some arrest teams lined up.”

  “About twenty of ’em.” Foote was thinking out loud now.

  Trask smiled. “Be careful what you ask for, guys.”

  “A lot of these clowns live on the Kansas side,” Graham said. “In the Argentine.”

  “The Argentine?” Trask asked.

  “It’s a section of Kansas City, Kansas,” Foote explained. “It’s become one of our own little problem barrios.”

  “We have overt acts occurring on this side of the river, right?” Trask asked. For federal conspiracies, an action committed in a federal district in furtherance of a conspiracy subjected all members of the conspiracy to trial in that district.

  “Plenty,” Foote said. “The dope usually comes in over there—the Kansas side—into a chop shop run by an old Cuban they call ‘Papi.’ His guys pull the dope out of the load vehicles and then the Michoacanos sling it all over the metro. We have dozens of deliveries on the Missouri side of the line.”

  “Then I just need time to double-check the probable cause on each defendant,” Trask said. “I can do that today, and if everything lines up, draft complaints and indictments tomorrow.”

  “Indictments?” Foote asked, putting emphasis on the last syllable, “as in more than one?”

  “Probably four,” Trask explained. “Fifteen defendants per complaint and indictment. This will be the first time that I hand complaints to these judges, and I don’t want them to think I’m insane. No judge is going to want to try and handle sixty defendants in the same courtroom, even if it’s for just a status hearing. We’ll name fifteen bad guys in each charging document, and then name the other forty-five as unindicted co-conspirators in each complaint or indictment where they’re not charged. That will link them for processing, and we can join any for trial who don’t plead out first. If the evidence is as strong as you say it is, there shouldn’t be too many left after all the guilty pleas.”

  “It’s solid,” Graham said.

  Trask shrugged. “I hope so, for all our sakes. Anything else?”

  They looked at each other and shook their heads.

  “I better start reading, then.”

  They shook hands and the investigators left. Trask called Lynn and told her that he’d be late for dinner.

  “Already?” she asked.

  “Yeah, already.”

  Tyler Cannon pulled the pickup around the side of the building and up to the back door. He honked the horn twice: two short beeps. A man came out through the door two minutes later.

  “I almost pulled out of here,” Cannon said, shaking his head. “Thought you might not be around.”

  “Not to worry. Had to finish a phone call. I told you I was here. What hung you up?”

  “Had a flat coming up Van Brunt. Got the spare on, and stopped to get the flat patched, but it took the spics at the garage forever to do it. I didn’t want to roll without a spare and risk some cop stopping to help me once I got back on the interstate.”

  Cannon got out of the truck and popped the top on the toolbox at the front of the bed. He reached in and pulled out the duffel bag, handing it to his customer.

  “You wanted two, right?” Cannon asked.

  “Yeah. Just two this trip. Probably more next time. Here’s the first half of your money.”

  Cannon took the envelope and stuffed it into an inside pocket of his jeans jacket.

  “I’ll see you on the return trip, then, Dom. You’ve got my number.”

  “I do. We’ll get this out and I’ll have the rest of your cash on your flip. Drive smart.”

  “Always. Be careful.”

  “Always.”

  From behind the open blinds on her back window, Marylou Monaco lowered her digital camera. The room behind her was dark, so as not to show her silhouette on the shades. She drew the blinds completely before walking to the door and switching on the light, then went into the corner of her bedroom that served as her office and plugged the camera into a port on her printer.

  She examined the print as it came out of the machine and nodded with approval. The new lens for the camera had done its job. The shot showed the rear of McElhaney’s. Little Dom’s face was clear on the photo, as was the license on the pickup as it pulled away, leaving Dom standing there with the duffel bag.

  She pulled the mailer out of a desk drawer and slid the photo into it with the rest that she had taken before.

  Kansas City, Missouri

  Cam Turner sat in a chair on the other side of Trask’s desk and looked at him like he thought Trask was insane.

  “You charged sixty defendants?” he asked. “Sixty?”

  “I know it’s a lot, but the proof’s there on all of them. It is a large number for a single case, which is why I told Barrett I’d need a second chair. He told me to pick somebody, and I picked you.”

  “Thanks, I think.”

  Trask laughed a little. “Your enthusiasm is noted.”

  “How the hell are you—”

  “How the hell are we,” Trask corrected him.

  “Fine. How the hell are we going to try that many defendants at the same time?” Cam shook his head as he started to thumb through the criminal complaint and the affidavit. It was a very thick stack of paper.

  “There’s an index after the cover sheet on the affidavit,” Trask explained. “It should help you find the evidence on any given defendant. I put it together so that whichever magistrate draws it can figure out the probable cause without having a stroke. You’ll see that for almost every defendant, there’s a series of wiretap intercepts which are corroborated by physical surveillance and undercover buys. The CCU boys did a nice job on this one.”

  “Foote and Graham?” Cam asked.

  “Yep, the same. That’s the other reason I asked for you. You’re to blame for introducing me to those bandits, so you get to help me carry the water.”

  “They’re good investigators. I can’t think of any better in town.”

  “The affidavit’s good enough to convince me that we’ll have very few defendants actually left for trial,” Trask said. “It’s a wiretap case, almost all of the defendants are Hispanic—some citizens, some legal residents, several illegal—so we have that cultural dynamic working.”

  Cam nodded. He was following Trask’s line of thought. “They’re used to dealing with a more corrupt policia in their old neighborhoods, so they’re very fatalistic, don’t want to fight a system they think they can never beat, despite what their defense attorneys might tell them.”

  “Exactly. And with the wiretaps, they always think we know more than we actually do. We’re not bluffing here since we do have the evidence, but we probably could if
we had to.”

  “How many do you think we’ll see in trial?” Cam asked.

  “Between one and five.”

  Cam did a double take. “Out of sixty?”

  “There’s an old Cuban who ran the chop shop on the Kansas side. They call him ‘Papi.’ On paper, he looks like he might be a hard case. He came over in the old Mariel boat lift during the Carter administration. Some of our intercepts from the wiretap include Papi telling his minions that he’s never going back to jail, no matter what. He’ll probably fight ‘til the end. When I say ‘one-to-five,’ the other number is just a guess. It could be just Papi at trial. We won’t be stingy with the plea offers if we get any cooperation, and we should be able to whittle the number way down by trial time.”

  “J.P. is good with that approach?”

  “He is. We had a long talk about it. I think he’s going to enjoy the press conference where he tells the local fourth estate that we’re cleaning out sixty dope dealers at once.”

  Cam nodded. “He’s not a camera hog, but he’s not shy in front of one, either. I hate the things.”

  “We are in agreement on that. Mr. Barrett can have all the face time he wants. I’d rather not have my grill front and center. Not all our defendants go away forever, and some are pretty nasty. Lynn and I have already decided to move when it’s time to retire. I don’t want to be looking over my shoulder for the rest of my life, and I would if we stayed in a town where I worked. Looks like DC and KC are out as far as final locations.”

  “Have you pulled a magistrate for the complaint yet?” Cam asked.

  “I have. I took your advice, went upstairs, and introduced myself to the deputy courtroom clerks. They pulled a name off the assignment wheel.” Trask looked down at the note on his desk. “Magistrate Judge Heidi Hamilton. What do I need to know about her?”

  Cam gave Trask a look that he’d never seen Cam make before. “Her court’s in session now on six. Status hearings. Come on up with me and I’ll introduce you.”

  They took the stairs up one level. The magistrate judges had their courtrooms on the sixth floor. Cam and Trask entered through the double doors in the rear and quietly took seats in the back. As Trask looked around, he recalled the words of Detective Dixon Carter of the Washington, D.C. Metropolitan Police Department: “Of course the ceilings are thirty feet high; you didn’t think a federal judge’s ego could fit into a smaller room, did you?” The architects in Kansas City had apparently been just as aware of the requirement as those in the nation’s capital.

  Cam saw Trask smiling. “Something funny already?”

  Trask shook his head a little, gazing up at the chandeliers hanging from the very high ceiling. “Nice room.”

  He looked toward the judge’s bench. Magistrate Judge Heidi Hamilton appeared to be having a little difficulty peering over the top of the woodwork in front of her throne. Trask figured that she was short, and that she was probably sitting on a stack of something. She wore her black hair pulled back and tight. She hadn’t smiled at anyone or anything since her entrance.

  Trask deduced from the remarks of the counsel in the hearing that the proceeding was a bail/detention hearing on a dope dealer. The AUSA was arguing that the statute had a favored presumption of detention—holding the defendant without bail—based upon the weight of the cocaine seized and the maximum penalty the crook was facing if convicted. He finished his presentation, and Judge Hamilton gave only an expressionless nod to the defense counsel, an indication that it was his turn.

  The defendant’s lawyer made the usual plea for leniency, citing all the factors that did not normally rise to such a level as to overcome the presumption for detention. The poor shmuck in cuffs had come from a bad home, but he was from Kansas City. All his ties were to the local community, and he wasn’t a risk to flee to some other area. Aside from a couple of prior arrests for doing the same damn thing that he was here for today, he hadn’t been that bad lately, and this was his first federal criminal case. All the others had only been county charges.

  The mouthpiece finished, and the AUSA—a guy who looked to be in his early thirties—stood and started to respond, eager to blow up the worthless argument he had just heard. He made the apparent mistake of speaking before the judge asked him to do so.

  “Mr. Avery, I don’t recall telling you that it was your turn to speak,” Hamilton snapped. Trask recognized her flat, nasal tones as an upper Midwest accent. Probably northern Illinois or southern Wisconsin. Trask shot a glance at Cam. Cam gave Trask that look for the second time, as if to say, “This is what I meant.”

  The AUSA apologized, or at least started to do so. Hamilton cut him off. She didn’t want to hear anymore. She overruled the government motion for detention without explanation, setting a personal appearance bond of $10,000. She called the hearing to a close and started to head through a back door into her chambers when Cam called to her.

  “Judge, could we have a moment, please?”

  Hamilton turned, saw Cam, and the ice on her face melted into a weak smile.

  “What can I do for you, Mr. Turner?” she asked.

  “I was hoping I could introduce our new senior litigation counsel, Judge. This is Jeff Trask.”

  She waved them through the gate into the well of the courtroom and walked forward to meet them. Trask had been correct about her height. She was no more than five feet tall, and that was in heels. She was smiling, however, and seemed to be transitioning from a ruling entity into a humanoid.

  “I’m very pleased to meet you, Mr. Trask,” she said shaking his hand with whatever grip her tiny fingers could muster. “I just got a rather large book from you, I believe. Please follow me back into my chambers.”

  They exited the courtroom through the door in the back and walked through a curving hallway to the entrance to her office. The judge beckoned them through the anteroom into her chambers. There was the usual expensive mahogany desk and matching bookcase wall. The outer wall of the office was floor-to-ceiling windows, an impressive view looking out across the Missouri River into the town of North Kansas City, Missouri.

  Trask waited his turn to speak, having observed the scene in the courtroom. To his surprise, she invited them to join her at a small conference table. Trask saw his four complaints and Foote’s affidavit stacked at the end.

  “The clerk brought me this book of yours, Mr. Trask,” the judge said, smiling. “Very impressive, but very unusual. Do you really have the required evidence to go forward on all these people?”

  “May I, Judge?” Trask asked, deferentially pointing to the affidavit.

  “Yes, please,” she said. Her tone transitioned from the sharp courtroom snap to a pleasant, conversational pitch.

  Trask opened the affidavit and showed her the pages indexing the proof against each target.

  “I thought this would help the court compartmentalize and evaluate the proof against each prospective defendant. We did this on some major cases in DC, and the courts there seemed to appreciate it, so I put an index together for this case.”

  Judge Hamilton took a moment to look over the index and nodded. approvingly.

  “I do think this will help a great deal. Thank you. When do you need this?”

  “I know there’s a lot there, Judge,” Trask responded. “Since today is Monday, would it give you enough time to review the material if we scheduled arrests for Friday morning? Assuming, of course, that you find the necessary probable cause on all defendants and that no revisions are required.”

  She paused for a moment, then nodded. “Yes, that should give me enough time. Why don’t you have your affiant agent or detective here at 8 a.m. sharp on Friday morning? I’ll sign everything at that time. If I see any need for corrections before then, I’ll call you.”

  “That will work, Judge,” Trask said. “Thank you very much. Sorry to hand you a monster like this on my first case before you.”

  “Oh, I’m sure I can manage,” she said. Trask thought he detected a hint of the defe
nsive snap returning to her voice. She tried to smile again, and it looked forced. “It was very nice to meet you, Mr. Trask.”

  “Judge,” Trask said, turning to follow Cam out of the chambers.

  They waited until they reached the privacy of the stairwell before they spoke in hushed tones.

  “What’s her story?” Trask asked.

  “Hired from a private slip-and-fall firm here in town by the judges of the District Court to serve as a magistrate judge,” Cam said. “No background in criminal work whatsoever before hitting the bench. What’s your impression?”

  “You obviously didn’t want to poison my opinion with your own,” Trask chuckled. “Let’s see. Short, female, no experience for the majority of the job, so she’s got every defensive mechanism lined up and ready to fire if anyone challenges her about anything. She’s certainly not confident in the courtroom yet, so if she even suspects a challenge to her newfound authority, she fires blind. Get her off and away from the bench and she seems almost human, unless she feels any of those challenges coming at her. What do you think?”

  “I think you nailed it, as usual. I think her royal Heidiness is what I call robe-bipolar.”

  Trask laughed. “I’ll have to remember that. How do you think she’ll treat us on this case?”

  Cam shrugged. “You saw her in the detention hearing. I wouldn’t get my hopes too high for winning many of those detention motions. On the other hand, she seems to be a bit impressed with your DC credentials. That might play in our favor if we don’t—”

  “If we don’t make it a challenge point to her?”

  “Exactly.”

  Trask nodded. “Works for me. In the meantime, shoot me a copy of your best brief on the local and circuit detention case law. We’ll make it look like something I do on every matter. Maybe she’ll actually read it and learn something.”

  They reached the door to their office space and the receptionist clicked them through the security door. Cam broke away and headed for his office.