Downward Dog in Miami

by Larry David Allman

  Neither said a word.

  Marshal Bill led Adams, Lev, and two marshals into an elevator car and down to Floor Forty-three. It stopped without restriction and opened into a completely unfinished space. Bill flipped a lighting fixture on the wall, and fluorescent lights illuminated the whole floor. It was empty except for what appeared to be a makeshift room in one corner with a door. The marshals walked the premises, found nothing, and approached the structure in the corner.

  “What’s this?” Bill asked Adams and Lev.

  “I don’t know,” said Adams. “We’ve never used this space. We’re going to rent it out.”

  Lev just shook his head as if he also had no idea. One of the marshals tried the handle. It was locked.

  “You got a key for this?” Bill asked the two Siroco officers.

  Both nodded no.

  “Open it!” Bill ordered the marshal who had checked the handle. He approached, steadied himself, and thrust a forward kick directly at the handle. The door splintered open.

  A strange smell attacked them from within. It was somewhere between nauseating and medically offensive, definitely toxic. It was nothing natural. Bill and his colleagues immediately pulled cloth material from their inside pockets and covered their noses and mouths. Adams and Lev used their arms to cover their faces. There were two large boxes on the floor against the back wall in the room. Some Chinese symbols were printed on each. The floor was wet with a viscous material. In the furthest back corner lay a body. One of the marshals shone a flashlight at the corpse. The dead man’s face was blue, bubbles were clotted around his mouth and nose, and his hair was green.

  “Get some photos!” Bill yelled to Bobby, who pulled out his cell phone and took photos with one hand while holding the cloth to his face. Bill pulled everybody else back, retrieved his own cell phone, and tapped on his directory.

  “Emergency at Palmetto Plaza… Repeat: emergency at Palmetto Plaza. Get an ambulance team and a HazMat team here immediately. Repeat: immediate dispatch, dead body, foreign substance, smells dangerous. We’re sealing the area. Go!”

  Bill and the marshals returned to the forty-fourth floor with Adams and Lev.

  “You’re under arrest, gentlemen,” Bill told Adams and Lev, unable to refrain from a smile. “You’ll be detained for questioning by federal investigators. This is no longer a state matter. There’s a dead body in a space you control. And those are obviously dangerous, toxic materials, and they have no place in an office building. Cuff these men.”

  Adams spoke up, more savvy than Lev. “I have a right to call my lawyer,” he said to Bill before any cuffs were placed on him.

  Bill agreed. “Go ahead,” he said. “Cuff that one while he calls,” he said, pointing to Lev, who was placed in handcuffs, arms behind his back.

  “I need to speak to Earl Blackstone immediately! It’s Richard Adams,” he barked into the cell phone.

  One of the marshals scrunched his face, apparently aware of Earl Blackstone.

  “Take these four men downstairs, get a van, and take them to FBI headquarters,” Bill ordered two of his marshals. “Bobby and I will stay here for the HazMat team.”

  Adams, Lev, and the two Siroco employees, all handcuffed with their arms behind them, were taken on the elevator down to the lobby. They exited the elevator and were corralled in one corner of the lobby while one of the marshals requested a van for transport to FBI headquarters. The guard at the information desk came over and asked if he could be of assistance. He was told that was not necessary and directed to go back to his desk.

  A van arrived within minutes. The marshals led their charges out the front doors and to the van parked at the street; the detainees were swallowed in through the back doors. The black van departed quickly with the two marshals following in their service vehicle.

  The building guard, who had followed them out, re-entered the building with a cell phone to his ear. “Mr. Sapperstein, you gotta see this! The Siroco guys were just arrested,” he said. “Yes, Adams and Lavorosky!”

  “No shit. Heck of a day. First I got my money back, now this. Send me everything, send it all… right now.” Ed Sapperstein recognized a good day when he saw it.

  “Will do, sir,” the guard responded. “Whoa… Wait! A HazMat truck just pulled up.”

  “Get that too!” Ed ordered.

  * * *

  My regular cell phone chimed, drawing me out of a deepening funk. It was Ed Sapperstein. I accepted, said hello, and told him I would call back immediately on my sat phone. I didn’t want NSA or anybody else listening in.

  “Hey Ed,” I said.

  “Derek. Just got word from my bank. Good work!”

  “My pleasure. That’s why you hired me, right?”

  “Yes… and you did good. Listen, I have something you might want to see. I put a man on the desk at the Siroco building, like you suggested. He got some good stuff. You’re not going to believe it. I’ll send it to you.” He paused. I heard him give instructions in the background, and within seconds, my laptop chimed with an email. I opened it, and said, “Okay, Ed, what is this?”

  “Well, this first thing looks as close to a drug deal as you can get.”

  I looked at the footage. It was, in fact, amazing. Four men in leathers and beards, with Los Bandidos plastered across their backs, walked into Palmetto Plaza pushing hand trucks with suitcases—three suitcases, pretty big ones. They went in single file to the elevators and rode up to the forty-fourth floor. These video images were HD clear. The next sequence showed the same guys coming from the same elevators with the same hand trucks carrying three large boxes. I could see Chinese lettering on the boxes. The video showed them going out the front doors and loading the boxes into a large van, then leaving, the camera conveniently and clearly recording the license plate of the van. Then I heard the guard say that they were upstairs for about ten minutes and that there was a weird medical smell coming from the boxes.

  I agreed with Ed: if that was not a drug deal, it was something closely related.

  Then a second video appeared, showing an office. Lev was surrounded by three men in blue jackets with the words US Marshal prominently printed on the fronts and backs. Then it jumped to another video of Lev and three other men being led out of the building in handcuffs, being guided to a van outside in front of the building, loaded in the back, and driven away.

  Wow, I thought. Not quite everything had changed, but a major part of the day’s problems had just taken a big turn—in our favor. Lev was in jail? Had the “three M” language we had picked up in their email traffic to General Kangxi just arrived in suitcases? Raw cash, maybe?

  Then the video showed the HazMat truck pulling up and a bunch of guys in serious head-to-toe protective gear climbing out and running into the building.

  “I thought you might want to see this,” Ed said.

  “Right you are. This is really good stuff, Ed. You don’t mind if I use this, do you?” I asked, a simple courtesy.

  “Derek! You’re family. You got my money back… and I hope you got some extra for yourself.”

  “Yes, I got some extra. There will be no bill for you. Except for the security protection for Ms. Berger. That I will pay for.”

  “No way. You took care of everything. No bill. Use the footage any way you want.” There was some commotion in the background, then I heard Ed say, “Go back now,” and then a man said “Right.” Was that one of Ed’s security guys I heard?

  “Gotta go. Let me know what we can do for you,” Ed said and then clicked off.

  My gut was talking to me—something pinged.

  “Let’s use this,” Lenny said to me. “Right now. We can take that clown off the field… at least for a while.”

  I tapped in a number.

  It was answered immediately. “It’s about time,” Olivia said.

  “I’m going to make
your Pulitzer,” I started.

  “Like I said, it’s about time. What do you got?”

  * * *

  Within fifteen minutes after Lev and Adams and their two employees arrived at the FBI building for processing, a black Lincoln Continental limo pulled up and parked in the no-parking zone, which stretched the entire length of the front of the FBI building. The driver jumped out and opened the back door. A man emerged: tall, expensive dark-gray pinstripe suit, large head of silver hair, briefcase. A woman got out on the other side: burgundy power suit, briefcase, younger but with serious eyes.

  “Stay close, Jorge, we’ll call when we’re done.”

  “Yes, Mr. Blackstone,” the driver said as he closed the back door, got behind the wheel, and drove off.

  Earl Blackstone and his co-counsel, Esther Cohen, walked into the FBI building, fully prepared to do battle with the nation’s premier law enforcement agency. It was not unfamiliar territory to these white-collar criminal defense attorneys.

  * * *

  I explained to Olivia what I had for her. When she agreed, again, that I was to be a background source—not attributable, not mentioned in any article or conversation—I sent her the video file. She flipped; she knew it was the kind of gold which did, in fact, produce Pulitzer Prizes. She assured me it would be meshed into feature articles, that it would go out over the Internet in the paper’s online digital edition later tonight, and that it would appear in the physical paper tomorrow morning. Did she always have to mention “above the fold”? She actually thanked me and clicked off, a big improvement to her usual phone manners.

  We had fifteen minutes before wheels-down. Men with accents were waiting for us—and we knew exactly who they were. Lenny and I looked at each other. “I’m not inclined to get shot tonight,” Lenny said to me.

  “Me either,” I replied as I pushed the armrest button and summoned Lenore. She appeared, and I told her to send Captain Eddie back to us. He quickly appeared.

  “Captain, we’re not ready to deal with these men or whatever tonight. Where can we divert to?” I asked him.

  “Divert?” he responded like it was an alien concept.

  “Yes, divert. Land somewhere else, some other airport or something.”

  “You guys are putting us in danger.”

  “What else can you do, and how much?” Lenny cut through the fog.

  “Jeez,” he started. “This is against every rule we have to follow.” He paused. Then, as if it had just occurred to him, “There’s Miami Executive Airport. It’s about ten miles from MIA. We could land there, let you off there. But we’d need to create an emergency to do that, a kind of mayday.”

  “Can you do that?” Lenny asked.

  “Yes… We can do that.”

  “How much?” Lenny asked.

  “Another pack each,” he said, a slight smile appearing.

  “Done,” I said, reaching into my second briefcase. “Go make it happen.” I handed him two packs. “Can anybody get in there? We need to have someone pick us up.”

  “No problem; totally open. I’ll show you where to have your driver wait.” He put the packs in his pocket, maybe to keep Lenore from seeing, maybe to keep both for himself; it didn’t really matter to me. He turned and bolted for the flight deck, at least twenty thousand dollars ahead for the day—thirty if he kept the second two packs for himself.

  I tapped on my directory. My call was answered on the first ring.

  “You know I’m your guy,” Carlos said.

  * * *

  FBI Agent Howard Ross arrived at the FBI building in downtown Miami shortly after the marshals deposited Lev and Adams and their two dimwit employees. The marshals were preparing their affidavits in support of the charging documents when Ross got to the room in the basement in which this operation was taking place. They had a quick conversation, Ross was brought up to speed on the events at Palmetto Plaza, and then Ross moved on to the agent in charge of booking and jailing. “They’ll be held overnight,” Ross was informed.

  Upstairs in the office of the FBI agent in charge of the Miami Field Office, Joe Danvere, Earl Blackstone and Esther Cohen were shown into his office. Greetings were exchanged. They were well familiar with each other, and respect, at least ostensible respect, was accorded bilaterally.

  “You’ve detained some of my clients, Joe.” Blackstone started his assault on criminal justice with practiced authority. “I’m here to represent them.”

  Joe Danvere was at a loss. He had no knowledge of this matter. He buzzed his administrative assistant and requested an immediate update. It took three minutes. Danvere left the room, reviewed the paperwork his assistant had obtained, and returned to his office, where the two criminal defense attorneys were impatiently waiting.

  “You’re referring to Lavorosky and Adams… and these two other gentlemen?” he asked.

  “Exactly,” responded Cohen.

  “They’re being booked as we speak. If you come back tomorrow—” he tried to say.

  “They’ll be leaving in a few minutes, Joe,” Blackstone cut him off.

  “Really.”

  “Yes. Really.” Blackstone opened his briefcase and pulled out two sets of papers with attached blue backs, formal-looking documents with obvious legal vibrations. “The judge disagrees with you.”

  Danvere took the documents and reviewed them carefully. A sitting judge from the Federal District Court had granted bail for Lev and Adams at one million dollars each… even though they had not yet been formally charged with crimes. The judge’s signed order was the top document. Underneath was a Certification of Bail Funds from a local bail bonding company, and the last document, also signed by the judge, required the exact criminal charges to be filled in: the judge had signed the document in blank! Danvere was shocked to see that Blackstone had that level of access and control over a sitting federal judge.

  “Let me see what I can do on this,” Danvere said, rising up and leaving his office. “Please wait here. Would you like some coffee or something else to drink?” he asked at the door where his assistant could easily hear.

  “Yes,” Cohen spoke up first. “I’ll have a Diet Coke with ice and fresh lemon.”

  “Make that two,” Blackstone added.

  Danvere and his assistant looked at each other. No words were required. Danvere took the elevator down to the basement and found Ross reviewing some paperwork.

  “Howard,” he said.

  “Hey Joe, what’s up?”

  “These clowns who got arrested over at Palmetto,” he started.

  “Yes, I’m just going in to interview them. I was going to start with—”

  “Don’t bother.”

  “Why?” Howard said.

  “They’re bailed out. That shyster Blackheart—I mean Blackstone—already has paperwork. If we delay it, we’ll just screw up the case.”

  “They haven’t… even… been… charged… yet!”

  “I know.”

  Danvere went about ordering his people to prepare the discharge paperwork, which reflected that Lev and Adams were being charged with “obstruction of justice without violence” and “constructive possession of toxic materials.” While that was in progress, Ross sprinted to the Office of Technical Operations. The chief of that department was still present, listened to what Ross requested, and quickly supplied him with two small boxes. “These are good for about seven days,” he informed Ross, who pocketed the small boxes and quickly returned to the basement booking operation.

  “We need another booking photo of each detainee,” Ross instructed the officer in charge. “Bring the president first.”

  Adams was brought to the photo station, uncuffed, and told to stand in front of the camera. “Give me your jacket,” Ross instructed Adams, who removed his suit jacket and handed it to Ross.

  “Photo this guy,” he instruc
ted one of the officers while he slipped toward an adjoining room, feigning a cell phone call. He was back in two minutes, just as Adams’ photo was completed, and handed him his suit jacket. He did the same with Lev with the cell phone to his ear. Lev at first refused to give up his suit jacket. Two of the marshals moving in on him changed his mind.

  Within minutes, Adams and Lev were walked to the lobby of the FBI building, where Blackstone and Cohen were waiting for them.

  “You’re free to go. Call me tomorrow morning at ten a.m. sharp. Understood?” Blackstone said sternly to Adams.

  “Yes… Nice work, counselor,” Adams replied.

  “Make sure you call at ten,” Cohen piled on.

  “Will do,” Adams said as he and Lev walked out the front doors.

  Two cars were waiting at the curb, each with a driver and a passenger. Adams got into the first in line without further discussion with Lev, and the car moved off slowly.

  The passenger in the second car got out and opened the back door. Lev got into the back seat, and the door was closed for him.

  When the passenger got back in and had closed his door, Lev said, “What’s the status on the woman?”

  “They’re in place,” the man said.

  “What about the plane?”

  “Landing in fifteen minutes. What do you want to do, boss?”

  “I want to kill somebody!”

  “That’s why we brought your favorite toy,” the passenger said as he reached back and handed Lev a KA-BAR knife in a leather sheath.

  “Let’s go,” Lev said, sliding the knife out and checking its sharpness. “To the warehouse.”

  * * *

  Agent Ross and Marshall Thompson were sharing a cup of the worst coffee in the state, venting their disgust at what had just happened. Thompson’s cell phone chimed. It showed an official Marshal’s Office call, but it did not specify who was calling. He accepted.

  The head of the HazMat team introduced himself. “We got a real problem here, marshal,” he said.

  “Like what? That stuff smelled bad.”