“How can I talk to you when you’re watching Bernie Williams chasing a ball?”
Becker smirked. “I’m not the President of the United States. I can listen and watch a catch in center field at the same time.”
“This is serious. You know I do right by you. How about that seizure that I turned you onto in Harlem a couple of weeks ago, two hundred-fifty thousand—”
“Two hundred thirty-four thousand,” corrected Becker.
“The people who do the counting have a real good incentive to be accurate. Money Dozier’ll hack them to pieces if they’re wrong. There was two hundred and fifty thousand. Over the last couple of months, your guys have seized almost a million bucks that I gave you the information for. But who gives a shit if your Agents have sticky fingers. Who am I going to squeal to, anyway? You’re The Man.”
“It was somewhat under a million,” said Becker, raising a finger to the bartender for another Stoli.
Nichols shook his head. “Whatever! Your Agents get a little taste, the local D.E.A. is happy, too. What do you guys get, fifteen, twenty percent, and Washington gets the rest. Everybody’s happy, except me!”
“Seizures are okay,” said Becker, his eyes still on the TV screen. Andy Pettitte was pitching a shut out. “I asked you to get me close to that Russian route you keep jawing about. But I haven’t seen a blessed thing yet. Red Hardie’s in the slam.” Becker’s eyes followed each pitch on the TV, “he’s going to stay there, too, facing humongous time, but you still haven’t kept your end of the bargain.”
“What about the seizures?”
“I’ve told you, seizures are not my main interest.”
“I thought once he was convicted, things’d change. But they haven’t.”
“That’s NMP—not my problem,” said Becker. “This was all your idea. If it didn’t work out the way you planned …” Becker shrugged. “And listen, my friend. Don’t think I can’t figure out that the main reason you wanted all of this remanding stuff, etcetera, for Red, is that you want to take over his action yourself.” Becker turned to look directly at Nichols, nodding knowingly. “With Red and Money in the Can, you figure you can just step into their shoes.” He smiled at Nichols. “I have been to town before, my friend.”
Nichols studied Becker’s eyes.
“Frankly, I don’t give a damn,” said Becker. “You want to wiggle your way to the top of The Brotherhood, more power to you. That doesn’t mean I won’t swat you down if you step one inch out of line.” Becker’s eyes were serious as he stared at Nichols. “Keep in mind, at all times, you are not the only person with a brain around here. You haven’t pulled the wool entirely—not even partially—over my eyes. Now, when do I get to see something so I know there really are people involved in a Russian route?”
“Another thing you haven’t taken care of,” said Nichols, “you’ve never told me what you’re going to do for Anton Taylor? I mean, even if he gets a break from the sentencing guidelines—what do they call for now, two hundred-fifty months?”
“Something like that.”
“Even if you do him a great turn, he’s still going to do, what, ten years? I haven’t told him that, yet, but, that’s what he’s looking at, right?”
“There’s only so much anyone can do. The statute requires the Judge to give him a ten year mandatory minimum. That’s the law. But a hundred twenty months is better than two hundred twenty five. However, if you get me and my men close enough to eye-ball some of the action that you’ve been talking about, it’s possible for me to go to the U.S. Attorney, ask him for a ‘5K-1’ letter or a ‘safety valve’.”
“What’s all that mumbo jumbo supposed to mean—5K what?”
“Those are devices that permit the Judge to go under the mandatory minimum. Make the sentence even less.”
“Now we’re talking,” said Nichols. “But that still doesn’t do anything about Red being top dog, even while he’s in jail.”
“You’re like a woman. You never stop asking for things.”
“So are you, asking for things, that is. You’re talking about me shinnying out further on the branch, bring you to the Russians and let you shake hands with them—”
“Eyeballing them is sufficient.”
“For what? So you can make big cases? And don’t think I didn’t catch that ‘swat me down’ remark. You figure you’ll bust me later? You know you don’t want to close the drug thing down entirely. You and your men would be out of jobs.”
“We all have agendas, and we all have to do what we—yesss!” Becker shouted as Pettitte struck out another batter.
Nichols grimaced. “Listen, what if Red was put somewhere where people think he’s in the Witness Protection Program, or something like that? Everyone’ll think he’s a snitchin’ rat.”
“There are some who already think he’s a rat.”
“Some. But if he was put him in some kind of facility where rats are usually put, then everybody would think it. The New York drug supply would dry up even more than it already has. Wouldn’t you like that?”
“Do you spend all day thinking this stuff up?”
“I’ve got to keep thinking to stay alive,” said Nichols.
“Red can’t be put into the Witness Protection Program,” said Becker. “He’s not an informant.”
“Why can’t he be transferred, to, say, one of those Air Force Bases, or someplace where the people in the street think he’s in a program, think he’s a witness. Then he’s as good as dead. You do that, and I’ll personally bring you to Brooklyn to see the action up close and personal.”
“Bernie is having some year, isn’t he?” said Becker, watching Bernie Williams circle the bases on a homer. The Yankees were ahead two to one.
“Jesus, this is—”
“I’m paying attention. Relax. I’ll start working on the Red thing as soon as I get back to the office. It’s not such a bad idea.”
“See, I’m not just spinning my wheels,” said Nichols. “Soon as something happens with Red, you’re going to see right before your eyes, the people who are bringing shit in from the ass end of Russia—from Uzb, Uz something.”
“Uzbekistan?”
“Uz something.”
“You serious?” Becker was totally intent on Nichols’s face now.
“I’m glad I got your attention away from the Yankee game.”
“This stuff is coming out of Uzbekistan?” said Becker, still studying Nichols.
“If I’m free to operate on the street, with Red—and Money—off my back, I can give you a lot more of what you obviously really like.”
Mariano Rivera struck out the Orioles in the top of the ninth, but Becker didn’t turn his gaze from a smiling Nichols. “I said I’ll start working on Red as soon I get back to the office, and I will.”
* * *
J.J. Dineen looked out through his office window at the huge stone block piers of the Brooklyn Bridge a few hundred yards south. He was on the phone with Roger Sternweiss, Deputy United States Attorney at the Justice Department in Washington. Sternweiss was Dineen’s contact and mentor in Washington, the man who was guiding Dineen’s career toward an Administrative position with Justice in Washington with the hope that such an appointment might lead—as it had for Rudy Giuliani—to his appointment as U.S. Attorney for the Southern District of New York.
Dineen called Sternweiss after D.E.A. Supervisor Michael Becker came to his office to outline a new plan the D.E.A. had to bite the ass out of drugs in the New York area. Dineen explained that the in the month, or so, that Hardie had been remanded, the D.E.A. had detected a substantial decrease in the flow of drugs in the New York streets.
“Becker said the consensus over at his shop,” Dineen continued into the phone, “is that the drug people are afraid that Hardie—looking at humongous time in the slam—may cooperate to catch himself a break. They’ve all taken to the hills. So the D.E.A. figures that if drugs started to dry up because Hardie was remanded, and the people in the street were
worried he’d become a snitch, if he was given a light sentence, or relatively light, under the circumstances, that is, then shipped out to an isolated custodial setting, like an Air Force Base, someplace out of the way, that might solidify the impression that Hardie was cooperating, which would cause an even more significant disruption in the flow of drugs.”
Dineen listened to Sternweiss’s reaction. “Say ten years. Even ten years, at his age, is a lifetime, so what’s the difference?” said Dineen. “So long as it has an impact on drugs—Christ, it’s a chance to get the cancer of drugs—okay, okay, I’ll get off the soap box. But with all the trouble there is on Capital Hill keeping the appropriations flowing when there was no discernible reduction in drug trafficking—this’d be a home run, and wouldn’t cost a thing.”
Dineen stopped abruptly and listened. “No, Becker didn’t mention the Capital Hill thing. That was my own idea. It was his idea that playing this Hardie thing right could make a singular difference in the drug influx on the whole east coast.”
Dineen listened. “Is it my fault, Roger, that trying to stop drugs is like keeping water from rolling downhill? I know those aren’t your words, that that’s the B.S. rolling down from the Hill. I understand—which philosophy, of course, plays right into the hands of the morons who want to legalize the stuff.”
Dineen listened.
“Exactly right. Legalize drugs and we’d have stoned junkies coming out of the woodwork to rip this town, and every other town, apart.” He listened again. “I know you know that. Jesus, Rog. What the hell is the fucking difference if this joker, Hardie, is kept in maximum security or on an Air Force Base? If we can use him as a decoy to dry up an entire reservoir of drugs—an entire drug-route, for Christ sake—we’d both be fucking heros in the Department.”
Dineen listened. “Yeah, yeah, so it takes a couple of extra agents to watch him. But Becker said something very interesting, valid; putting a couple of agents to keep Hardie on ice would take less personnel, cost a lot less, than would mounting a major interdiction on drugs. In other words, all our efforts to stop drugs wouldn’t be as effective as just putting this guy on some air force base.” Dineen nodded to himself. He had put that exactly right
“I thought you’d find that interesting, Rog, old boy. What the hell is the difference where this guy sleeps, he’s on the public tab one way or the other, isn’t he?” He listened further. “Atta boy, Rog.” Dineen smiled broadly. “Run it past whoever you have to run it past, and if it’s a go, I’ll send somebody to schmooze with the Judge.” He listened. “Of course. I’ll stay away from her personally. We’ve got a Chinese wall going already. I tell someone, usually Strauss, and he goes to talk with the Judge’s Courtroom Deputy. I’m not in the picture at all. Great! I’ll wait to hear from you.” He smiled. “I can’t wait to get down there with you, so I can get back up here as the Man.”
Courtroom 11 D : Federal Courthouse : July 22, 1996 : Noon
“United States versus Money Dozier,” announced Claire Trainor, Judge Ellis’s Courtroom Deputy.
Money Dozier and Marty Adams rose from their seats at the Counsel table. Red Hardie and Sandro Luca—who had re-entered the case to take care of Red’s sentence—sat silently to their left at the Counsel table. Judge Ellis was on the bench, reading something on her desk.
“Money Dozier,” said Claire Trainor, “you are to be sentenced on your conviction for the crimes of conspiracy to possess and possession of controlled substances—”
“Mr. Adams,” Judge Ellis cut in impatiently, “do you know any reasons why Mr. Dozier shouldn’t be sentenced today?”
“No, Your Honor.”
“Does the Government have anything to say?”
“The Government takes no position on sentence, Your Honor. We shall rely upon the Probation Department’s Pre-Sentence Report.”
“Before you begin, Mr. Adams, let me advise you that I plan to accept the findings the Probation Department has stated in the P.S.R., so far as offense-level calculations are concerned. Mr. Dozier has a base offense level of thirty-four. On top of that, a two point enhancement for more than minimum planning has to be added; another two point enhancement for being an organizer, supervisor, or manager, making a total offense level of thirty-eight, with no points off for acknowledgment of responsibility, since Mr. Dozier proceeded to trial and has yet to acknowledge any responsibility. A level thirty-eight, in the criminal history category of One—for some reason, there is reported that Mr. Dozier has no history of previous arrest or convictions; that level calls for a range of between two hundred and thirty-five months and two hundred and ninety-three months. Probation has proposed a sentence of two hundred and sixty months. However, I intend to sentence Mr. Dozier at the lowest end of the range, two hundred and thirty-five months. Since, under the guidelines, I cannot sentence him to less than that, I suggest to you that the longer your presentation, the more inclined I would be to raise the sentence toward the level where Probation thinks it should be.”
“Your Honor—” started Marty Adams.
“Before you say anything, Mr. Adams, let me ask Mr. Dozier if he has anything to say on his own behalf. Mr. Dozier?”
“You done made your mind up, Judge,” said Money, his eye-lids fluttering as he gazed up at the seal of the United States which hung from the wall over the Judge’s bench. He trailed off, shaking his head. “Don’t bother sayin’ nothin’,” he said to Adams. “She’s goin’ to do what she’s goin’ to do, no matter. Don’t be beggin’ nothin’.”
“You don’t want me to say anything?” said Adams.
“Let’s just get it over.” Money’s eyes were glazed as he stared at something, somewhere beyond the paneling behind the Judge.
“I have been instructed by my client to say nothing, Your Honor.”
“A very wise decision, Mr. Adams. It is the sentence of the Court that the Defendant be given into the custody of the Attorney General for a period not to exceed two hundred and thirty-five months, to be followed by a period of five years special supervision, together with a fine of one hundred thousand dollars. Advise the Defendant of his right to appeal.”
“I have already done that, Your Honor. “I have a Notice of Appeal, which I now serve upon the Government,” said Adams, handing a copy to Dineen, “and I shall file the appropriate copies in the Clerk’s Office this morning. I would like to speak to bail pending appeal.”
“Make it short. I can tell you there is not much possibility of bail in this case.”
“The Defendant has been free on bail from the beginning of this trial. As Your Honor has indicated, his arrest record indicates that he has never been convicted of any crime before, never even arrested before.”
“Very curious that,” said the Judge. “I remember reading in the newspapers—we are from the same area of the City, after all—and I specifically remember Mr. Dozier’s picture and at least one story about his being arrested. But, curiously, that does not appear on his rap sheet.”
“No, Your Honor,” said Adams. He didn’t bother to tell the Judge that Money had had two arrests several years back, and, in both instances, the Complaining Witnesses never showed up at the Grand Jury, or anywhere else in this world, since. Under those circumstances, the District Attorney’s Office had no choice but to have the matters dismissed. By operation of law, when a matter is dismissed, it is wiped clean of one’s record, as if it had never happened. The accused is returned to the status quo that existed before the arrest, which means, that by operation of law, Money had no bad marks on his ‘rap’ sheet, and, if asked, Money was able to state that he had never been arrested.
“Curious,” mused the Judge. “Nevertheless, Mr. Adams, now that there has been a conviction, you know there is a presumption against granting bail, unless you can convince the Court otherwise. What could you tell me that would convince me evidentially that Mr. Dozier is not a danger to the community? I don’t think he is a risk of flight, so I won’t ask you to present anything on that score.�
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“Very well, Your—”
“Your Honor,” Money said, interrupting Adams, “the situation is just this. I don’t need no long time. I don’t have to be out for the entirety of the appeal. My grandmother, woman who raised me, is eighty-eight years old, an’ blind. She lives with me—I ain’t never been married, Judge—my grandmother likes to say, even today, that she been takin’ care of me all my life. We ain’t got no other relatives. Now, I been tryin’, really tryin’ to get her in some kind of nursing home for a couple of months now. I have been successful in getting a place all set for her. I have all kinds of records to prove that fact—and I needs, maybe two, three weeks more to get her all set, so I can leave and know that she’ll be taken care of. I can give Your Honor—” Money took a small piece of paper from one pocket. “—I can give Your Honor the name of the place and the peoples in charge, got their phone numbers right here on this piece of paper. They can verify that in a very short time my grandmother will have herself a room, and I don’t have to leave her, blind and old, alone in her apartment. I ain’t askin’ nothin’ for myself, Judge. Might just as well get it started. I just need a little time to get my grandmother set. That’s the long and the short, Judge, then I’ll go in, get it over with.”
The Judge was silent, looking intently and directly at Money. Dineen and Geraghty, at the Prosecution table, and the people in the audience, were all totally silent, their eyes moving from the Judge to Dozier and back again through the silent air.
“I’ll even wear one of them bracelet things, Judge, won’t go out even. It’s just my grandmother—”
“Mr. Dozier, hand that paper with the phone numbers to Ms. Trainor. If you step one foot out of your apartment, except to go to your lawyer’s office, I shall add another twenty-four months to your sentence. I accept what you say about your grandmother—I have a grandmother as well, so I understand. There is no need for others to suffer needlessly, for two—I’ll make it three weeks, just to be sure the home, or whatever you’ve arranged, has a bed for your grandmother. Three weeks from today, you are to surrender at the Marshal’s Office downstairs.”
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