Mob Rules

by Marc Rainer

  “The detentions will also encourage some early pleas,” Trask said. “Some of these guys have already been through the system, and they know that federal pen time is better than preliminary lock-up time in some county holding tank. The federal facilities have better food, more programs, even better TVs. With a wiretap case staring them in the face, most will just want to get it all over with as soon as possible and start getting credit for good time in their new homes.”

  “Get any sleep this weekend?” Foote asked Trask, changing the subject. “You look tired.”

  “My usual five or six hours per night,” Trask answered. “A little bit less on Friday after all the excitement. I had a little trouble turning my head off, and I was delayed a while getting home after getting pulled over for speeding in Raytown.”

  They all broke up.

  “How fast were you going?” Graham asked.

  “About five over.”

  “And he still wrote you?” Billy was scowling.

  “That he did.” Trask started laughing himself, remembering the encounter. “The cop who stopped me—who I think was fourteen—started the ticket before asking me anything or giving me an opening to explain who I was or what we’d been doing all day. When I told the kid about it, he actually started crying.”

  That got more chuckles from everyone in the room. Graham got up and left.

  “Where’s he going?” Trask asked.

  “Probably to make some calls,” Foote said. “Billy lives in Raytown and knows everyone out there.”

  “I’m okay paying the ticket,” Trask protested.

  Foote waved him off. “Don’t sweat it. Nobody’s going to do anything improper.”

  Billy was back in five minutes.

  “Don’t mail the ticket in, and don’t go to court,” he said. “If you do, that’s the only way the kid or his sergeant will feel any heat. Just pretend it never happened.”

  “I didn’t ask you to do that, Billy,” Trask replied.

  “Noted,” Graham quipped, doing his best imitation of a judge on the bench.

  They spent the rest of the morning prepping for the grand jury. Trask would take the first thirty defendants, with Foote serving as the witness and summarizing the evidence against each one. Cam and Billy would handle the final thirty. They had the whole afternoon blocked out on the schedule in order to field any questions or pull more recorded phone calls if any grand juror had any lingering doubt on any target.

  They grabbed a bite to eat in the basement snack bar before going to the third floor and the grand jury room. Foote and Trask chewed up an hour of time with their thirty defendants before handing it off to Cam and Billy, who used another hour. There were very few questions. Ten minutes after Trask gave the case to the grand jury to vote, they returned the four indictments, each with fifteen defendants named. “True bills.” The team took the elevator to Hamilton’s courtroom on the sixth floor where the indictments were officially returned.

  “You are true to your word, Mr. Trask,” the judge said after accepting the indictments. “You’ve saved us quite a bit of time since no preliminary hearings are required now.”

  Trask nodded deferentially. “Trying to do my part, Your Honor. I don’t like wasting the court’s time, or my own.”

  After she left the courtroom, Cam couldn’t help himself.

  “Suck-up.”

  “Noted,” Trask said.

  “I think I’ve solved your distribution problem, Dom.”

  Dominic Silvestri, Jr., leaned back in the swivel chair in his office as he bumped up the volume on his cell phone.

  “Really? How’d you do that?”

  “I found someone we both can trust, naturally. You know him. And since he runs a garage, I think we’ll be able to work around those recent arrests as well. You’re still sure there’s nobody in that group of Mexicans who can point the feds at you?”

  “Positive. And my driver’s good to go as well.”

  “Excellent. Can you be here at four?”

  “Sure. See you then.”

  Silvestri opened the bottom drawer and checked on his new pistol, a Colt model 1911 that he’d just picked up from Frank at the liquor store. It was where everyone in the Kansas City mob went to get their guns. They were usually in good shape, and the price wasn’t ridiculous for a weapon that wasn’t traceable. Frank had told him that he’d taken it in on trade from some woman who thought it was too big.

  I probably won’t need it, but you never know. I don’t know who the boss is talking about yet. So what if I know the guy? I might not like him. What the hell, the old man probably just didn’t want to mention the name on the phone. He stands to make money from getting everything back up and running. He’ll get his cut when we start selling again. Like he said, that’s the way our thing works. At least he’s actually doin’ something to earn his share this time.

  He put the pistol in his waist band and pulled his windbreaker down to cover it before heading for his car.

  Gladstone, Missouri

  Dom rapped the bar on the lion’s head door knocker three times. The older man opened the door and motioned him into an office to the left of the entryway.

  “How are ya, bud?” another man in the office called out.

  Silvestri grinned and relaxed immediately, seeing the guy sitting in the office. Sammy Collavito had been in his high school class and had played guard on the same football team. Sammy was about five-ten and stocky. His playing weight in high school had been just north of two hundred. Dom figured that he had added at least fifty pounds since their graduation.

  “Been a while, Sam,” Dom said as they shook hands. “What ya been up to?”

  “I gotta tire store up in Liberty. You still at your bar?”

  “Yeah. Doin’ well. How ’bout you?”

  “I could use some extra dough. I can always use some extra dough. The wife and kids burn through everything I bring home before I can put it in the bank. That’s what the boss here called me about.”

  The older man motioned them to sit. They did.

  “Sammy has his tire store, and he has people he trusts to help with your driver’s problem,” the man said.

  “That’s right,” Collavito agreed. “We’d probably have to put your boy’s truck on a rack after hours, and I’d just make sure that only the right guys were workin’ on it, but that’s not a problem for me as long as your guy can adjust his schedule.”

  “I don’t see why that couldn’t happen,” Dom said. He looked at the older man. “You said he could handle the distribution, too?”

  The old man didn’t speak. Instead, he nodded toward Collavito as if giving him permission to take the floor.

  “A couple of my employees are black guys,” Collavito explained. “It turns out that they’ve been slinging some heroin in their neighborhoods. Their supply dried up all of a sudden—I think they were gettin’ their shit from the Gonzalez brothers, and the Gonzalez boys ain’t sellin’ nuthin’ no more—anyway, their customers were gettin’ all strung out, and they asked me if I knew where they could score anything. I don’t fool with the shit myself, but I’m not above making some money if they’re going to do the dirty work. I called the boss here and he set up this meet. So here we are.”

  “Yeah,” Dom said. “Here we are. Can you guarantee they can keep their mouths shut?”

  “They’ve been with me for years,” Collavito said. “I can vouch for ’em, and they’ll never see you or the boss here. Just your driver when he rolls through. Whaddaya think?”

  “Like you said,” Dom replied, “here we are.” He paused and smiled. “And here we go.”

  Kansas City, Missouri

  Trask decided that Cam had been right about their boss.

  For a former line AUSA, J.P. Barrett had learned, somewhere, to like—if not love—the TV cameras. Standing behind and to the side of Barrett, Cam and Trask watched as Barrett took questions from the press following his prepared statement on what the reporters were already call
ing “the biggest narcotics bust in Kansas City history.”

  Trask flinched involuntarily. The biggest problem he had with that label wasn’t the superlative about the number of arrests, it was the usual misuse of the word “narcotics.” Thanks to careless use of the word by Congress in drafting its drug laws, the word was now misapplied to everything from marijuana to cocaine. The press did it, the courts did it, and the cops always did it, never stopping to realize that a narcotic was actually something derived from an opium poppy—heroine, morphine, that form of drug. Cocaine was not and never had been a narcotic, and neither had marijuana.

  Ironically, thanks to a question by a reporter from the Kansas City Star, the local newspaper, the presser turned to the topic of real narcotics.

  “Mr. Barrett, the Jackson County Medical Examiner issued a report yesterday stating that two more overdose deaths were recorded last week, and she attributed those deaths to a combination of heroin and fentanyl, bringing this year’s death total attributable to those drugs to more than ten. Does your office intend to charge any of these sixty new defendants with trafficking in heroin or fentanyl?”

  “Not at this time, Mike,” Barrett said. “This ring was dealing in cocaine.”

  Trask smiled. The boss had already learned not to speak in absolutes when dealing with the hounds of the fourth estate. He didn’t even know about the white pickup connection yet, but he had covered it if that link ever did pan out.

  “Given the apparent higher danger to the public of those drugs, why are your office and the Police Department concentrating on cocaine dealers?” the reporter asked. “Shouldn’t you be focusing on the more dangerous drugs that are sending people to the morgue instead?”

  “Mike, you know as well as I do that cocaine is anything but safe,” Barrett countered. “We still have hundreds of overdose deaths in the United States each year from cocaine and cocaine base, or ‘crack.’ We are very much aware of the opioid crisis and the enhanced danger of fentanyl-laced heroin, which is coming across the southern border at a higher rate than ever before. That is why I’ve tasked our senior litigation counsel here, Jeff Trask, to concentrate on the heroin and fentanyl situation immediately. He’ll be coordinating the investigations into those cases in addition to leading the trial team on this cocaine conspiracy.”

  Trask nodded knowingly as Barrett turned toward him, just as if this was something they had actually discussed. Trask glanced at Cam, who gave him a quick raise of his eyebrows. Trask shrugged slightly.

  At least I already know what my next assignment is going to be.

  Barrett’s answer seemed to have deflected the attack from the Star for the time being. He fielded a couple more routine questions from one of the TV station’s representatives—when is the trial likely to start, how are you going to try sixty defendants at the same time—and correctly informed the media that the trial date would be set following pre-trial motions, and that he anticipated several guilty pleas to reduce the number of defendants who would actually be proceeding to trial.

  When the press conference was over, Trask and Cam followed Barrett back to his office.

  “You don’t actually plan to try all sixty at once, do you?” Barrett asked Trask.

  “I thought we might give it a try,” Trask answered. “You seem to enjoy those pressers, and we’d certainly generate a few more of them that way. Cam and I were thinking you might want to help us try it and join us at counsel table.”

  Trask tried to keep a straight face, but Cam blew any chance of that by laughing out loud.

  “That’s one on me,” Barrett said, grinning. “I knew you weren’t really a madman when I hired you, and I deserved that after springing the heroin assignment on you out there.”

  “A handful of defendants at trial,” Trask assured him, “at most. Everything’s on course. What you didn’t know when you said ‘not at this time’ in response to the reporter’s question is that we’re already looking at a heroin mule that popped up as a tangent in this investigation. We can’t really include it in this case without mucking up the current indictments with a bunch of multiple conspiracy issues but rest assured that we’re connecting the dots. You’ll look very cagey at some future presser when you remind your friend Mike that you told him ‘not at this time’ when he asked you about heroin and fentanyl.”

  “I’m glad I wasn’t just tap-dancing.”

  “We’ll keep you posted,” Trask said. “The CCU troops are looking over some security cameras we found inside Papi’s garage. We may be able to get a read on the pickup’s plates from the recorded video. One of our new witnesses is positive that the driver was running heroin and not cocaine. We don’t have any seized evidence yet to back him up, so it might take a while.”

  “As you say, keep me in the loop,” Barrett said. “You have your hands full as it is.”

  Cam and Trask stood to leave.

  “We certainly do,” Trask remarked as they headed for the door.

  Marylou Monaco checked her calendar before heading to McElhaney’s.

  Yes, it’s Tuesday. I hope I don’t see Sharon at the bar tonight.

  She checked the little .45 and put it back in her purse. It was ready and Marylou decided that she was ready as well.

  It’s just a matter of finding the right time, now. I’ll know the opportunity when I see it.

  She thought about walking around the block to the bar, but she decided against it. There was some possibility that she would need the car to drive away in a hurry. She would have a better chance of getting away from the scene if she had wheels. A police unit responding to the scene might see her walking away from the bar. She could always drive in a direction away from her house before any cops showed up and double back later.

  She parked the car on the side of the building and went inside. A bell over the door rang when she entered. It was just after 9 p.m., and the place was empty as she expected.

  I’ve been watching all evening. There were a couple of cars in the lot around dinner time, probably three or four folks hungry for some marginal bar food. They’ve all left. If I didn’t already know what he’s selling to keep this joint afloat, I’d wonder how it stays open.

  She went to the bar and sat on a stool. No bartender was there to take her order.

  He’s probably in the back and will come out in a minute, he had to have heard that bell.

  She reached into her purse and put her right hand around the grip on the little .45.

  “Hey, Marylou!”

  She turned to her right and saw Sharon coming out of a hallway. She relaxed her hand and pulled it out of her purse.

  “Hello, Sharon. I was beginning to think I’d have to pour my own drink tonight.”

  “Nah. You just caught me in the little girl’s room. What can I get ya? Another Corona Light?”

  “Good memory.”

  “Part of the job. You want a lime in it?”

  “Sure, thanks. You by yourself again?”

  “Not anymore, now that you’re here.”

  Marylou forced a little laugh. “Don’t you ever worry about being here by yourself so much? This neighborhood isn’t what it used to be.”

  “I can take care of myself, honey,” Sharon said, winking. “Don’t you worry about that. Anyway, Dom’s here with me most nights. He’s here tonight, just in the back doing boss stuff. You know, payin’ bills and such.”

  “I see. I’d still be worried about walking around here. Do you drive to work?”

  Maybe if I see your car in the lot, I’ll know when you’re here, and when you’re not.

  “Nope. The bus stop’s only a block away, and it’s cheaper than payin’ for gas. Like I said, I can take care of myself. Anyway, thanks for comin’ in again and keepin’ me company.”

  “Anytime.”

  Marylou took the beer as Sharon handed it across the bar, a quarter of a lime tucked into the mouth of the bottle. It was good and cold, and didn’t come from the tap, which Marylou was sure was a few degrees
too warm and probably watered down.

  “Does he ever come out to keep you company?” she asked the bartender.

  “Oh sure, like if there’s a KU basketball game or a Chiefs game on the TV. We’ll shoot the breeze while the game’s on, you know.”

  “What a prince.”

  Sharon laughed.

  “Dom’s not a bad guy. I’m just old enough to be his mama, and we ain’t got that much in common. Long as he signs the check and it don’t bounce, I’m good with this.” She tilted her head toward the empty tables. “It’s not like I’m usually bustin’ my ass around here anyway.”

  Marylou nodded. It was a good opening. She had a chance to see if Sharon had any clue what kept the lights on in the bar.

  “I’m surprised the place is still open,” she said. “You may not be bustin’ your ass, but it doesn’t look like you’re ringing up much on the register, either.”

  Sharon shrugged. “That ain’t really my problem. Dom pays the bills, and he’s—,” she paused, catching herself. She leaned over the bar and whispered to Marylou. “You know he’s a Silvestri. They’re connected, if you know what that means.”

  Marylou smiled. “Of course, I do. I’ve lived in this neighborhood for years, before a lot of the connected families moved out and built their big, fancy new houses up in Gladstone.”

  “Well, then, if you know that, then you know I ain’t gonna make it any of my business if some other account is keepin’ these lights on, am I? As long as my checks ain’t bouncin’ I don’t really care.”

  Marylou nodded. “Smart girl.”

  “The icebox works pretty well, too, don’t it? That Corona cold enough?”

  “It is.”

  “Well, it’s all good, then, right? Want another one?”

  “One more.”

  Marylou looked at the door that she was sure led to the office. It remained closed. Thirty minutes later, her second beer was gone. She headed for her car, deciding that she would wait for yet another Tuesday night, one when Sharon was not behind the bar.