Doctor Dealer

by Mark Bowden

  “Oh, my gosh.” Larry just about dropped the phone.

  Now the trouble was worse, much worse. Uhr was the person who arranged for some of Larry’s Atlantic City parties and liaisons with whores. They had snorted coke together, and Uhr knew all about Larry’s cocaine dealing. Larry had actually cultivated Uhr’s friendship, letting him into his confidence in an effort to get a better handle on what Mark was doing with the limo company.

  “I can’t believe you would do that to me, Mark,” said Larry. “Why didn’t you tell me he was the one? If I had known that I never would have even talked to the guy.”

  Any hope that the FBI probe would miss the cocaine connection vanished. If Uhr talked, a tax case would be the least of Larry’s worries. What was he going to tell Marcia?

  NINE

  We’ll Be Back

  FBI Special Agent Chuck Reed was startled by his first look at Larry Lavin. Reed opened the door to Larry’s dental office and there was his man, smiling warmly at him from behind the reception counter, saying hello . . . a lanky fellow who looked no older than a college kid.

  Reed had known Larry was only twenty-seven, but confronting him now in his white dental smock—so boyish, so pleasant, so outwardly wholesome—gave the agent enough pause that he said nothing as Larry turned and walked back to his operatory, leaving Reed and IRS Agent Steve Gallon with a receptionist in the waiting room.

  For nearly four months Reed had imagined this meeting. Ever since he had seized Mark Stewart’s books at the Wellington in October, Reed had known that behind many of Stewart’s fiscal acrobatics was a young dentist whom no one seemed to know anything about. And even though the case was progressing nicely against Mark Stewart, the FBI agent had found himself even more interested in the young, mysterious Lawrence W. Lavin, D.M.D.

  It was Larry who had underwritten many of Stewart’s multimillion-dollar investments. The young dentist obviously had a huge hidden income. He knew that Larry had gone to prep school and the University of Pennsylvania, that he lived with his wife and small son in a big house on the Main Line, and that he sped back and forth to this dental office in northeastern Philly three times a week in a sleek silver BMW 733. Reed had a hunch that there was only one likely way for a preppie dentist less than two years out of school to secretly make millions, and that was cocaine.

  Reed knew Larry had been a hidden owner of the Martin Luther King, Jr., Arena with Stewart through an entity named Larmark, Inc. (Larry-Mark). Larry was not a suspect in the arson—Reed doubted he knew much about it—and the agent knew he couldn’t prove his drug suspicions, but in his experience people were usually rattled when confronted face-to-face by the FBI. You never knew how they would react. Some people would just panic and talk.

  So when an opportunity came to serve some of the tax case papers on Larry, Reed decided to accompany Gallon on the long drive out. It was a cold evening, February 19, 1983. It had snowed the day before, not hard enough to have closed things down, but the first significant snowfall of the year. The day had been sunny. Philadelphia in winter is a study in browns and grays. As darkness came and the slush under wheels turned icy, lights from street lamps and cars and traffic signals became a dazzling, dizzying confusion of reflections. It was a slow drive through rush hour traffic and it would be late before they got back, but Reed didn’t mind. He wanted to personally enlighten Larry Lavin that the FBI had entered his life.

  Cookie Yokum, the receptionist, didn’t seem surprised when Reed and Gallon introduced themselves as federal agents. She told the men that Dr. Lavin was busy with a patient, that they needed to make an appointment.

  “You tell Dr. Lavin that we want to see him right now,” said Reed.

  When Larry walked into his private office, Reed did not so much smile as grin. He and Gallon introduced themselves, and they all shook hands. Reed had positioned himself against the side of Larry’s desk. Larry thought he could detect a trace of amusement on the FBI agent’s face.

  “Would you mind answering a few questions?” asked Gallon.

  “Go ahead,” Larry answered.

  Leaning on his Bahston vowels, Larry answered a question about himself by telling them he was from Haverhill, Massachusetts, and proudly running through his impressive credentials: Phillips Exeter Academy, University of Pennsylvania for B.S. and D.M.D.—the diplomas were in frames on his office wall. He said he knew nothing about the arson. He readily admitted his business tie to Mark Stewart, which surprised the agents. They had expected him to be more evasive. Larry forthrightly explained that he had met Stewart in 1980, and that he had gotten involved with him trying to promote boxing matches at the King Arena—although he mentioned nothing about being a part owner.

  “Did you know that Mark Stewart was involved with the fire?” Reed asked.

  “No.”

  “We know you’re a key executive in a lot of his companies,” said Reed. “We know you could furnish us with a lot of information.”

  “I knew Mark was having trouble with the IRS,” Larry offered. “In my eyes what Mark may have done wrong is transfer monies from one company to another, so funds were being spent in one place that were being generated from another. Whether that’s illegal or not, I don’t know. Also some of his depreciation techniques might be questionable, but I gotta tell you, I consider Mark a friend and I don’t plan on testifying against him or hurting him in any way.”

  Larry hesitated, then added, “I think I better speak to a lawyer.”

  “Why don’t we just go along for now,” suggested Reed, “and any questions you don’t want to answer, we’ll just skip over.”

  Larry said that would be okay.

  Both Reed and Gallon were taking notes on yellow legal pads. Reed was intrigued. Far from seeming rattled, Lavin seemed to be enjoying himself. He had the feeling that the conversation was like a chess game. To Reed, Larry seemed very confident of himself, very smart. He could see right away that he wasn’t dealing with the kind of guy who was going to panic.

  Reed asked Larry if he was financially involved in any corporations with Stewart.

  “No,” Larry said.

  So the FBI agent started baiting. He asked Larry about Larmark.

  The dentist hardly blinked.

  “Oh yeah, that was when I was in school. I was thinking about leaving school to help run the Arena.”

  Reed asked him if he was aware of any connection between Stewart and cocaine dealing.

  Larry said no.

  “Are you a cocaine dealer?”

  Again, Larry answered firmly, “No. Listen, I don’t know whether I can help you or not. I think I have to get myself a lawyer and then get back to you.”

  Larry was a skillful liar. There are veteran agents who claim to be able to tell if someone is lying, but Reed thought to himself as he listened to the young dentist that if he hadn’t known Larry was lying, he would have been completely taken in. It was a very convincing performance. To Reed, Larry’s manner suggested that he felt he was smarter than the agents, that they would never get him. He was arrogant. That got under the agent’s skin. All of which made Reed’s next move especially satisfying.

  He opened his briefcase, withdrew two thick documents, federal grand jury subpoenas that named Lavin Options, Inc., and L’s, Inc., two other corporations in which the young dentist was involved with Stewart, and dropped them loudly on Larry’s desk. Larry turned the papers silently. He seemed stunned. If they were aware of these corporations, then they knew he was making a lot more money than he was reporting for tax purposes. At the very least, Larry knew he was in tax trouble. He showed no alarm or surprise. He offered no explanations. But his smile was gone. He grew abrupt.

  “Like I told you, I’m going to have to get a lawyer,” Larry said, standing and gesturing for the agents to leave. Reed smiled. He and Gallon packed up their legal pads and pencils and walked toward the front door. As he reached the door, Reed turned.

  He asked, “Where’d you get the money for the BMW parked out
front, Larry?”

  Larry stumbled. He began one explanation: The car was provided by Larmark, Inc.; but then he switched to another: He had mortgaged his house to buy it. Then he bailed out, defining exactly what his relationship with law enforcement agencies would be from then on.

  “I’m not going to answer any more questions without my attorney,” he said.

  “Okay,” said Reed. “We’ll be back.”

  Before the agents left that night, Reed stopped to shine a flashlight in through the windshield of the BMW. Larry watched from behind the blinds of his office as the agent took out a notepad and wrote down the car’s serial number.

  Larry was in shock. He had anticipated this visit. A number of his friends had already been seen by federal investigators working on the Stewart case, and word had gotten back that they were asking questions about him. Fortunately, Larry Uhr had backed off his initial decision to testify against Mark, so Larry had less to fear. He had consulted with Donald Goldberg, a tall, dapper gray-haired lawyer considered one of the finest defense attorneys in Philadelphia. Larry had told Goldberg of his business relationship with Mark Stewart and turned over the original documents he had signed when he and Mark incorporated. He also told the lawyer that his resources came from cocaine dealing, but that he had stopped. Now he was trying to avoid getting dragged down by his partner. Goldberg, whose mellifluous voice and calm manner were as reassuring as his reputation, saw before him a decent, candid, likable young man who had made mistakes but was trying to put them behind him. He had advised Larry not to let on to the agents that he already had consulted with a lawyer—it would just further excite their suspicions about what he was hiding. Instead, the lawyer said, talk to them awhile. Answer their questions as far as possible without incriminating yourself. When the terrain gets dangerous, bail out, tell them you would like to consult with a lawyer before answering any further questions. Be polite.

  Larry had done those things, but the session had been deeply disturbing. The subpoenas indicated that there would definitely be a tax case against him, which meant the possibility of going to jail. That was frightening enough. But, beyond that, there was the attitude of that bearded agent Reed. Larry felt as if Reed were sizing him up for the kill.

  It all seemed so unfair. What had he done that was so bad? Had he killed someone? Had he stolen from someone? All he did was buy and sell harmless recreational drugs. How could they hold it against him for not reporting his income? It was illegal, for Chrissakes! If he reported it, he might as well just be turning himself in! Larry saw himself as a hardworking businessman. Down deep he believed his drug fortune had been earned through industry and intelligence. He had worked long and hard to make his money. The fact that his merchandise was outlawed seemed more like a legal technicality than a felony. Everyone knew that drug laws were a joke, that they were ignored by vast segments of society. What better proof of that than Larry’s own success?

  If trouble came, Larry always figured it would be from local police grabbing someone for possession or transportation. Those were the only kinds of busts he had ever dealt with. The punishment was usually probation or something insignificant.

  Something in Reed’s manner suggested this case was different. It was like something personal between them. Reed was going to try to nail him to the wall.

  Larry couldn’t understand.

  “Why does the guy hate me?” he asked Marcia that night. “I can understand him doing his job, but why does he hate me?”

  When Chuck Reed told Larry he would be back, he wasn’t at all sure of it. He was fascinated by this young criminal’s attitude. It was unlike any he had encountered before. Reed had confronted plenty of lawbreakers in his four years with the FBI, but he had never before felt after one in the way he felt he was after Larry Lavin.

  It was like personal combat. Reed was used to his suspects’ giving some small recognition that they were doing something wrong. Not Lavin. If he showed anything it was pique, as if to say, “By what right do you make trouble for me?”

  Reed was enthused. This investigation was the richest, most challenging case he had been assigned. As the work progressed and the plot thickened, Reed and his newly assigned partner, Sid Perry, shared a mounting sense of eagerness. They saw Larry Lavin as an insufferably cocky criminal, someone who had grown rich thumbing his nose at the law, who felt he was smart enough to get away with it even after he knew they were on to him. This multimillionaire drug-dealing young dentist was like a walking insult to law-abiding society. Every day he was free gnawed at them. Reed and Perry knew the FBI wasn’t going to lose interest in the case, and they were confident that their patient efforts would eventually prevail, so in the most serious sense of the word, their work was fun. In Larry Lavin they had hooked a big fish. They were prepared to savor the long struggle of bringing him in.

  Suzanne Norimatsu had moved back into her parents’ house in Plymouth Meeting, an affluent suburb northwest of the city, after breaking up with David Ackerman in late 1982. She was reading a Stephen King novel in her bedroom when the doorbell rang downstairs.

  Her father, Richard, a tall engineering company executive, called, “Suzie, there are some people here to see you.” He did not sound pleased.

  Suzanne knew immediately who it was. Her friends had been paid visits recently by Chuck Reed, and they said she was one of the people he had been asking about. She had met Chuck before, twice. She had been living with David back in December when the agent had stopped by the apartment to question him about the arson. A few days after that, Reed had stopped by the restaurant where Suzanne now worked. He had been kindly.

  “You seem like such a nice girl,” the agent had said. “Why are you hanging out with these gangsters?” Reed had asked her to just think about what he had to say. He would tell no one they had met, and she should tell no one. If she decided to help them build a case against Mark Stewart, David Ackerman, and Larry Lavin, it would just be between them. Suzanne had said no. She went home that night and told David what happened. She had not seen Chuck since.

  But there he was, waiting in the living room with his badge out, standing beside Treasury Agent Tom Neff. Both men introduced themselves formally, showing their badges. Suzanne’s father sat next to her on the couch across from the agents, who withdrew folders from their briefcases and opened them on their laps. They sat with pencils poised over yellow legal pads.

  Suzanne had been coached for this moment by David Ackerman. He had told her to politely refuse to answer questions, and to ask the agents to phone her lawyer, who would arrange a meeting.

  “We’re investigating an arson of the King Arena,” said Chuck. “What do you know about it?”

  “I’m sorry. I can’t talk to you. You’ll have to talk to my lawyer,” said Suzanne.

  Chuck slapped shut the folder on his lap.

  “You have a lawyer!” he said.

  “Yes, I have a lawyer.”

  “Why do you need a lawyer?”

  “Well, I just do,” said Suzanne. “His name is Emmett Fitzpatrick.”

  “What’s his number?”

  “I don’t know, but it’s in the phone book.”

  “Don’t be such a stupid girl,” said Chuck. “Are you going to let these guys put words in your mouth?”

  Then her father interceded.

  He said, “You don’t have to talk to her like that.”

  Several weeks later, when the weather was warm enough for Suzanne to be out in the driveway washing her car, Chuck Reed pulled up in front of the house again. The bearded agent strode purposefully across the front lawn. With him again was Agent Neff. Suzanne’s heart leapt. She thought he might be coming to arrest her.

  “Oh, no,” she said, taking two steps back from the agent. “I can’t talk to you. You have to talk to Emmett.”

  “He won’t let us talk to you,” said Chuck. “We’re going to get that car you just washed. We know it was bought with cocaine money.”

  Suzanne just frown
ed at him.

  “Just listen to us, Suzanne. You don’t have to answer any questions. But I’ll tell you right now, you better take that black hat off and put on a white hat. Mark Stewart, Larry Lavin, and David Ackerman are wearing the black hats, and you know it. If you think you’re going to be loyal to them, and protect them, then you’re going to go right down the drain with them. So you better wise up now.”

  Suzanne again said no, and the agents left.

  But what Chuck had said stayed with her. Now that she was no longer living with David, and no longer involved with the cocaine business, she had mixed feelings about what was happening. Stepping back from the scene for a few months had given her a different perspective. She was no longer as certain as David and Larry that these earnest government men were doomed to fail. That business about “going down the drain” haunted her.

  Later she wished she had asked, “Would it be all right if I just wear a gray hat?”

  Brian Riley believed he had a sixth sense for trouble. When he got an uneasy feeling about what he was doing, and didn’t stop, he invariably got hit over the head. But if he heeded this sixth sense and stopped in time, the hammer would fall in front of him or behind, but he would have just enough time to escape.

  In March of 1983, Brian’s sixth sense was ringing in his ears. Four months earlier, carrying two shopping bags full of money wrapped as Christmas presents, he had been stopped and searched by guards at Boston’s Logan Airport. Almost a hundred thousand dollars was discovered in the packages. It was not against the law to carry that much money around, but it sure raised suspicions. Brian had to hire a lawyer and sign for the cash to get it back. After that he could feel the eyes of law enforcement on the small of his neck.

  Then, for a few weeks, he had felt especially lucky. When his Datsun got stuck in the snow in southern Maryland on a drive back from Florida with more than fifteen kilos in the trunk, two state troopers had kindly stopped to help pull him out of the bank and send him on his way. When he and Paul Mikuta, on a different trip, got stuck in line at the Miami airport with several kilos hidden in their bags just as the X-ray machine broke down, there was nothing for it but to stand there whistling while the guards hand-searched everyone’s luggage. Both Paul’s bag and his own escaped with just an ineffectual, cursory grope.