by Eric Rill
“Yes, ma’am—”
“Millie, not ma’am,” Landry groused. “Anything about her past?”
Grant hesitated. “She’s getting it from all sides, including from her boss—who works for you.”
Landry leaned over, her heavy breasts perched on a stack of files on her mahogany desk. “What do you mean?” she asked.
“This guy Clancy Howell threatened her if she refuses to go ahead with her murder trial. She just wants out of the whole mess—you know, to get back to her real identity.”
“What is her real identity?”
Grant shrugged. “I don’t know. She won’t tell me.”
“What do you mean, Howell threatened her?” Landry continued, walking around to Grant’s side of the desk.
“He even threatened to implicate me,” Grant said. “I mean this whole thing is insane.”
“I agree, Nick,” Landry said, taking the chair beside him. “And I want to do whatever I can to resolve it.”
“Can you get them to tell the court that she’s an undercover agent?” Grant asked.
“Sure, I could do that, but I don’t see how that would help. Just because she’s an agent doesn’t mean she couldn’t have killed someone.”
Grant pushed his chair back, bunching up the antique Heriz rug. “You think Angela killed that guy?”
“No, of course not—at least I would hope not,” the attorney general said. “But I don’t see what would be gained by confusing the court—and maybe endangering some of the others involved in the operation.”
Grant jumped up. “You’re just like the rest of them.”
Millie Landry’s face tightened as she slowly stood to face Grant. “Young man, I’m the top law officer in the state, so why don’t you just take my advice on the best way to handle this.”
“Which is?” Grant said, not budging.
Landry pointed to Grant’s chair as she slid back down into her seat. “I’ll call Mr. Howell when we’re finished here and see what we can do to get your friend off the hook and put this matter to rest.”
“I thought you just said it’s possible Angela could be guilty,” Grant said, looming over her.
“There’s a difference between ‘could be’ and ‘is.’ I can’t imagine what she would have to gain from this.”
“So, you’ll take care of it?” Grant asked.
“Absolutely,” Landry said looking into Grant’s tired hazel eyes. “We can’t abandon our officers who risk their lives every day for our community—at least not on my watch.”
Landry’s secretary knocked and then opened the heavy maple door. “Your eleven o’clock is here.”
“Put him in the boardroom,” Landry said, standing up. “Don’t worry, Nick. I’ll stay on top of this,” she assured him, offering a damp hand.
“When should I call you?” he asked.
“I’ll get hold of you,” Landry promised as she walked him to the door.
*
“What were you thinking, for Christsakes?” Landry bellowed as she slid the boardroom doors shut.
“You told me to handle it,” Clancy Howell said, looking up. “In fact, I think your exact words were, ‘Do whatever you have to do.’”
“This Grant kid isn’t stupid, and neither is the Ferraro woman,” Landry fumed, dropping into a chair across from Howell. “I need her to keep her fake identity until we nail those mafiosos up in Cleveland.”
“I just paid her a call, trying to keep her in our camp,” Howell said. “She wasn’t very cooperative.”
“You screwed up. Underestimated her.”
Howell wiped his eyes and then looked over at Landry. “Listen, Millie. I told you I would take care of it.”
“And exactly how do you plan to do that?”
“I’m going to tell Ferraro that we’ve talked to the judge and explained everything. She should waive her right to a jury trial and he’ll acquit her.”
“Did you speak to the judge?” Landry pressed.
“Millie, you ask too many questions.”
33
Maggie Parks sat alone in a small conference room at Columbus International Bank. There was a Bloomberg monitor on a credenza so clients could check their portfolios, and in front of each of the eight seats around a mahogany table was a blotter, a white legal-size pad, and a crisply sharpened pencil. A thermos rested on a silver tray in the center of the table, surrounded by eight crystal glasses. Maggie figured in a way it was a good thing she rarely had a dime left over from her paycheck, because she wouldn’t be able to work the damn Bloomberg thing anyway. And on the few weeks when she didn’t blow her whole paycheck, a few calculations with a yellow pencil would more than do the trick.
The weeks since Lawrence Grant’s death had been a roller coaster. Rosa had paid Rigby a visit, and Maggie found herself in her boss’s office more in one day than she had been in a year. Rigby didn’t buy her story about “being in the neighborhood,” and frankly, she wouldn’t have, either. But she stuck to it. Rigby would be put out to pasture in a couple of months and the new guy would have more important things to do than figure out her driving patterns. But to get Rigby off her back, she agreed to stop investigating the Pascale family.
“My secretary said you were a friend of Lawrence Grant and wanted a few minutes with me, Miss…” Jonathan Craven said, standing at the open door.
“Parks. Maggie Parks,” she replied as she turned around. “Not exactly a friend, but…” Maggie stopped for a moment and then continued. “Weren’t you at his funeral?”
“I was sitting beside you,” Craven responded, a soft smile on his face. “I must tell you in advance, Miss Parks, we don’t discuss our clients—even if they’ve passed on,” he said, fingering the Windsor knot on his Hermès tie.
Maggie reached into the breast pocket of her pinstripe pantsuit and pulled out a worn leather case. Craven saw the butt of her Glock before she even flashed her credentials. The confident look on his face faded into a ghoulish white. “Mr. Craven, I just wanted to stop by and let you know that we’ve been paying you the attention you deserve over the last year.”
Craven closed the door and moved to the other side of the table. “Attention?” he asked hesitantly.
“Lawrence Grant was—shall we say—a friend of the Bureau. And he was kind enough to keep us informed about your dealings.”
“Miss Parks—”
“That’s Special Agent Parks,” Maggie said.
“Sorry. Agent Parks.”
“Mr. Craven, we don’t have agents in the FBI. We have special agents,” Maggie said. “I could never understand why when I was up at Quantico, but now I know it’s because we’re different—and better—than state agents and the like. So, since I busted my butt for sixteen weeks in training and suffered through some pretty shitty days since then, I’d like you to do me the favor of addressing me properly.”
Craven slunk into a chair covered in a silk fabric. “What do you want from me?”
“The truth. Just the truth,” Maggie replied. “And Mr. Craven, don’t try to blow smoke up my ass. I would be extremely offended.”
“I told you, I can’t talk about my clients’ business affairs,” Craven said, not looking up.
“Here’s the deal,” Maggie began. “You come over to our side, and I’ll go to the federal prosecutor to see about immunity—and a new identity.”
“I don’t have anything you’d be interested in, Special Agent Parks.”
“You’re being modest, and it really doesn’t become a sophisticated man like you,” Maggie said. She stopped for a moment, moved a little closer to the table, and then continued. “I personally have more than twenty hours of tapes, courtesy of the late Lawrence Grant.”
Craven tugged on his cuffs and drilled her with a defiant stare. “I don’t believe you.”
“I have every conversation involving you, Castellano, and Grant—including your pocketing some of the proceeds. Now, that’s not something you’d want Bruno Pascale to find in
his morning mail, is it, Mr. Craven?”
Craven stood up and walked over to the window that looked over State Street. “I need some time,” he said.
“Time is something we don’t have a lot of, Mr. Craven.” Maggie knew she needed to parade Craven into Rigby’s office, or she might as well ask the Bureau to make his retirement dinner a double ceremony. “And you’re not in a position to dictate anything.”
Craven folded his arms across his chest, watching as a police car snaked through a logjam below. “I’m dead either way,” he said. “If I turn, Pascale will have me killed. If I don’t, you’ll send me to prison. Frankly, I’d rather spend a few years at a country club than eternity with a slug between my eyes.”
“It won’t be just a few years, Mr. Craven. And it won’t be at a country club. That I can guarantee you.” She stood up and looked him in the eye. “It will be until you’re unable to walk without a cane, and it will be maximum.”
“Still better than the alternative,” he said.
“Our record with the witness protection program is excellent,” she said. “They’d never find you.”
“So I can move to some godforsaken place and become an accountant. And always be looking over my shoulder? No thanks, Special Agent Parks.”
“You’ve seen too many movies,” Maggie said. “You can pick where you’d like to go—within reason. And there must be something you could do, besides being a crook or an accountant. And as for looking over your shoulder, there’s no reason to—they haven’t had a mob hit since the program started.”
Craven reached over and poured himself a glass of water. “Before I say another word, I want to hear some of those tapes, to make sure you’re being straight with me.”
*
The tiny conference room, four floors above a fancy steak house on High Street, was packed. Maggie, Jonathan Craven, and his attorney, Peter Bernstein, sat around a U-shaped table. Mel Burns, the assistant United States attorney and chief of the criminal division that included Cincinnati, Dayton, and Columbus, stood by the window, tapping a ballpoint pen against his blistered lips. It hadn’t been an easy sell on either side. After leaving Craven’s office that night, Maggie had ruminated on whether to let him hear any of the tapes—a no-no from the Bureau’s point of view. That hadn’t been as difficult as how she would get her hands on them. They were locked up in storage, and whoever took them out had to sign for them. She wasn’t about to stick her name on any piece of paper that showed she was within a mile of the tapes. The solution had been easier than she had thought. She “borrowed” a key from the cabinet while the guard was in the men’s room and then “borrowed” the tapes for a few hours and sat with Craven in a parking lot of a Howard Johnson’s near I-71 while he listened and ground his teeth. It didn’t take very long, especially after she fast-forwarded to the part in his meeting at the bank where Grant had dropped five grand in his lap.
Then there was Rigby. He hadn’t even wanted to discuss it with her. It became a shouting contest—an ugly one at that. After Rigby had expended whatever energy his fifty-six-year-old body could handle, she had given him one of her trademark smiles, which, when well placed, had always gotten her what she wanted from him. This time was no different. When he heard her out, he shook his head, picked up the phone, and called Washington. The assistant director didn’t feel Craven should walk. She and Rigby had to get on a plane and plead their case. They did, and the rest was pro forma.
Mel Burns fiddled with the buttons on his gray pinstripe suit as he leaned against the windowsill. “Mr. Craven,” he began, “Special Agent Parks has informed me that you are willing to trade your cooperation for immunity.”
“As I explained to Special Agent Parks, that really depends on what you want me to do,” Craven said, feeling the noose getting tighter.
“Mr. Craven, I frankly would rather you rot in some jail cell,” Burns said, the look in his eyes making it abundantly clear that he was telling the truth. “So don’t try my patience.” Burns knew he would still have to convince the judge, the only one who could grant immunity, but he had lost that battle only once in his eighteen-year career. “And Mr. Bernstein, as you’re no doubt aware, your client gets immunity only if he testifies truthfully and fully. Even the slightest omission and all bets are off.”
“I’ve read the proffer and I’ve advised my client he should take it,” the lawyer said, glancing over at Craven. Bernstein was the logical choice to be Craven’s lawyer. He had no ties to Pascale and had regularly laundered money through Craven’s bank.
“Mr. Craven, we’re going to make you ‘Queen for a Day,’” Burns said, referring to a famous quiz show that ran from 1956 to 1960 on NBC. Hosted by Jack Bailey, a portly, genial man with a pencil-thin mustache, the show featured three down-and-out contestants who would tell their sad and pathetic stories. The audience would then vote for the person they thought was the biggest loser, and she would get a fur coat or jewelry—things she had no use for. In Craven’s case, he needed the grand prize—freedom. “You realize that should I decide what you’re offering is either not the truth, or not of sufficient help to us, being ‘Queen for a Day’ only protects you from prosecution regarding what you truthfully say, not concerning evidence that might be developed against you from another source.” Burns stopped for a moment. “After you tell us everything, we’ll want you to spend some time with your friends up in Cleveland,” Burns continued. “Enough time to gather evidence that will put old man Pascale and his cronies away for the rest of their natural lives or result in their paying a visit to death row.”
“I only go up there when they summon me,” Craven explained. “It will look too fishy if I suddenly appear up in Cleveland.”
“We have a plan,” Burns informed him. “Special Agent Parks, why don’t you enlighten Mr. Craven and his attorney.”
34
Clancy Howell checked the black-and-white monitor and then buzzed Nick Grant and Angela Ferraro into a one-story stucco building on Third Street, tucked away behind the Columbus Convention Center. He dumped the rest of his limp spaghetti Bolognese into its Styrofoam box and tossed it into a metal wastebasket before opening the door to his cramped office. The attorney general’s budget had been slashed two years before, and it seemed to Howell that his particular budget had suffered most of the cuts. Stained white blinds dangled at a crooked angle, an old leather chair had a slit down the back, and one of three fluorescent lights that stretched along the peeling ceiling had been out for a month. A request to get a new one apparently had fallen on deaf ears.
Howell couldn’t wait for this operation to end. He had signed on with Millie Landry to follow her up the chain of command, not to end up buried for months in this joint, and not to get caught up in a mess that could land him in the slammer. He would do whatever he could to protect himself, and only then would he worry about Millie and Ferraro.
“Right on time,” he said, forcing a smile, as he opened the hollow-core door.
Grant stormed into the room, leaving Angela in his wake. “What is this shit about her giving up her right to a jury trial?”
Howell waited until Angela was inside the office and then closed and locked the door. Not that it really mattered. The only other tenant in the building was Quantum Factoring, another front for the AG’s office, which was monitoring a Chinese gang operating in East Columbus. “The AG called me. Told me one of her staff had some words with Judge Connors, who’s been assigned to Angela’s case—”
“Why in God’s name would I give up my rights?” Angela asked, interrupting him.
“You wanted us to do something? Well, we have,” Howell said as Angela started to pace around the small space. “The only way to give you what you want and not blow the operation was to come clean with the judge.”
“I don’t get it,” Nick said.
“Connors is an old friend of Millie Landry. He’s agreed to acquit Angela.”
“Just like that?” Grant asked, his eyes narrowing.
“It’s a bit more complicated than that. There are a lot of moving parts in this thing. But, yes. Basically, just like that.”
If Angela were to go public about her role in the sting, it would bring the Pascale case to a halt. That would be bad for Millie, who needed this feather in her political cap, and de facto bad for Howell. But if they kept a lid on Angela’s role until they could make some big front-page arrests up in Cleveland, Landry would be a cinch in the next election, and Howell would get her endorsement for AG in four years. For that, he was willing to feed Angela Ferraro to the lions…or worse.
“You want her to put her ass on the line because you tell us some judge is going to let her walk?” Grant said, now close enough to Howell that the lawyer could almost taste the pastrami sandwich Grant had eaten for lunch over at Gold’s Deli on Washington Avenue. “And what happens if the judge wakes up one morning—like after he hears all the evidence—and changes his mind?”
“It won’t happen,” Howell replied.
“I’m not going to take that chance. I’m going to come clean,” Angela said.
“Angela, if you do that, all bets are off,” Howell said.
“Meaning?” Grant said, the muscles in face tightening.
“Meaning she’d be one voice against a choir,” Howell said. “Angela, take my advice as a lawyer. They have enough evidence to convict you whether you’re a cop or a crook.”
“You always told me everything would be okay,” Angela protested.
“I’m not saying you’d get a guilty verdict if you had a jury trial. I’m just saying it’s possible,” Howell replied. “So I don’t understand why you would want to risk a sure thing.”
Angela glared at Howell. “Clancy, nothing in this operation has been a sure thing.”
35
Jonathan Craven put the receiver back in the cradle of the black phone on the side table a few seconds before Maggie Parks and Mel Burns did the same with theirs.
“Sounded believable,” Burns said. “Actually better than we had hoped. For a minute I didn’t think he’d take the bait.”
