by Paul Levine
Deborah Scolino put down her fork. She had been nibbling eggplant caponata and now patted her lips with her napkin while still managing to scowl at me. Multitasking. “The Cook Islands don’t give comity to American judgments and really don’t cooperate with our law enforcement agencies. But we have ways of getting information.”
“Sneaky NSA ways or old-fashioned bribery?” I asked.
“I’ll ignore your slanderous innuendo,” she said. “Mr. Pincher tells me it’s just your way, and I shouldn’t take it personally.”
“Excellent idea,” I said. “I didn’t take it personally when we were sparring and he hit me in the balls.”
Another scowl. Then she said, “Once you cut through the shell corporations and trusts, Littlejohn’s trucks are owned by Benjamin Cohen. It’s one of his businesses. Littlejohn is pretty much just a bookkeeper.”
“And because of his clean record, Littlejohn is Benny’s gun buyer.”
“Exactly. When our agents confronted Littlejohn, he folded in about thirty seconds. Admits he buys weapons for Cohen, including the Glock that came from Houston and was used to kill Nicolai Gorev.”
“So what’s that got to do with Solomon?”
“Hang with us,” Pincher said. He was eating a kale salad with apple and grilled chicken. Maybe planning on getting back down to middleweight range.
“We have warrants to tap Benjamin Cohen’s phones.” Scolino lowered her voice to a whisper, maybe afraid the Guatemalan busboy also worked for Benny. “Three days before Gorev is killed, Benny gets a call from one of our CI’s who’s playing both sides of the street.”
“I’m shocked, shocked that a scumbag informant would do that,” I said.
“The guy tells Benny that he’s our real target, not Gorev.”
“And Benny knows Gorev will flip on him,” I ventured.
“In a Moscow minute,” Scolino said.
“Giving Benny the motive to kill Gorev,” I said happily. “So Benny gives Nadia the Glock and she kills Gorev, just like my client told Barrios at the crime scene.”
Pincher cleared his throat. “Not exactly.”
I thought I saw where this was going. “You don’t have Nadia to testify. In fact, Ms. Scolino doesn’t want you to have Nadia testify because my cross-examination will get the esteemed prosecutor a transfer to North Dakota. So, as of this minute, you can link the gun’s ownership to Benny, but not its use as a murder weapon.”
“But Solomon can.”
“How? Benny gave Nadia the gun. She’s the link.”
“Think about it a second, Jake.”
I followed instructions while Pincher gave me his campaign poster smile. After two seconds, I would have liked to knock out his pearly teeth. I’ve seen the state pull some shit in my time, but this was pretty much an all-time low.
“Sugar Ray, are you saying that, in a town filled with thugs and creeps and killers, a career criminal like Benny the Jeweler hires this half-assed lawyer to kill a Russian mobster?”
“If Solomon says so, we’ll buy it.”
“If Nadia said she was the shooter, you’d buy that, too.”
“First one in the door gets the prize,” Pincher said.
“We’re still not ruling out that Nadia used her feminine wiles to get Solomon into the murder for hire,” Barrios said.
I looked at Deborah Scolino. “Did he really say ‘feminine wiles’? Doesn’t that violate some federal statute?”
“The fact that Solomon looks pretty harmless is helpful,” Pincher said. “Adds credibility to Benny’s plan.”
“How?”
“The whole Nadia passport deal was just a ruse to catch Gorev off guard.”
“Still not following you, Ray. Maybe because you’re making no sense.”
“Noodle it. Nadia had been in Nicolai Gorev’s office lots of times. Benny figured she wouldn’t arouse his suspicion. And better to bring along this harmless-looking lawyer, rather than some professional hit man or a guy Gorev knows works for Benny.”
“So your theory is that Benny hired both Solomon and Nadia to knock off Gorev? That’s a helluva high-wire act. To say nothing of it being total bullshit.”
“Gorev ends up dead with the murder weapon in Solomon’s hand,” Pincher said, “and Nadia flees with the contents of the safe. It passes the blush test—don’t you think, Jake?”
“Funny, I thought our standard of justice was guilt beyond a reasonable doubt. Now I learn it’s when the state’s theory doesn’t turn you beet red or make you laugh so hard you fart like cannon fire in the 1812 Overture.”
That left the three of them glowering at me, especially Deborah Scolino. I pictured her boss, the local US Attorney, reading her the riot act after Gorev got killed, because his boss, the Attorney General, had just reamed him out. That would have led to Scolino stomping her sensible shoes in a conference room filled with FBI agents and yelling that something had to be done to resuscitate the dead-in-the-water Benny Cohen investigation.
I am not one of those defense lawyers who thinks that our federal cops and lawyers are either incompetent boobs or vengeful agents of retribution. Most are hardworking and ethical and underpaid. Okay, there are examples of outright boobery that go back to ABSCAM and beyond. There was the anthrax investigation where a former army scientist was wrongfully named as a suspect—and later paid $6 million—and the FBI’s false accusation against a hapless Atlanta security guard as the Olympic Park bomber.
Pincher let me sit there, stewing a moment, then said, “Jake, my man. We’ve known each other too long for you to be climbing on that high horse of yours. Get your ass down here on the mules like the rest of us.”
“Fine, I’ll wallow in the mud with you. What’s in it for Solomon? Just give me the numbers.”
Pincher beamed. “Yes, indeedy-do! Let’s make a deal! In a nutshell, Solomon faces conviction for felony murder. Mandatory life without parole. He gets that, right? He’ll never see the light of day.”
“Unless . . . ?”
“He lays out enough details to indict Benny Cohen for conspiracy to commit the murder.”
“Such as?”
“Benny gave Solomon the Glock. Nadia Delova was an accessory. Solomon was promised so much money, yada, yada, yada.”
“And . . . ?” I said. “What’s the quid pro quo? What do I get besides a thank-you note I can hang over the crapper next to my diploma?”
“Solomon has a clean record, if you don’t count his contempt citations, which are basically parking tickets. The guy he aced was a piece of shit Russian mobster. Be thankful for that or we couldn’t do this. We’ll have to think a bit on what Solomon will plead to, but let’s work backwards from the sentence. Say we recommend ten years. Out in eight and a half with gain time. How does that sound?”
Like a monkey with an accordion, I thought.
“Jesus, you must really want Benny Cohen,” I said.
“You have no idea,” Deborah Scolino said. “Among other things, Cohen has violated the Foreign Corrupt Practices Act with bribes to public officials overseas.”
I shrugged. “So has Walmart, but I don’t see you framing them for murder.”
“You don’t understand the scope of this. Benjamin Cohen has been the John Doe of our investigation from the beginning. The largest diamond smuggler on the East Coast. He’s corrupted customs officers here and mining company executives in Russia.”
Again, Scolino lowered her voice as if Kremlin spies might be listening. “Cohen has partnered with one of Vladimir Putin’s closest associates. That’s how they managed to reopen portions of a closed diamond mine in Siberia.”
“The pit six hundred meters deep that Gorev talked about?”
“The Mirny mine. Officially closed. But a small part is working off the books. Benny gets the diamonds, and Putin reaps millions of dollars a year in kickbacks. It’s official US policy to shut off the gravy train to the Russian president. From day one, the Cohen case has been all about Russian bribes and kickb
acks to Putin. Not some credit card scam of B-girl joints. The Attorney General himself gets weekly reports.”
“The Attorney General himself,” I repeated, without overdoing the sarcasm.
Scolino’s voice was now a whisper. “The president is also well aware of the investigation.”
“Unless it goes to hell,” I said. “Then the assistant secretary of the interior will take the fall.”
“You have a patriotic duty here,” Pincher said, as earnest as a TV preacher.
“To help your country,” Scolino added, in case I didn’t get it.
I looked at Barrios. I thought he might start whistling a John Philip Sousa march, but he kept quiet.
“Benny Cohen ever kill someone or have them killed?” I asked.
“Other than Gorev, you mean?” Pincher said.
“Yeah, if that’s the picture you want to paint.”
“We have no intelligence on that,” Scolino said.
“So you’re basically framing a nonviolent criminal with murder.”
“I’ll ignore that,” Scolino said.
“So what’ll it be, Jake?” Pincher said. “Solomon’s fate is in your hands. Life without parole. Or dancing in the streets in eight and a half years.”
“That’s still enough time for you to steal his girlfriend,” Barrios said, taking his shot at me.
“I’ll convey your offer to my client, as required by the rules,” I said.
“But will you recommend it?” Pincher pressed me.
“Chill, Ray. I’ll drive straight to the jail and call you later.”
“Tell you what we can throw in. Solomon can choose the facility. I hear Sumter up in Bushnell has decent food. Plus classes in auto mechanics and masonry.”
I hadn’t finished my meatballs and anchovies, but my hunger was gone. I remembered my first conversation with Victoria, expressing my frustration about the system. Well, after all these years, I just realized there’s not a damn thing wrong with the system. It’s just the flawed human beings who run it. People like Pincher. Scolino. Barrios. And me.
“Like I said, Ray, I’ll pass it along.”
“That’s my Jake, playing it close to the vest. Like a peekaboo boxer.”
I slid back my chair and stood. “Ray, if we do this deal, you’ll get some headlines for convicting an international criminal of murder. Scolino here dodges a bullet, and Barrios has solved yet another major crime.”
“Not just us, Jake,” Pincher said. “Word gets around that you and I have a close working relationship—it’ll be great for your business. Clients will ask, ‘How’d you get that great deal?’ And you’ll just smile that crooked smile of yours. They’ll be crawling all over each other to pay your fees.”
“Something for everybody,” I said, leaving without saying good-bye.
-38-
Jailhouse Lawyers
I drove west across Biscayne Bay on the Julia Tuttle, headed for the jail. While waiting for the valet to deliver my car, I had called Victoria to meet me for our sit-down with Solomon. I left out all the details of my lunch date, wanting to tell the story only once.
Feeling cruddy. It’s my own damn fault they offered a dirty deal. Hell, I’d practically invited it when I taunted Scolino that day in my office.
“Feel free to give Pincher a preview of my closing argument. Maybe the two of you will come up with something that won’t cost you your job.”
I planned to keep the jailhouse meeting brief. I figured Solomon would turn down the deal, probably angrily, but I wasn’t going to push him one way or the other. If he didn’t take it, Victoria and I would pay a visit to Benny Cohen. International criminal and pal of Putin.
On the phone, Victoria had said she would take the Metrorail to the jail, so we could travel in one car to Benny’s place. Which would not have been a problem, except it started to rain.
Not rain, as in an afternoon shower.
Rain, as in summer in Miami. Monsoon rain. Amazon rain. Noah, finish-the-damn-ark rain. Great gray sheets pouring from a black sky, pounding my windshield, disabling my wipers, and tattooing my roof like Max Weinberg on the drums. A lightning bolt zigzagged out of the death clouds and struck one of the little islands south of the causeway; the thunderclap rattled my windows. My old canvas top wasn’t exactly leaking, but little droplets appeared along one seam.
Victoria had planned to walk from the Civic Center Metrorail station to the jail. It’s only a couple of blocks, but today a person could drown. I tried calling her cell. Under the low-hanging ceiling of otherworldly clouds, no service.
My big, fat Caddy tires were hydroplaning, so I slowed down. Either that, or risk flying over the guardrail and turning the old Eldo into a boat. Years ago, I’d had a CD player installed, so now I slipped my favorite Leonard Cohen into the device. In his distinctive gravelly voice, Leonard was half singing, half talking:
“Everybody knows that the dice are loaded,
Everybody rolls with their fingers crossed.”
Well, I knew that, but thanks for reminding me.
Once on the mainland, I took I-95 south, then west on 836, exiting on Northwest Twelfth Avenue. Instead of going to the jail, I headed toward the Metrorail station, next to Jackson Memorial Hospital. I found Victoria huddled under an overhang, waiting for me. Somehow she knew I’d come get her, knew I wouldn’t let her walk through the storm. So far today, that was the only thing that I felt good about.
Solomon had lost more weight, appeared even paler, and seemed depressed. Well, he wasn’t staying at the Four Seasons. Victoria looked away, maybe thinking she might cry if she kept her eyes on the man she loved.
“Can you make another run at getting bail?” Solomon asked. “This damn place is getting to me.”
“It won’t work,” I said. “Judge has ruled.”
Solomon didn’t curse at me or tell me what a lousy lawyer I was. I would have preferred that. Instead, he seemed to just shrink into himself. He’d lost the spark that defined him.
We have some mutual friends from the courthouse. One is Marvin the Maven, a retired guy in his eighties who drifts from courtroom to courtroom, looking for the best action and dispensing advice on picking juries. A few months ago, I ran into Marvin in the corridor. He’d just left a courtroom where Solomon was defending a pair of six-foot-two-inch South Beach models, identical twins named Lexy and Rexy, who were fighting several thousand dollars in fines for parking in handicapped spaces.
“You know how the son of a gun won?” Marvin asked me.
“Bribed the jury,” I guessed.
“Claimed the girls had anorexia, so they get to park in the handicapped spots. Now, that’s chutzpah. Solomon’s like Barnum and Bailey. Whenever he tries a case, there’s always a dozen clowns crawling out of a little car.”
But Solomon didn’t look like a ringmaster now. More like one of the circus cats, gone mangy and lazy from being kept too long in a cage.
I shot a look at Victoria, who nodded, her signal for me to start talking. Then I told them about my meeting with our dedicated public servants who wanted Solomon to lie to make their case against Benny Cohen. A case that was part criminal and part political.
“That’s despicable,” Victoria said.
“Did Pincher tell you how long the offer was open?” Solomon said.
“No, but I promised to call him today. If you want, I can ask for more time.”
“What!” Victoria’s eyes flashed from me to Solomon and back again. “You two aren’t seriously considering this.”
“Not my call,” I said. “I wouldn’t take it, and I wouldn’t advise a client to take it. But your partner is sophisticated. If he determines it’s in his best interest to plead, you won’t hear me yelling about truth, justice, and the American way.”
Her head whipped toward her lover. “Steve! What are you thinking?”
“Life without parole. Losing you forever. There’d be nothing to live for.” He looked at me. “Is there any play in the numbers?”
“Pincher would never open with his best deal, so I’m thinking there’s some. They want Benny Cohen so badly, they might give you the key to the city and a ticker-tape parade to rat him out.”
“Realistically, Lassiter. What can you get me?”
“Pincher offered ten. I can counter with eight. With gain time, that’s six years and . . .”
I was still doing the math when Solomon said, “Nine months. Six years and nine months. I can do that.”
“Steve!” Victoria gestured with both hands, palms turned upward. “What the hell?”
He didn’t respond.
“Jake!”
I didn’t respond. Communication with her two men wasn’t going well today.
Solomon was clear-eyed and focused as he said, “Lassiter, the only way I can make this decision is for you to give me an accurate assessment of my chances at trial.”
Unlike most clients, he was taking an analytical approach. I admired that.
“I don’t know yet. Everything’s fluid and changing daily. I want to meet with Benny Cohen.”
“He’ll talk to you?”
“He’s had me followed. I think he’ll want to have a few words.”
“About what?” Solomon said.
“He’s wondering if we know where Nadia is. I’m wondering if he knows anything that can help our defense. We’ll play some cat and mouse with him. I’d sit down with the devil himself to keep you from getting convicted of murder.”
“Or copping to a phony plea,” Victoria said.
“That, too,” I agreed. “And right now, Benny Cohen is the only avenue we’ve got.”
-39-
All You Need Is Love
I made two phone calls from the jail parking lot. First I danced with Ray Pincher to buy more time.
A counteroffer of eight years in the can was “within the realm of possibility,” he allowed. And sure, Solomon could take a couple of days to think it over. Big decision, after all.
Then my cold call to the cell number Manuel Dominguez gave me. Benny Cohen answered with a languid, “Mr. Lassiter, I’ve been expecting to hear from you.”
