by Marc Rainer
Cannon read Silvestri’s face, watching the blood and rage well up inside. Little Dom had not heard the word “no” that often in his pampered life and didn’t like hearing the word when he did.
Don’t be stupid, man, Cannon thought, pushing the safety button on his pistol to the off position.
“Get the hell out of here!” Dom finally yelled. “I’ll take it myself.”
“See you in two weeks, then,” Cannon said, rolling up the window and pulling his hand back off the 9mm.
“Yeah, whatever.” Silvestri dismissed him with a contemptuous wave and headed back toward the bar.
Cannon kept him in sight in the rearview mirror until the truck was around the corner of the building and back on the street.
The main bullpen of the Kansas City Police Department’s Career Criminal Unit was packed, as more than sixty officers and federal agents were spread around the desks and tables. Several were standing in the open spaces between the tables. Trask checked his watch. Five-thirty p.m.
Tommy Land shouted the assembled investigators to order. He was standing at the front of the room in front of a large, whiteboard flip chart. The names of the lead investigators—Foote and Graham—and the assigned federal prosecutors—Trask and Cam Turner—were posted on the whiteboards with their cell phone numbers and the operation’s assigned radio frequencies. The team assignments were handed out on paper. Land gave each team of three cops the names and addresses of three targets to be arrested. He went over the arrest and transportation procedures to be followed, and then handed the meeting over to John Foote.
Foote reminded everyone that the highest-value target of the sixty defendants was “Papi,” the chop-shop owner and leader of the ring. Any other arrestees who waived their rights and indicated a willingness to be questioned were to be interrogated first about Papi and his role in the conspiracy before the investigators moved on to other topics. The location of any undistributed dope was also a high-priority topic. The drugs were to be confiscated, both for evidence and to get the stuff off the streets. All targets needed to be asked for consent to search their residences and cars, since consent removed the need for warrants and all the extra work that those required, and the “plain view” doctrine meant that anything seen by the arrest teams in the course of making their arrests could be photographed in place and then seized.
John wrapped up his remarks and asked if Cam or Trask had anything to add.
“Just call with questions,” Trask said. “Agent Foote and I have been directed to be in Magistrate Judge Hamilton’s chambers at 8 a.m. tomorrow for her to sign the complaints and issue the warrants. That will hopefully give everyone time to hit the streets and grab their targets before they wake up and get out and about. We had hoped that she could sign them before now, but John here, being a fed, wrote a War and Peace affidavit”—Trask paused and waited for the chuckles to die down—”and she told me this afternoon that she needed tonight to finish reading it and check off the probable cause on each bad guy.”
“I’ll give everybody a shout on the radio as soon as the warrants are signed,” Foote concluded.
“Sounds like a plan, then,” Sgt. Land said. “Let’s be careful and safe out there. Remember, gloves and masks before you handle any dope. It’s been laced with fentanyl.”
Indianapolis, Indiana
Dominic Silvestri, Jr., pulled his BMW into a moderately priced motel.
I could find something a little cheaper, but I’d probably get something with bedbugs. Damn Tyler. Now I have to drive all this way myself. If I wasn’t carrying this shit I could have flown.
He checked in and lugged the duffel bag into the room. He used the toilet before grabbing his cell phone.
“Dom?”
“Yeah, Vic, It’s me. I’m having to bring the stuff myself this time. I should be there late tomorrow night.”
“Okay. Problems with your delivery boy?”
“Not really. Just a one-time scheduling issue. I’ll see you soon, okay?”
“Sure. Drive safe. Don’t get stopped.”
“Not a chance. Cruise control.”
Kansas City, Missouri
Marylou Monaco sat at the bar in McElhaney’s, sipping a Corona Light. The little .45 was in the purse on her lap. She had no real intention of using it yet, but she did intend to use it eventually, and had told herself that she never knew when the perfect opportunity might just pop up. It was better to be prepared, and so she was. There were two other customers at the other end of the bar. No one else was behind her. The tables and chairs were empty.
Marylou checked her watch and saw that it was a little before ten.
Not that late yet. I wonder how this joint stays open with such a limited clientele?
The woman behind the bar finished a short conversation with the couple at the far end and waved as they got up to leave.
Good to know. If I get here this late, I may be the only one around.
The bartender came over to check on her, and to talk.
“Need another one yet, hon?”
“Not just yet,” Marylou answered. Her beer was still half full, anyway. “Maybe in a bit.” She looked around the empty room. “Slow night?”
“Yeah. A lot of Thursdays are like this. Weekends are busier. You live around here?”
“Right behind here, actually,” Marylou said. “My backyard backs up to your parking lot.”
The bartender looked at her for a moment. “Your boy named Tommy?”
“He was.”
“Was?”
“He’s dead now.”
“Oh, wow. I’m sorry, hon. I didn’t know. I knew that Tommy used to come in a good bit, and I hadn’t seen him for a while.”
“Like I said, he’s gone.”
“I’m real sorry. Wanna talk about it?”
“Not really.” I might say something to tip you off.
“Okay, too soon. I get it. Like I said, real sorry.”
Marylou just nodded.
The bartender offered her hand. “I’m Sharon.”
Marylou shook it. “Mary Louise Monaco. Marylou.”
“Very nice to meet you. You lost your husband in the war, too, didn’t you? I think I heard Tommy talkin’ about that one night with Dom.”
There’s an opening, thanks. “Yes, he was killed in Iraq. Who’s Dom?” As if I didn’t know, but I get to play the grieving damsel in distress here. Keep all the guards down.
“Dom’s the owner. My boss.”
Marylou looked around the bar again.
“Absentee landlord, is he?”
Sharon laughed. “Nah, he’s just out of town for a couple of days, had to drive to the east coast for something. He’s usually here evenings. We have another bartender who works days. It’s usually Dom and me and a waitress at night. I just sent her home early tonight ’cause of this huge crowd.”
Marylou smiled. “I guess I’m glad I could come in to keep you company then. I was tired of watching TV by myself.”
“I’m sure glad you did. I gotta hang around until one on weeknights. Dom’s rules.” She looked at the bottle in front of Marylou. “Knock that back and I’ll get you another one. They’re on the house tonight.”
“In that case, I will. Thanks very much.”
“My pleasure. It’ll keep you here a little while longer and keep me from talking to the wall or myself.”
Sharon popped the top off the bottle and handed it to her. Marylou decided that she liked Sharon a little, and that the bartender probably had no idea what was keeping the bar financially afloat. She would have to find a way to do what she had to do when Sharon was not around.
“You here every night, then?” she asked.
“No. We’re closed Sundays and Mondays, and sometimes I’ll take Tuesdays off to get a three-day weekend of sorts. Dom handles the bar when I’m not around. He doesn’t mix drinks too good, but at least he can hand out bottles of beer. If you see him behind the bar, I’m probably at home.”
Marylou smiled. She hung around half an hour past the end of the second beer to give Sharon some company. It was the least she could do.
At 7:45 a.m., Special Agent John Foote, Cam Turner and Trask were waiting in the outer office of the chambers of Magistrate Judge Heidi Hamilton. Trask was starting to get a little nervous. Judge Hamilton had not arrived yet, and Trask was not the only one getting antsy. Foote stood and started to pace, Cam kept giving Trask a questioning look, and Sgt. Land had been on the phone with Foote twice already from Land’s seat in the mobile command post.
Trask walked over to the secretary and asked if she had heard from the judge yet. Just as she was shaking her head to say “no,” her desk phone rang.
“Yes, ma’am,” she answered. Trask watched the lines race across her forehead as it tightened into a concerned wince. “They’re all here now.” More wincing. “Yes, Judge, I’ll tell them.”
The secretary looked up at Trask apologetically. “The judge says she has a hole in the waterline feeding her water heater in her garage, and that she might be an hour or two late getting in. She hopes that doesn’t inconvenience you too much.”
Foote stormed out into the hallway, snorting. Trask nodded at Cam. He nodded back and followed Foote, hoping to keep him from blowing a gasket.
Trask leaned over the front of the secretary’s desk, borrowed a pen and a post-it note, and wrote the number for his cell on it.
“Can you have the judge call me, please?” Trask asked. “Immediately?”
“I’ll try,” she said. She whispered, “I’m sorry,” as she dialed the number.
Trask bit his tongue. Hard. The judge’s secretary had more appreciation for what this delay meant than the judge did.
Without asking for permission, Trask walked into the judge’s conference room and closed the door behind him. His blood was about as hot as John Foote’s, but he remembered his conversation with Lynn.
Make it a respectful teaching moment. No challenges unless absolutely necessary.
He waited for just a moment before his phone rang.
“This is Jeff Trask, Judge.”
“Yes, Mr. Trask?”
“Your Honor, I’m speaking to you alone from your conference room. I hope you don’t mind.”
“No, go ahead.”
“Thank you. Judge, I do not mean at all to minimize what you might be facing at home, but I thought I owed it to you to explain what we’re facing here.”
A slight pause. “Okay.” There was a little bit of a question in her response.
“Judge, I spent a good part of the evening last night with sixty officers and agents planning the arrests this morning. We have twenty arrest teams spread across the entire metro, looking for sixty defendants, three per arrest team. The operations plan called for us to have the warrants in hand by this time this morning, so that we could grab the targets before they left their homes and spread out even further on the streets. If we go now, we have a very good idea of where each of those targets will be. We also have a very good idea of any safety issues we might be facing at each location. The longer we wait, the more likely it is that it will be harder to find each of these guys. The word will spread to some of them from the earlier arrests, and we may never find them at all. Worst of all, the danger to the arrest teams and the public rises exponentially if we have to deal with fluid situations and locations: that is, to try and make the arrests on the streets.”
Another pause. “I had no idea,” Hamilton finally said.
“You could hardly be expected to without spending some time in this field, Judge. I know you came from a civil law firm. It’s not your fault.”
“It would take me almost an hour to get there from east Blue Springs.”
“We have another option, Judge.”
“And what is that?”
“You’ve read the affidavit and the complaint. Did you see any problems with them?”
“No, they seem to be in good order.”
“Great. Then you could swear the agent—Agent Foote of the FBI, the affiant—to his affidavit orally, over the phone, and we could sign the papers later when you get in. You could give us the go-ahead now after taking his oath orally, we could proceed with the arrests, and you could stay home for a couple of hours and deal with your own fluid situation.”
That drew a little laugh. “There is far too much fluid in my garage at the moment.”
“That’s what I heard. Can you hold for just a moment while I get Agent Foote?”
“Yes.”
Trask opened the door and was relieved to see that Cam had reeled Foote back into the secretary’s waiting room. Foote looked at Trask with both a question and fire in his eyes.
“The judge can take your oath to the affidavit over the phone,” Trask explained, “and then we’re on go status.”
Trask handed Foote the cell phone, heard him say, “Yes, I do, Judge,” and then Foote handed the phone back to Trask. Trask waved him toward the door, and Foote and Cam raced out.
“Thank you, Judge,” Trask said after the door closed.
“Thank you, Mr. Trask. I do have one question, though. If I had told you to wait another day, what would you have done?”
“That’s what I was hoping to avoid, Judge. I would have had no choice but to take the papers to one of the other magistrates or a district court judge and request that the case be reassigned.”
“That would have been very embarrassing to me. You made the right call by calling me. Thank you.”
“No problem, Judge. If you don’t mind me saying so, you made the right call as well.”
“I don’t mind at all. You have a very good reputation, and I can see why. I appreciate the opportunity to avoid a mistake.” There was yet another pause. “I guess we’ll be very busy next week with preliminary hearings?”
“Not with preliminaries, judge. We’re requesting the three-day detention hold on all these defendants, and the applicable statute grants that delay to the government. Most of the defendants are also illegally in the country, so ICE will have detainers on them as well. As far as the preliminary hearings are concerned, I’ll be presenting the case to the grand jury during the three-day window, so no preliminary hearings will be required if the grand jury presents a true bill. We’ll just have the detention hearings to get through.”
“I see. You seem to have planned this pretty thoroughly.”
“It’s not my first rodeo.”
“But it is mine, at least one this size. Thanks for ushering me through it.”
“Happy to do so. We’ll bring the defendants in as soon as we can process them so that they can have their initial appearances. Will you be in by this afternoon?”
“I’ll make sure that I am. Thank you.”
“Thank you, Your Honor.”
Trask ended the call. And thank you, Lynn.
Kansas City, Missouri
“We have a couple of songbirds,” John Foote said, handing Trask two summary sheets. Trask took a look at the profiles prepared by Foote and Graham to aid the arrest teams during the sweep.
The first target was one of the illegal Michoacanos. If he still had family in Mexico, he probably wouldn’t be giving up much, and anything he did say would be suspect. If he crossed his cartel by cooperating, his mother or his wife or sister could be missing a head in a week or so. The guy looked to be fairly low-level within the organization anyway, and Trask was looking for more mid-to-upper level cooperators at this point. Their corroborative admissions would be useful both in the grand jury and to force guilty pleas out of their co-conspirators.
The second profile was much more to Trask’s liking. First, he was a legal resident of the United States, with a family and property in the country. He had more to lose from a lengthy jail sentence, and accordingly, Trask had more to offer him in return for honest cooperation. Having been in the country for a few years, he also spoke functional English. Finally—and best of all—he was one of the trusted hands at Papi’s chop shop. He had prob
ably seen, heard, and done it all within the conspiracy.
“Number two, Arturo Diaz,” Trask told Foote. “Let’s take him. Put him in the first interrogation room, please. Has he waived his rights?”
Foote nodded, and showed Trask a signed, written waiver form. Both the English and Spanish sections of the Miranda waiver had been signed by the defendant. He wouldn’t be claiming a language problem later. Foote headed down a hallway to get the new witness secured in the interview room.
“How ‘bout me?” Cam asked. “You want me to take the other guy?”
“Sure. Give it a shot,” Trask said. “He might surprise us. He’s an illegal, so treat everything he says with a shaker of salt. Not a grain—a shaker.”
Cam nodded. “Got it.”
Foote stepped into the hallway and waved Trask in. Their new witness was ready to talk. Billy Graham was sitting with Diaz at a small table.
Trask introduced himself and asked Diaz if he would need an interpreter.
He shook his head. “I speak pretty good English. I’ve been here for several years and my wife is American.”
“That how you got your green card?” Trask asked.
Diaz nodded this time.
“I want to make sure you understand your rights,” Trask said. “I’m not going to read them for you again; I’d rather hear from you what you believe your rights to be, and what your signature on these papers means.”
The interview was being recorded on video and audio. A decent response to Trask’s request would mean that no defense attorney would be filing any motion to suppress the statement that they were about to take.
“I know that I don’t have to talk with you or answer any questions. I could just keep my mouth shut and remain silent. I know I have the right to have a lawyer here. I don’t want to use those rights. I want to cooperate and help myself if I can. I have a family here.”
